Forward by La Crimson Femme:

Almost a decade ago before the explosion of eReaders, I surfed the internet for BDSM stories.  During one of these searches for free stories, I found the BDSM Library.  Whilst browsing through the thousands of stories, I found a few authors who stood out above the rest.  It could be because their stories contained a plot and included taboo sexuality to an extreme.  And it helped they formatted their stories and wrote with proper grammar.  The latter is almost unheard of in most free erotic story websites. 

 

One of these outstanding authors is H. Dean.  In 2005, I found his story - Lindy's Tale.  Shocked and aroused by the story, I promised myself to avoid anything he wrote.  Yet every time I saw a new story or chapter in his stories show up in the news feed, I couldn't help clicking on the link to read the latest depraved creation from his deviant mind.  Realistically, I understood his stories as fantasies not reality.  But what kind of disturbed pervert would write about extreme body modification and bestiality?  The more pertinent question is why it generated feelings of arousal for me.   While I don't have an answer for the second question, I found the answer to my first.

 

H. Dean is a creative author who pushes the boundaries when it comes to sexual fantasies.  He consistently dances on the line between macabre and erotic.  His skill is the ability to take common fantasies and twisting it into an extreme yet still keeping it erotically arousing.  True, his stories are not for the faint of heart nor for those who want a happily ever after.  He writes for a specific niche audience and I'm happy to be one of them. 

 

This latest story hits several hardcore kinks.  It's a smooth mindfuck with romantic elements culminating with his special brand of twisted ending.  The erotic heat index for this story is blazing.

La Crimson Femme

http://lacrimsonfemme.blogspot.com/

 

Preface

Before getting on with the story I would very much like to thank my readership and fans who have encouraged me to continue writing over the years. It is they who have encouraged me and spurred me forward in writing the strange erotic horror stories I have become known for.  Without them many of my stories would probably not exist – particularly this one. So, to my fans (both of you) I say thank you very much.

Since I am in a mood for thanks I should also offer thanks to the many authors – some of whom are friendly acquaintances – who have inspired, aided, or befriended me. Toxis, Benfan, MadLews, and Lex Ludite are the first few who come to mind, and I know I have left out several others who were very significant to my eventual ePublications. Thank you to all.

       As an EBook, and a sequel to “Object of His Affection”, this story stands on its own. It is only loosely connected with its predecessor in that certain characters and deviances are carried over. It is not a continuation the previous tale, though there are many obvious similarities.

       Those who are familiar with my meanderings will find themselves immersed in a world that is quite familiar. Sex, deviance and romance is abundant, as are many of my more odd tendencies. For those less familiar with my work this is not a tale aimed at those with more delicate sensibilities. 

       Finally, I would like to note that this little debacle of a story was inspired and encouraged by a fan. Over the course of many E-Mails in which various delicate matters were discussed I gleaned what I could of her personality, wants and interests. Thus I imprinted her personality on the female lead. She has since told me that I captured her well.

H. Dean

Books from the O’Connell Chronicles:

The Family Pet

Object of His Affection

The Dinner Party

One Man’s Art

Author’s Home Page

http://www.asstr.org/~H_Dean/

The Long Weekend

An O’Connell Chronicle

Prologue:

Prologue:

John Francis D’Arnot wandered into his study, glimpsing at his collection of oddities. Bored with his accumulations, he stood and stared at the statue of the girl satisfying two satyrs. How long had he had it? He counted the years as he stared into the girl’s sad, lonely eyes. She blinked slowly. Once she had been his wife. Now she was little more than a museum piece, frozen in time under a man-made, synthetic marble veneer, still and unmoving.

He turned and stared up at his ode to pulp fantasy novels; a girl trapped on a spider’s web awaiting her demise. The girl, still beautiful after so many years of entrapment, stared into nothingness. Long ago she had been a careless nineteen year old girl, a student going to college, with hopes of a bright future. No longer was it so. Now she merely existed.

“You’re still quite beautiful,” he told her, drawing her eyes to his. The girl’s eyes rested on him for but a moment before returning to stare into nothingness.

John continued his meanderings throughout other portions of his home, a frown resting on his square jawed face. Passing the small fountain – a mermaid cast as if resting upon a rock – he stared into the open eyes of the girl imprisoned within, then continued his journey.

In his bedroom he rested his eyes on the sex-doll that had once been a woman. A skin of some unknown origin coated her body, and impossibly large breasts stood out from her body like twin basketballs. Motionless, she watched as he approached her to rest his hands upon her synthetic skin. Expecting to be used, as so many times before, she was quite surprised when he turned and left her atop the doll stand created to control her bodily functions while displaying her like a trophy.

Wandering back down stairs, Jean D’Arnot made his way back to the study and sat at his desk. Immediately the woman locked into it made motions to service him with her mouth, but was rebuffed. He picked up the phone and dialed.

The conversation was short. The individual on the other end of the line was overjoyed at the gifts he was going to give her, though worried at his mood. He assured her of his well-being, said his goodbyes and hung up.

“I’m done with these museum pieces,” he said to no one. “I need companionship.”

Chapter 1

Their meeting had been one of chance. He was the new owner of a small but growing software firm. That company’s CEO had hired her on to optimize a particular bit of coding that was giving his programmers rather a difficult time. It was a Monday, and had it been any other Monday they would not have met. However, a few pressing bits of business had drawn him into the office; and it was there that the two met.

Their attraction was quite palpable. John Francis D’Arnot was a tall man, standing just over six feet, four inches tall. Broad chested and muscular, his was a lithe form topped by a square jaw, liquid blue eyes, and a main of Stygian black hair. Had Kyra not already been attracted to his physical form she would have been entranced by the hint of French accent in each syllable he spoke. Too, he spoke in a rich baritone, with authority and confidence that served only to increase her attraction to the man.

For D’Arnot’s part, he was instantly attracted to the woman. His first glimpse of her was from behind as she headed to the conference room for a meeting with his CEO. She was shapely in her black skirt and with her high heels showing off her shapely ankles and calves, the skirt only just tight enough to show off her well-rounded bottom and hips; and though her white blouse was relatively loose fitting, he could see the slight outline of her waist. Instantly, he decided that meeting this woman was of paramount importance, and immediately changed his day’s activities.

