Darkest Fantasies (8 page)

Kevin vaguely
recognised the voice of authority, and made an effort to assist,
not that he was aware of what he did. Esther had learned how to
inflect her voice with just the quality that would make a man jump
to her bidding; Madam had been quite thorough in her teachings.

Slowly he
gained his feet, but could not quite focus his mind. His eyes
wouldn't quite seem to open, but he felt himself clamber into a
car, and heard the engine cough into life. The motion of the car
began to send him to sleep. Bloody hell, he was tired. She was
right, whoever she was; he really should have more respect for
Esther, only he just couldn't seem to stop himself going after the
other women. It was the excitement factor. Damn, he couldn't think
straight. What was the matter with him? He didn't know where he was
or where he was going, and couldn't recall which of his flings this
was, but if she thought he was going to get it up tonight, she was
going to be very disappointed; he needed to sleep.

The car
stopped. Esther was alarmed when he began to snore. 'Not yet,' she
snapped. 'Stand up! No, don't fall. Move forward! That's right.
Hang in there! Keep moving. Two more steps. Good boy.'

Then his knees
began to buckle. 'Can't stand any more,' he slurred.

'You can sit
down now. Gently does it. There, the bed is behind you.'

He flopped
thankfully onto the softness of his bed. The voice was familiar
somehow, yet he couldn't place it at all. It was most confusing,
yet rather nice, in a way. The voice was authoritative, not
allowing him to lie down, and he felt like a child again, being
mothered. He felt gentle hands creep up his front, undoing his
shirt button by button. He realised she was undressing him. Putting
him to bed. Hands caressed the hairs on his chest. Vaguely
interested, he tried to move his arms, but they were like lumps of
iron glued to his sides.

'Lean forward.
Just a bit, whoa, not too far...' The shirt slid down over his
shoulders and was gone. 'Now you can lie down.' He wavered
thankfully and slumped onto his back. She lifted his feet, twisted
his legs onto the bed, took his shoes off. Then her hands crept to
his trousers, unbuckled his belt, unhooked the clasp. His hips
moved fractionally in response to the feather-light touch of the
zipper sliding down, and there was a faint stirring of interest
from between his legs. But no - it didn't want to play again so
soon. He vaguely recalled fucking Alicia, but what the hell had
happened after that? He couldn't recall, but damn it felt good.

'I don't think
I can...' he tried to say, perturbed by his own inability. 'Too
tired...'

'No bother,'
the woman whispered in a seductive voice. 'You don't need to do
anything. Just relax, honey-bun. We'll do things later. Now, just
lift your hips for me.'

Honey-bun? Who
the hell would call him honey-bun? The name caused a brief flutter
of irritation, then he was being moved again. His trousers slid
down over his feet and were gone. His pants went the same way.
Then, as he lay there on the bed in this strange and unusual
lethargy, to his surprise he began to have an erotic dream. He
dreamed that soft hands upon his body were wrapping leather straps
around his wrists and stretching his arms high, to almost
unbearable tightness, and buckling them firmly to the bedhead.
Chest expanded, feet tingling with suspense, he pulled at the
bonds, but they were firm.

A soft smile formed. Oh boy, he thought. Oh boy, don't wake me
now. He sank deeper into sleep. Soft leather encompassed his ankles
and his legs were parted and secured. He moaned and writhed with
severe sensual pleasure as his dream woman tethered him fast for
her pleasure. Oh boy, what a dream. Through his subconscious a
faint embarrassment filtered, diminished the pleasure slightly.
Blimey, what would Esther think of him if she knew? Still, there
was no harm in dreaming, and what she didn't know couldn't...
oh
yes
, hands were
fondling him. His strained awareness was sucked instantly to that
flaccid lump of flesh between his legs.

Despite his
lethargy and his inability to comprehend what had caused the
strange dream, he felt his penis begin to expand, to fill those
soft hands. It was the hands of an expert - the hands of a whore.
Damn! but she knew where to rub. His penis got bigger and bigger,
it throbbed, ached, swelled gloriously. She held his penis away
from his navel with one firm hand, softly drew back the foreskin
with the other, and began to make small circular motions with the
palm of her hand on the tip of his throbbing knob.

'Oh, baby,' he
whispered. 'Oh, baby, do it to me, baby.' His imagination worked
overtime. He thought of that waitress with big tits and imagined it
was her sitting over him, fondling him, leaning her melon-sized
boobs in his face, lifting her tiny skirt with nothing
underneath... 'Do it,' he whispered. 'I'm ready. Do it to me,
baby.'

But to his
irritation the hands left him and he gradually wilted. He struggled
to open his eyes, but the dream had him locked in darkness. He
wasn't sure whether his eyes were open or not, and although the
strange lethargy began to fade and the cotton wool seemed to recede
from his brain, he still found himself stretched unnaturally
tightly in bonds which were surprisingly real. Suddenly frightened,
his erection disappeared absolute. He tried desperately to wake
himself, but he could not. Drifting in and out of sleep for a
while, Kevin wasn't sure at what point he became sure he was not
dreaming. The dream had long ago lost its drive, lost its
eroticism, and he wanted out of it, only it wouldn't let go.