Once in the conference room he seated himself beside the CEO, and sitting across from the girl. Instantly, he was enamored. She spoke with a throaty voice, and an odd speech impediment he would later learn was the result of an ill-advised tongue piercing that left her with a lateral lisp and the inability to properly pronounce words containing the letters ‘L’ or ‘R’. What most caught his eye, however, was her symmetrical face, near perfect nose, and intelligent, near violet eyes.

When the meeting came to its inevitable conclusion both Kyra and John were quite disappointed; and it was later that evening that D’Arnot broke protocol and called her at her home.

Surprised and pleased at hearing the voice on the other end of the line, she was considerably more pleased when her new employer proposed a date. Before agreeing, however, she had a moment of deviltry overcome her, and despite her better judgment she blurted, “Do you always ask new employees out on dates?”

Nonplussed, D’Arnot recovered quickly. “You’re a contractor, and therefore not technically an employee,” he said. “But the answer is that I do not make a habit of asking employees on dates.”

Kyra grinned into the phone, even as she chided herself for commenting as she had.  Unable to help herself, she asked, “Then you aren’t some sort of lothario?”

Suddenly realizing she was teasing him he shot back, “What’s a wothawio?” poking fun at her speech impediment, and regretting it instantly. “Sorry. That was mean. It wasn’t meant to be.”

Kyra, ever sensitive by her inability to speak clearly, was silent for a moment. “It’s okay,” she lied. “I can take it if you can.”

John frowned. “Really, I’m sorry. We don’t really know each other well enough for me to joke like that; and I should know better. I hope you accept my apology. It’s sincere.”

“Don’t worry. I do get sensitive about it,” she admitted. “But I know you were just teasing me for teasing you.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Maybe I can make it up to you over dinner?”

Kyra laughed. She appreciated his confidence and that he did not back away from his intentions of taking her out. Regaining her humor, she told him, “That might be difficult, but I think I’ll let you try.”

“Friday, then,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Their date was a resounding success. An evening at a five star restaurant in downtown Seattle was followed by a trip to the Space Needle.

Later, he took her to a large, private art gallery, owned by a close friend, where, talking and sharing experiences, they perused the exhibits. As the night wore on they came upon a curtained entryway. A sign over the entrance read ‘Deviant Art – Enter at Own Risk’. Without word she pushed through the curtain. It was there that they shared their first kiss, laughed, and then kissed again.

“Are you sure you want to be here?” he asked. “This is not exactly first date sort of stuff.”

Kyra laughed. “You aren’t a prude, are you?”

“Far from it,” he told her. “In fact, some of my old pieces are here.”

Continuing their journey, they stopped at a particular piece of work; a depiction of a woman on a spider-web in oil. The woman was sad faced, helpless, and hopeless. Her fate, it seemed, would come all too soon. A shiver ran up Kyra’s spine, and she clasped his hand in hers, looking at him in wonder as she read the small plaque beneath.

“This is yours?” she asked, amused and rather excited that it should be his.

“It’s on loan, the gallery is holding it for the new owner,” he admitted. “I grew tired of it.”

“I like this,” she said, looking at him with renewed interest, “It’s strange, erotic and sad – arousing, too.”

They continued on, passing various pieces, and then stopping at another; this one a woman apparently in stone, holding up a pillar. “Holding up the Building,” was the name of the piece, and on its opposite side was another woman in stone. Kyra commented on the craftsmanship, noting its lifelike quality.

“I want to touch it,” she told him. “They look real.”

“Maybe they are,” John mused.

As their wanderings progressed, Kyra found herself becoming quite aroused. Many times would her mind meander to erotic stories she had read, and the fantasies she had enjoyed. She looked up at the tall, blue-eyed man and wondered if he might be one she could tell her fantasies to, and then dismissed the thought.

Several more pieces were passed, all of women in various forms of use or torment. Some were missing arms, or legs. Others were depictions of grossly disproportioned women; women with lips that obscured much of their face, others with breasts the size of basketballs, some without breasts or vaginas. There seemed to be no end to the horrible, yet erotic, representations of women.

“Does your friend hate women?” Kyra asked, in spite of her arousal.

John D’Arnot laughed. “This is just a recent theme, I would guess.” Then, as they departed the gallery they were greeted with a sign that read, ‘Thank You for Visiting the Misogynist’s Gallery of Women’. “There’s your answer,” he laughed as they passed from within. Kyra laughed, too.

It was nearing three in the morning when John D’Arnot’s car came to a halt in front of the high rise building within which resided Kyra’s condominium. Kyra, whose thoughts remained at the art gallery, was quite aroused. Consequently, she had found conversation difficult.

       “I really had a good time,” Kyra told John. “Thank you.”

       John smiled. “Ma chère, it was my pleasure. Please allow me to walk you to your door.”

       Presently, they were hand in hand, and walking to her building’s secure entrance. Several times she fumbled with her keys, dropping them in the process. Each time he bent and picked them up. Eventually, after being instructed as to which key would gain entrance, it was he who opened the door for her.

       “Perhaps I should walk you to your door. I am not so certain you would be able to unlock it,” he said. Then he laughed. “It would be a shame if you had to sleep in a hallway.”

       Kyra acquiesced with a smile, and they slowly made their way to her elevator, where John was forced to ask which button to press. Several minutes later, and after a moment of intimacy, she allowed him to open her door. There, and much to her disappointment, he bade her goodnight.

       Kyra’s sleep was fitful, her dreams filled with lurid images of women. All were disfigured in one way or another. Some were the epitome of femininity taken to the extreme, while others were missing limbs, breasts or faces. Then her dreams shifted and she was in her condominium with John D’Arnot. Suddenly, she was on her knees, supported by breasts of such enormity that they defied reason. The dream shifted and she saw herself from above, suddenly realizing that her arms had been removed. From this vantage she could see that her breasts were the size of large beach balls.  

       “I love these breasts,” D’Arnot said to her as he approached from behind. “I hope you don’t mind that I had your arms removed.

       Kyra looked up and smiled at the man, her lips appearing as crimson inner tubes. “I like it,” she told him. “Please use me.”

       “Did I tell you I had your pussy removed, too?” he asked.

       Horrified and aroused by what she was seeing, she heard the Kyra below say, “Thank you.”

       

       Waking with a start, Kyra wiped the sweat from her face. “Holy fuck!” she blurted. “What the Hell was that?” But she was aroused, and terribly so.

       Unable to sleep, and somewhat troubled by her arousal, Kyra left the bed and headed to the living room to watch television. Never did she reach for the television’s remote. For resting atop her coffee table was her laptop computer. Presently, she was perusing various websites in search of erotic tales that might aid in relieving the terrible arousal residing deep within.

       So specific was her quest that it proved to be rather lengthy. Still, her ardor was not dampened, nor was her determination. Eventually, Kyra discovered a site filled with tales of the sort she desired. Soon, with one hand on her computer mouse, and the other between her legs, she began reading.

       With each word read Kyra became ever more aroused. The tale, that of woman being redesigned into an armless sex-toy, was utterly horrifying and she knew she should not feel as she did. Still, with each terrible word, Kyra’s fingers, seemingly of their own volition, worked to satisfy her cravings. Presently, and as the story turned ever more dark, she found herself in the throes of a tremendous orgasm. Two orgasms later, and nearly exhausted, Kyra ceased masturbating, shut off her computer and retired to the comfort of her bed. It was there that she contemplated her new-found fetish and all it implicated.

       Morning arrived far too soon for Kyra. Her dreams, in spite of her multiple orgasms, had continued their terrible trend. Consequently, her sleep was fitful. Nor would she have awakened but for the phone call from John to check on her well-being.

       “You must have drunk more than you thought,” he concluded, commenting on her apparent state of being when last he had seen her. “You were rather unsteady.”        After assuring him of her well-being, the two made plans for later that night. Then Kyra left her bed for a much needed shower.

       As the hot water cascaded over her body, Kyra thought to the night before. Smiling, she thought back to dinner, the Space Needle, and then the art gallery. Suddenly she was flush with arousal. Needing release as badly as ever she had, her hands moved along her belly to her breasts. She cupped them, squeezed them, and pulled lightly at the gold rings in her nipples. As her need increased and her pulse quickened, her right hand moved, ever so slowly, between her legs. The first touch on her clitoris was electric. Slow rubbing became nearly frantic, but it was not enough. Fingers, first one, slipped inside her sex. Another soon found its way inside. Presently, and as memories of her dreams returned to her conscious mind, she climaxed. Nearly collapsing, Kyra righted herself. Her mind still filled with prurient images, she eased herself to the floor of the tub. Again, she rubbed her hands across her body, squeezing, kneading and pinching sensitive areas needful of attention. Then, amidst the fog of the hot shower, she slipped her hand between her legs and worked towards another orgasm.        

As she readied herself for her second date with D’Arnot, she found it difficult to separate her thoughts from the images retained from the art gallery. Not that such images were foreign to her; she had seen photo-manipulations and drawings that were similar. She had read erotic novels and stories, as well. However, none had been so extreme, nor had they intrigued her so much as now.

Before she knew it, the time for her date had arrived. After pressing the button to allow John entrance, she checked herself in the mirror, ensured her black skirt and blouse were provocative, without being slutty. Then she stepped into her black, high-heeled shoes and awaited the knock at the door.

As before, their night was pleasant. A long dinner at a fine restaurant was followed by a night at the theater. From there they found a late night café where they talked into the early morning. This time, when he walked her to her condominium she invited him inside.

They were not long in entering the bedroom. Kyra, having found her arousal and attraction to D’Arnot impossible to resist, was quick to act. Seizing his face in her hands, she pulled him to her and planted a kiss upon his lips. Immediately, her arms snaked around his neck and she practically lifted herself to his height. Surprised as he was, John D’Arnot hesitated not. Embracing her, she was lifted from the floor as their tongues intertwined; and when she briefly pulled back, he smothered her neck in kisses.

Kyra tilted her head back, rapt in the moment. Then she wrapped her legs around his body and planted another kiss on his lips. Gently, she was laid on the bed, and as he leaned over her prostrate form she reached for his shirt and tore it open. Her blouse, too, she tore open, exposing her pink bra. “I want you,” she said in a throaty whisper.

John smiled, and then removed the damaged shirt, exposing his lean, muscular physique. Then, with slow deliberation, he lifted her legs, one by one, and removed her shoes, kissing her delicate and well groomed feet before resting her ankles atop his shoulders. With seeming admiration, he ran his hands over her calves, and then down her thighs as he eased himself downwards. Presently, he was kneeling between her legs, pressing his lips to her thighs, kissing, licking and offering slight nibbles to her flesh. She shivered when her skirt’s zipper sounded, and then shivered again as he slowly divested her of the garment.

Kyra knew well what would come next; he would remove her panties and begin pleasuring her. But she was wrong. For it was not his intention to pleasure her, but that she should pleasure him; and for that she would have to beg.

“I am not like other men, Kyra,” he said, standing and already naked. Silently, he waited.

Never before had Kyra been so unsure of herself. As she stared at the large, well-muscled form before her, a silhouette in the shadowed room, she wondered what she should do. Then, as if reading her mind, he ordered she stand.

“Remove your blouse and bra,” he told her, his voice soft but commanding. Wide eyed, she stared at the tall man, obeying his command. When she stood naked before him she was again unsure of herself.

Breathing raggedly, Kyra stood as still as was manageable. Cold and shivering, she tried to speak several times. Always, her voice failed her. Then he spoke a command. It was simple, direct and firm. “Kneel. Take me in your mouth,” was the command. “Do not use your hands.”

Slowly, silently she knelt and opened her mouth. Then, looking up at him, she took his erect penis in her mouth and began sucking. Her initial movements were slow, deliberate, and her eyes remained wide and fixed on his shadowed face.

“Clasp your hands behind your back,” he ordered.

As she moved to obey his order a feeling of terrible vulnerability overcame her. Oral sex had never been an issue for the girl. Nevertheless, it had always been reserved for those lovers who had taken the time to pleasure her first. Thus, the moment had become one of profound intimacy.

Kyra slurped and sucked at his cock, licking the length of his shaft to the best of her abilities. She forced him into the depths of her throat until she gagged. Embarrassed, she wanted to apologize but feared releasing his cock. Several more times she took him as deeply as she could manage, gagging with each attempt. Suddenly she felt unworthy to suck his cock, and she suddenly felt fear at his possible disappointment.

“Stand,” he told her.

A feeling of incompetence overtook her as she released his penis. Disappointed with herself, she stood. He seized her by the shoulders and pushed her to the bed, forcing her hands over her head and holding them together with a firm grip. He ordered she spread her legs. Then, with his free hand, he reached between her legs and felt the wetness between. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” asked John D’Arnot.

Kyra shook her head. “No. I want to suck your cock,” she answered.

“And you will, Kyra,” he told her. “You will.”

A slight twitch of his fingers made her moan. Then he bowed his head to her right breast and sucked at her nipple. He bit at the ring adorning it and pulled, making her moan again. He kissed her softly, and then sucked at her other nipple.

“Tonight, Kyra, you will cum for me,” he told her. “You will cum often, and you will cum hard.”

A sudden pressure built within Kyra’s body, and she suddenly realized how close was her orgasm. But as it was almost upon her, John withdrew his hand and pushed his sex-dampened fingers into her mouth. Knowing what was expected of her she sucked and licked at his fingers. Presently his hand was between her legs once again. Again he withdrew his hand just as orgasm was upon her and brought it to her mouth. Soon, and after repeatedly being denied, she cried out in frustration and fought against the strong hand holding her wrists. Unable to break his grip, she begged him for release.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered. She complied and he demanded she spread them wider. He released her wrists and ordered she grasp the narrow slats of her bed’s headboard. “Do not release them,” he said when she complied.

“Please let me cum,” she begged.

“You will cum now,” he told her as he slid atop her tiny frame.

Suddenly he was inside her, and she felt as full as ever she had been. A quick thrust brought forth a moan from the girl. He waited a moment before thrusting again. Then, again he waited, his cock imbedded inside her, before thrusting again.

Frustrated by his slow deliberation, Kyra was near to tears. Again and again he thrust into her, waiting torturous seconds before thrusting again. Then, in a sad, longing voice, she heard herself cry, “Please fuck me. Please!”

Heeding her pleas, he fucked her. Hard thrusts shook her body; drawing forth moans and screams that filled the room. Presently, she was in the midst of an orgasm that left her nearly breathless. Another soon followed. Then, as she had cried for him to fuck her, she cried for him to relent.

“You must cum again for me, Kyra,” he whispered in her ear; and after several more thrusts she did.

When her final orgasm had subsided, John D’Arnot fully rested his body atop the girl. Struggling for breath, she requested he shift position. Refusing her request, he posited a kiss on her small, perfectly shaped nose. Then, and with slow deliberate strokes, he began fucking her again.

Presently, she was gulping for air in short panting breaths. Her head swam, she became dizzy and she feared she might pass out. It was then the orgasm threatened. Somehow, and for reasons unknown to the girl, it failed to materialize. Tears welled up and ran down the sides of her face as the need grew. Suddenly, the hand she had not realized was around her throat, released its grip. Instantly, her entire body tensed as a powerful orgasm overtook her. It was terrible, wonderful, frightening, and invigorating all at once. When it was over, she lay silent, shivering and unable to speak.

For the next hour, her lover lay beside her, spooning her as he held her in his arms. From time to time she would attempt speech, only to find it beyond her capabilities. Always would his response be a soft kiss, a light stroking of her body, and a warm hug. “Worry not, Kyra,” he would tell her, “You are safe.” His words, while little more than gibberish to her, were comforting, his touch even more so.

Eventually, Kyra’s senses returned. Blinking her eyes, as if waking from a deep sleep, she turned to the man holding her and smiled. “That was…horrible,” she laughed. “I mean, it was wonderful but horrible. What did you do to me?”

John smiled, kissed her cheek, and said, “I ruined you for other men.” He kissed her again.

Turning her head away, she closed her eyes. “God, you are so right,” she whispered. A strange feeling overtook her, as if she belonged to him. New tears welled in her eyes as a strange melancholy overtook her being. “What else are you going to do to me?”

“You fear this is little more than a fling, Kyra?” he asked.

A nod was his response. She gathered herself, wiped away the tears, and then said, “This was our second date, John, and I think…,” she hesitated. “No, it isn’t possible.”

“Tell me your thoughts, Kyra. You must,” he demanded.

Kyra ran her small fingers over the thick forearm resting across her belly, then pulled her legs up slightly. She turned, pulling from his embrace, and stared into his shadowed eyes. “I think I’m in love with you; and I am afraid that my telling you will end things before they begin.”

D’Arnot smiled, and then kissed her forehead. “I will not lie to you, Kyra, I am not in love with you,” he told her. “But I shall not run off like a teenage boy afraid of a woman’s love. No, in the short time we have had together I have become quite enamored. I do not know that I can love you, but shall certainly try.”

She was crying in earnest now, a melancholy smile displayed. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” she said. “I mean, I’m relieved by what you said. I should be happy. I am happy. But I’m sad, too.”

“You are happy because I am not running off,” John told her. “You are happy because of all I said. But you are sad because I am not yet in love with you. Love needs love to be happy.”

Nodding, Kyra realized he was right. She was sad he was not in love with her. Still, she realized that two dates and a night of sex did not make for a relationship. Thus was it that Kyra became determined to make him love her. For that she would need to please him; and it was to this she set her mind. It was then that she uttered a question that she had never uttered; “May I suck your cock?” she asked. It was a significant moment for her.

Smiling at the girl, John D’Arnot put his hand to her cheek. “Kyra, I will allow it. However, I am not as the men you have known previously. I have certain expectations…no, requirements.”

Of the men she had been with, all had been grateful for any sort of oral attention. Any requirements had been set by her, not the man she was with. In fact, it had been so with any sexual act she had engaged in. Curiously she stared, wondering about the man before her. What was it that was so terribly different about him, and why did the notion of requirements excite her so? All these thoughts were but a fraction of a moment. Suddenly, she heard herself asked, “What are those requirements?”

“You must never use your hands,” he began. “If you are kneeling you must keep your hands clasped behind your back, though if you are bending over me you may use them for support. You must take me as deeply as you can, as well. I know that you are unable to take me into your throat, but you must learn. If I cum in your mouth you are to swallow. Should any cum escape your mouth you are to devour it, no matter where it may be. Finally, you are never to wipe cum from your face or body unless I permit it. Again, you must consume it.”

His decree shocked her, and she felt as if she should be angered by his expectations. It was not anger that she felt, however, but a growing sense of need; a need to please this mountain of a man in the bed beside her. So it was that she agreed to each of his requirements. It was agreed, too, that he would be patient with her. “I can’t deep throat,” she told him, “but I will learn.”

On hands and knees he situated her so he could touch her bottom and manipulate her intimate areas where he lay. At his direction she took his slightly erect cock into her mouth and began sucking. Quickly, he grew, filling her mouth. Per his command, she was not to attempt to take him into her throat without his direction. So she took him only so deep as was easily managed, all the while his hands and fingers roamed between her legs.

“When I tap your head,” he said, “you are to take me into your throat and hold me for as long as you can. Do not move until absolutely necessary.”

Kyra gave a simple, full mouthed grunt of understanding. Immediately, she felt a finger enter her ass. It was unexpected, and it made her flinch. Recovering quickly, and after only a brief cessation of movement she was again working hard at pleasuring her lover.

Several minutes later he tapped her head. Immediately, she thrust her head downward, filling her throat with his cock. A moment later, and after fighting her gag reflex she pulled back. There was a gasp, a sputter, and then she returned to the task at hand.

Another finger entered her bottom. Again she flinched, hesitated briefly, and then returned to servicing his member. A tap on her head followed, and she took him into her throat. As before, she fought against gagging, and then again she pulled back, regained her breath, and then returned to sucking his member.

Ten minutes passed before another finger entered her ass. Knowing a tap would follow, Kyra drew in a deep breath. When the tap came she pushed her mouth over his shaft, forcing his cock into the depths of her throat. Hard she fought, refusing to gag. But great as was her determination, greater still was her body’s refusal to accept the severe discomfort in the back of her throat; and she was forced to pull back.

Finally, John withdrew his fingers from her ass and ordered she cease her attempts at pleasing him. “I can see this will take time,” were the words he spoke to her.

Saddened by her failure, she rocked back, sitting with her legs curled in front of her. For a short moment she cried, looking as lost as ever. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I really tried.”

He reached out and presented his fingers to her mouth. “You can still please me,” he told her. “Suck my fingers clean.”

The thought of cleaning fingers so recently in her ass disgusted her. But her need to please him, combined with her failure, was overpowering. Thus, she opened her mouth, briefly tasting his fingers before leaning forward and sucking them clean. It was not a pleasant moment for the girl. The taste, while not overpowering, being less than pleasant.

After satisfying his unpleasant want, she was instructed to get on hands and knees at the bed’s edge. John left the bed and came to stand behind her. “Have you ever taken a man in your ass before?” he asked.

Looking back at the tall figure, she nodded. “Yes.”

“Then this will not be difficult,” he said, resting his cock between the cheeks of her ass.

“Only a few times, though,” she added quickly.

Staring down at her plump bottom, John asked, “Do you want to please me?”

“So much,” Kyra told him.

It was then that he placed the tip of his cock against the entrance to her anal canal. Still damp with saliva and with only slight pressure it threatened to slip inside. “Push back,” he ordered, “show me you want to please me.”

Kyra cringed, feeling suddenly embarrassed that it was she who must take the initiative. But she obeyed, and her ass opened and accepted his cock. Slow was her progress, more from the humiliation she felt than for the minor pain accompanying the intrusion. When she was, at long last, fully impaled on his member she waited, expecting him to take action. But he did not; and as she waited she realized it was she who must fuck him.

Had he been virtually any other man Kyra would not have felt such discomfiture as she now felt. But this was a confident, commanding figure like none she had known before. Instinctually, he had taken command without her explicit approval. No man she had ever been with had done so. Always had she given permission. But this man, for the moment at least, owned her; and it was this simple fact that made her so terribly nervous.

Uncomfortable though she was, Kyra began to slowly gyrate her hips. At his behest her pace quickened. Presently it was she, not D’Arnot who felt the unmistakable sensations that precede an orgasm. She fought against it. But it would not be denied, and she was soon moaning out her ecstasy.

John smiled, grasped her hips and began fucking her with jackhammer thrusts. Already wet from her ejaculate, he was met with a sudden waterfall as she came again. A third orgasm followed, and she cried out for mercy. But his own orgasm was at hand; and in short, staccato thrusts he came, filling her with the hot evidence of his satisfaction.

Their orgasms subsided, the pair remained silent and unmoving. Still impaled on John’s cock, Kyra panted and whimpered. “Please don’t pull out,” she begged.

“Why not?” he asked, knowing well the answer.

She took a deep breath, attempting to catch her wind. “Because I’ll cum again,” was her answer.

John D’Arnot smiled. “And what is wrong with that, Kyra?”

“It’s too much,” she said in a ragged and tired voice. “It’s too much.”

“I will do as you ask,” he told her. “But you must promise to do something for me.”

“Anything,” she panted.

“When I pull out you must clean my cock with your mouth,” he said. Again, he knew the answer he would receive. But he also knew she would do as he wished.

Kyra cringed. Already she had taken his soiled fingers into her mouth and cleaned them. But this she would not do, and she told him as much. As the words exited her mouth, and with his cock still hard and buried in her ass, D’Arnot pushed her forward, falling on top of her and pinning her beneath. Immediately began thrusts that sent her into the throes of another orgasm.

“No more!” she cried. “It’s too much. Please!”

Ceasing his assault, he waited as the spasms of a second orgasm faded. Then, into her ear, he whispered. “You will cum again and again unless you satisfy my wants.”

“Anything,” she gasped. “I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t make me cum again.”

“Tell me you will clean my cock with your mouth,” he whispered.

She grimaced, and then said the words he required. “I will clean your cock with my mouth.”

A short time later he began to slowly withdraw his cock from her ass. When at last he was out, D’Arnot rolled to his back. Kyra’s movements, as she moved to clean him, were equally slow. Eventually, however, she took him in her mouth and cleaned him as was required.

It was nearing daylight before Kyra had fully recovered from her ordeal. In the meantime John had held her in his arms, comforting her amidst fits of extreme emotion. Sometimes angry, other times sad, she had remained in his arms until she had recovered. It was then the pair fell into a deep sleep, utterly exhausted.

Shortly after noon, Kyra’s eyes fluttered open. Behind her, and with arms wrapped around her, lay John. As she slipped from his grasp she discovered the toll of so many orgasms; her entire body ached and each movement made her cringe. When finally she stood beside the bed she glanced back at her lover. No longer asleep, he stared at her naked body with admiring eyes.

“I hurt all over,” she said.

Freeing himself of the bedcoverings, John left the bed. “Nothing a hot shower won’t help,” he said. Then he stepped around the bed, took her hand in his and pulled her against him. He kissed her, sending a thrill down her spine.

“Why did you do that to me?” she asked.

John looked at her with questioning eyes. “To which thing are you referring?”

“You forced me to clean you after you fucked my ass,” she said. “Why?”

He pursed his lips, and then smiled. “You said you wanted to please me,” was his simple response. “Did you not tell me as much?”

Kyra nodded. Then her face took on a look of simple innocence. “Did I please you?” she asked.

She was taken in his arms just then. Then, staring into her wide, violet eyes, he said, “You pleased me very much, Kyra. Very much.”

       Together they stood in the heat fogged room, embracing one another lovingly. Fighting their urges, they stepped into the shower and allowed the warm water to cascade over their bodies. They kissed. “I had a wonderful night, Kyra,” John told her. She smiled, kissed him on the lips, and then slowly took to her knees.

       “I still haven’t properly pleased you, though,” she said before taking his flaccid member in her mouth.

       Quickly erect, he watched as she sucked him. Down she took him, deep as she could. But try as she might Kyra was unable to hold him in her throat for more than a few moments. Undaunted, she continued with her efforts; and with each succeeding attempt she felt nearer to accomplishing her task.

       “You did well,” he told her, as she released his cock and stood. But there was a sad look on her face.

       “I’ll do better next time,” she insisted, throwing her arms around his neck. “I promise.”

       John pulled her against him, grasped her bottom and lifted her as she threw her legs around him. But his stance was precarious, so he turned around and pushed her against the shower wall. “Make love to me,” she pleaded.

       He smiled, lifted her wet body higher maneuvering carefully until he was certain of his position. Then he was inside her. With a slow deliberation they made love.

Chapter 2

       

       It would be several days before Kyra and John were again united, work and various sundries taking up the majority of their time. Just the same, they were in frequent contact over the phone. Often, their conversations were short, time constraints cutting them short. There were other occasions, however, that took them into early morning. It was during one particular conversation, and after a few homemade margaritas that Kyra became somewhat investigative.

       “You know, John,” she began, “I was wondering about you. That night we fooled around…how did you know you could make me do all that stuff?”

       John laughed. “I realized your nature when we were at the art gallery,” he told her. “Then, on the ride home, you were virtually silent. And, if you remember, you had tremendous difficulty simply finding the key to your building’s entry.”

       “So that was the giveaway,” she mused. Then, in a moment of mischievousness, she said, “If you had made a move that night you could have done so much more – and without even the hint of a fight.”

       “Ah, but where is the challenge in that?” he laughed. Then in his most ominous voice, he said, “It is far more fun to make you do terrible things with you fully aware. Only then will you have to live with the shame.”

       Kyra laughed. “Oh, you’re an evil one, aren’t you? Well, don’t think it will be so easy next time.”

       “I am counting on more of a challenge next time, Kyra,” John laughed. “On the other hand, your attack on my person was rather flattering.”

       “A girl has to go get what she wants, you know,” she replied. “Anyhow, getting back to it, you weren’t worried at all that I would be mad for making me do those things?”

       “Kyra, I am a man with one or two years on you. I’ve had a few experiences that go beyond your own,” he told her. “Certain things are easily identifiable. Some are not. But your reaction at the art gallery was something anyone could see.”

       Kyra sipped at her margarita. “Well then, I guess it was a good thing I was with you and not someone else.”

       “Quite the contrary,” D’Arnot replied. “It was the worst mistake of your life. For you, that is. For me, it was the timeliest mistake of your life.”

       “You aren’t scaring me,” was Kyra’s haughty response.

       John D’Arnot laughed, and then changed the subject. “I am out of town until Saturday. I would like to see you that night. Are you free?”

       “I am never free. But you can still take me out if you like,” Kyra told him, giggling as her margarita began taking its toll.

       “Good. Then I will pick you up at seven,” he asserted.

        “Seven it is,” she said, a broad smile on her visage.

       John glanced at his watch. It was nearing midnight and he had an early flight to the east coast. Still, his curiosity was piqued. “I would like to know a few things – personal things – if you wouldn’t mind a few more personal questions.

       Kyra swigged the last of her margarita, quitted the couch where she had been sitting and headed to the kitchen to pour another. “Well, I’ve already had two margaritas, and I am on my way to get another,” she told him. “So, if you want to get ask personal questions this would be your chance.”

       “I was curious about your reaction at the art gallery,” John began. “Why do you suppose you had such a strong reaction to what you saw?”

       After pouring another margarita, Kyra took a shot of tequila, and then headed back to her couch. “You know, I’m not sure,” she admitted. She wobbled slightly as she took her seat. “Maybe because it was so out of the norm.”

       Noticing that Kyra’s speech impediment seemed somewhat exaggerated, John pressed on with his interrogation. “Was there any piece in particular that caught your eye?”

       “Well, there was the painting of the girl on the web, of course,” she said. But you knew that.” Kyra thought for a moment, taking a sip of her drink. “There was one that was completely over the top, though. And I really, really liked it.”

       “I’m listening,” said D’Arnot.

       “It was the one where the girl had no face except for her big, round mouth,” Kyra told him. “She was covered in rubber, had no arms, huge boobs and a really big ass.”

       “What was it you liked about it?” John persisted.

       After draining her glass, Kyra thought for a moment. “I think it was her lack of identity,” she said. “Everything about her had been taken away except her mouth. I mean, she was made into something useful for one thing and one thing only. As horrible as it was, there was something amazingly erotic about it.” She giggled a moment, and then asked, “What was your favorite piece?”

       “I was rather fond of the girl on the little pedestal,” he told her.

       Kyra struggled to remember the piece. Finally, she remembered. “You mean the one with the post up her butt that looked like a marble statue?”

       “That’s the one,” D’Arnot answered.

       “Why that one?” Kyra asked. “Not that I’m criticizing, but she almost looked normal. Yeah, she had bigger than normal boobs and her lips were ridiculous. But that seemed almost mundane in that gallery.”

       John chuckled. “Too ordinary for your tastes, eh?” he asked.

       “Yes!” she ejaculated. “So what was the deal with that one? Why did you like it better than the others?”

       “She was useful, and she was art,” he told her. “If she were real you could take her from the pedestal, make use of her, and then put her back.”

       Kyra shivered, imagining herself in place of the statue. “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, excitement in her voice. “That’s kind of a turn on.”

       “Oh, is it, now?”

       “Don’t get any ideas!” she laughed. Then, feeling rather aroused, and more than a little mischievous, she said, “On the other hand, a bit of roll-play never hurt.”

       “Why do I get the feeling that the gallery was not your first venture into the world of erotica?” he asked.

       A quick burst of laughter graced D’Arnot’s ear. Then, Kyra lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “Can you keep a secret?”

       “I am better with secrets than you can imagine, ma chère,” he said.

       Kyra turned up her glass and sucked at the tiny amount of liquid remaining in her glass. “I love erotica. I mean, I love it. I read it all the time,” she admitted. “The stuff in the gallery…yeah, it was over the top. But I have read erotica that was just as over the top.”

       Knowing that this was as good a time as any to delve into more personal matters, D’Arnot asked, “Have you mirrored any of what you have read? Have you ever enjoyed any roll-play that might be similar to anything you saw at the art gallery?”

       There was a brief silence on Kyra’s end of the conversation, followed by another moment of giggling. “I pretended to be a robot once,” she said. “He painted me with silver paint…I think it was made out of silicone. Anyhow, I acted like a robot sex-doll.”

       “You’re a kinky little girl, aren’t you?’ he teased.

       “It’s only kinky if you aren’t kinky,” she said, laughing.

       “Unless you’re perverted,” he fired back. “In which case kinky is ordinary.”

       Kyra thought back to their first night together, and how crazed he had made her. “Are you saying you’re perverted?” she asked. She left the couch and headed to the bedroom as she spoke. Quickly divested of her clothing, she crawled beneath the bed coverings. “Because I’ve heard the difference between kinky and perverted, and I am pretty sure I have no interest in chickens.”

       “Chickens?” D’Arnot was confused.

       “The difference between kinky and perverted,” she giggled, “is that kinky is with a feather. But perverted is with the whole chicken.”

       “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, mais mon anglais n'est pas tellement bon,” D’Arnot responded. Then he laughed. “Comprendre?”

       “I have no idea what you said, but I think you were making fun of me,” she said, her tone mockingly serious.

       “It must be an American joke,” he said. “But I can assure you that no chickens will ever be harmed, unless they so request it. You being the chicken, of course.”

       “Don’t call me chicken!” she laughed.

       “I will when I tar and feather you, ma chère,” he responded.

       Kyra grinned. “That sounds wonderfully perverted. Will you fuck me after?”

       “Ah, so you are a pervert after all,” he accused.

       “If the feathers fit!” she laughed.

       In a more sober voice, he told her, “I have in my head an image of you in silver paint and red lipstick. You are standing on a low pedestal with a post in your ass. Is that wrong of me?”

       “Mmm, only if you never take me off the pedestal and make use of my charms,” she purred. “Is that wrong of me?”

       “I promise to take you off the pedestal,” he told her. “Unfortunately, that will have to wait. I’ve an early flight tomorrow.”        

       “Oh, isn’t that just like a guy to get a girl all hot and bothered and then leave her hanging,” she pouted. “I should get to sleep, too, though. I have lots of work to do.”

       “I’ll call you tomorrow night,” he said. “Maybe we can discuss our perversions more in depth then.”

       “Hard to say,” she told him, “I’ve had a few drinks tonight. I probably won’t be drinking tomorrow.”

       “Well, it’s a chance I’ll have to take,” John replied.

       “Talk to you then,” she said.

       After a quick goodbye, he was gone, leaving her to her thoughts.

       

        D’Arnot’s trip to New York was relatively uneventful. Soon as business was taken care of he headed to his home in the hills, as he called it, nestled deep in the verdant forest to check in on the progress of his remodel. Satisfied with the progress, he then decided to pay a visit to his long-time friend, Beatrice.

Beatrice’s estate, much like his own, was nestled in the midst of a heavily forested valley at the end of a winding private road that cut through the rich verdure of the countryside forest. Since its construction, the high walled and gated estate had seen few visitors. John Francis D’Arnot was one such visitor.

As he parked his car in her circular gravel drive, D’Arnot wondered at the changes that had taken place since his last visit. Already large, the Tudor-style mansion had been expanded. A stable, apparently attached to the main home, had been added, and there appeared to be several more rooms. For what he could only speculate.

Stepping from the car, he approached the door. No sooner had he knocked than the door was swung open by a small, woman wearing a white blouse and a knee-length, black skirt and matching high heeled shoes. Some twenty years his senior, her still youthful visage and jaunty disposition made her long, gray hair seem but an affectation. This was Beatrice.

“Francis, so good of you to come by,” she gushed. Ever fond of the man, she embraced him in her arms, and then invited him into her newly renovated home. “Come, you must see what I’ve done to the place. Then we must catch up.”

“Likewise, ma chère,” he told her. “But first, have you anything to quench a parched throat?”

“Such poor manners I am displaying,” she chided herself. “Let us go to my study. I’ve a marvelous sherry you must try.”

Following closely behind, he listened as Beatrice narrated the details of her renovation. Then, as they passed through the house they came upon a girl clad in shiny, white, translucent rubber. On her feet were high-heeled shoes of the same color, and protruding from her mouth was a black feather duster. In keeping with the older woman’s taste, the rubberized girl’s breasts had been greatly enlarged, as had her posterior; and her arms had been locked behind her back in a neat box form. Upon Beatrice’s command, the girl halted her work of dusting the nearby sundries and stood straight and motionless.

“This is Dusty,” Beatrice told him, chuckling at the name given the girl “my newest maid.”

Francis studied the girl momentarily, noting the sad, pleading eyes of the girl as they peaked out from the rubber covering her head. Ignoring the girl, D’Arnot turned to the Beatrice, asking, “I assume this is O’Connell’s work?”

“Of course,” she confirmed. “After comparing his work to that of others I would trust no one else with such things. Besides which, there is nowhere else to go if one wants a permanent rubber-doll effect.” After ordering the girl to return to work, the pair continued their brief walk down the corridor and into Beatrice’s study.

The room into which they entered was richly decorated. Painted a medium brown with beige accents and occasional tapestries, the room had a warm feeling about it. Complimenting it perfectly were two large couches, both upholstered in a burgundy velour, and spaced across from one another with an oaken coffee table between. The floor was covered in a thick, light brown carpet, the space between the couches being graced with an intricately patterned Persian rug. Various decorations, tables and artwork were also a part of the room’s décor.

“I see you are ready to receive the girl on the web,” Francis said, noting the rather large, rectangular hole on the northern most wall.

“Yes,” Beatrice purred. “I can barely wait.”

“It is a nice piece,” he commented.

Beatrice gave him a look of concern, told him to make himself comfortable and then made her way to the small bar at the far end of the room. Pouring two glasses of scotch, she proffered one to the man who had taken up residence on one of her couches. Sitting across from him, she sipped at the drink. “Tell me, Francis,” she began, “what was it that prompted you to get rid of your pieces?”

He sighed, and then glanced about the room, noting the finery. Looking back at Beatrice, he smiled. “I grew tired of it all, Beatrice. It reminded me of the Museum of Natural History in Los Angeles. Interesting though it may be, everything was lifeless.”

“But that was the beauty of it,” she insisted. “Everything seemed to be without life, yet everything was alive and aware. It was terrible, horrifying and erotic all at once.”

D’Arnot took a sip of his drink and smiled. “All of that is absolutely true,” he admitted. “Nonetheless, I lost interest in it. I want…well…I don’t know what I want. But I know I do not want lifeless. Not anymore.”

“Well, if it isn’t what you want, I am more than happy to receive your pieces,” Beatrice told him. “If ever you should change your mind, please let me know. I will be happy to return them to you. Of course, the girl on the web will have to remain here – you’ve nowhere to mount her anymore.”

“You like that one, do you?” asked D’Arnot.

“More than I can tell you,” she admitted. “She moans, groans and begs for release. It’s terrifyingly wonderful.”

Francis sighed another time, frowning in the process. “Yes, she does. But it became too much, Beatrice. That eternal sadness, the tears and misery all became too much.” He sniffed at his scotch, savored its aroma, and then sipped at it.

“Well, perhaps you’ll meet a nice girl and settle down some day,” offered Beatrice, somewhat ironically.

Brightening somewhat, D’Arnot ran a hand through his ebon hair. “Perhaps I already have.”

“So you’ve met someone, have you?” she asked, amused. “Tell me about her.”

Draining his glass, Francis offered a smile. “She’s a lovely girl. Above all she is smart, possessive of a quick wit and a good sense of humor. I enjoy her company tremendously, and, according to all I know of her, she is sexually adventurous and rather submissive. Quite frankly, she is the ideal girl for me.”

Smirking, Beatrice asked, “But what of her shortcomings?”

“I am sure I will discover a few. No one is free of shortcomings, after all,” he told the woman.

Tapping the side of her glass with a fingernail, Beatrice smiled. “And what of her figure, Francis; is she your ideal?” she inquired.

“My ideals are not natural, Beatrice,” he answered. “Obviously not.”

“Would she ever agree, willingly, to become your ideal?” Beatrice persisted.

Shaking his head, Francis gave a wry smile. “What woman would?”

“My point exactly, young man,” she said. “So what are you going to do? You won’t be satisfied with an ordinary woman. So what are you going to do?”

Francis stood. “I am afraid I must depart, dear lady. I’ve much to do before heading back to Seattle. I have deals to approve and papers to sign. It seems I am acquiring a paper mill in Illinois.”

“I’m sorry I offended you, Francis,” said the older woman. “It was not my intent. Please accept my apology. Truly, I did not mean to offend you.”

“Fear not, ma chère,” he said. “You are as dear a friend as ever I have had. I know, too, that you are only looking out for my well-being. And, Beatrice, I will endeavor to accept her as she is. If providence wills it I will love her. Already I am more than fond of the girl.”

Beatrice stood, took him in her arms and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for understanding, dear boy,” she said. Then she walked him to the door, watched him get into his car and drive off.

Turning, the gray haired woman headed through her house in search of her maid. Finding her in the main hall dusting various sundries she ordered the girl halt her efforts. “To the bedroom, girl,” she said. I’ve a few cravings I would have satisfied.”

Available mid-March at:   http://www.a1adultebooks.com/ebooks/a1129.htm