Finally he
woke up fully to the understanding that he was stretched out naked,
strapped in a star shape on a metal bed by restraints made of thick
padded leather which felt horribly serious. His penis had
shrivelled completely. He whimpered. What if someone came and found
him like this?

His new
consciousness told him he must have been drugged, and was no longer
under the influence of whatever he'd been given. But somewhere in
the back of his mind he recalled Esther making him a drink and
going out. After that he had climbed in a car with some woman, but
it was all so vague. Where the hell was he? He peered, but the
darkness didn't diminish. It wasn't the darkness of night, it was
simply the darkness of a place without light. A place with locks on
the doors, with leather straps holding him firmly in place. He
struggled, panicked by the unknown quantity of his situation, and
to add to his discomfort, he was busting for a pee.

What the hell
was going on? Where was Esther? Did she realise he was gone? Was
she even now calling the police? He imagined her at home,
distraught, wondering where he was.

His need to pee grew, and his fear grew. What did they want
with him? What did
who
want with him? In the darkness he gyrated his wrists in the
cuffs. They were tough, padded, and immovable. He shifted. Got his
hands around stout chains. Was he a man, or what? So, he'd break
the fucking bed. He pulled with all his not inconsiderable
strength. He yanked, he pulled, he swore. Nothing gave. Nothing
moved. He stopped, panted, and there was only one thing left to
do.

'Help?'

It sounded
pitiful, even to his ears, and his next cry was louder. 'Help!'

Eventually his
voice grew hoarse with calling, but no one came. Finally, having no
choice, he allowed his aching muscles to relax and with a long sigh
of satisfaction, relieved himself on the bed. It was a momentary
relief followed by an even greater feeling of horror. What if
someone came now and found him lying in a pool of his own
urine?

At long last a
key grated in the lock. The door opened. The light was blinding.
Kevin's eyes automatically shut, but not so soon that the woman's
form was not burned with shocking intensity into his mind. He
caught a fleeting image of thrusting bosom and rounded hips encased
in something form-huggingly tight - something black with laces. She
was a dark shadow sharply outlined in yellow light; she had an
athletic body, and though she was wearing a mask he knew with
absolute certainty that he had never met her in his life.

Yet he'd seen
pictures of women like that before, and the word that instantly
came to mind was dominatrix.

Despite his
furious and panic-stricken attempts to stop the woman, she leaned
over and encased his head in a mesh of straps that held a very
efficient blindfold in place.

The hands
tested their work, and found it satisfactory. He writhed with fury
in his bonds. 'Who are you?' he shrieked. 'What the fuck are you
doing? Let me up before I kill you, you bitch!'

He stopped
yelling. There was no answer, but she moved. His ears homed in on
soft sounds to his left. 'Who the fuck are you? What do you want
with me?'

The woman's
voice was as he had expected, almost a whisper, low and husky. 'I
want you, slave,' she informed him.

He pulled
angrily at the bonds, feeling scared, incredibly stupid and, in
spite of himself, flattered. 'Well you can't have me! Now let me
up, you bitch!'

There was the
fleeting hint of a whistle, and he screamed as pain bit across his
upper thighs. 'Quiet, slave,' she said softly.

Kevin
whimpered slightly, shocked into near-silence by the throbbing
pain. She hit him! The bitch had actually hit him! There was a long
silence while he digested this amazing fact. 'Why...'

'Shhhh...'

He bit his
lip, hearing a threat in the soft sound.

He felt the
sheet, or something, being pulled from underneath him. He was wiped
like a baby, and then heard the sound of running water. 'Now lift
your hips,' she commanded.

'What're you
doing?'

A faint
chuckle. 'Nothing terrible. I'm just going to clean you up. I need
to put a towel under you so you don't mess my sheets.'

Kevin scowled
and didn't oblige. She could go to hell. He would enjoy pissing on
her sheets, dammit. The unknown woman, however, merely took a
handful of his exposed sexual organs and lifted. She had sharp
nails. Up he arched, gasping with shock.

'What you have
to realise, slave,' she said informatively in her low voice, as she
wound a warm soapy flannel between his legs, 'is that I own you.
You do not have a name. You have no identity at all except in that
you have to please me. And what you have to learn quickly,' she
purred, 'is how to please me well.'

'Fuck you!' he
snapped.

'Exactly,' she
replied, giving him a congratulatory pat.

'What?'

'Fuck me. But
so that it pleases me, not you. That little lump of flesh,' she
flicked his penis disparagingly, 'belongs to me. As does the whole
of this fine body. I may do with it what I will, and it will obey
me.' Her breath purred on the words, and her nails raked softly and
seductively down the length of his tense thigh muscles.

'I'm Kevin
Mellinton, not anybody's bloody slave, and I want out of here or
I'll call the police,' he yelled.

'You're a sex
slave, here to serve faithfully until the day you die.'

'I won't!'

'Won't
you?'

'You can't
make me.'

'Can't I?'

Kevin tensed,
hearing movement, and discovered to his horror that he was afraid
of her as he had never in his life before been afraid of anyone,
let alone a woman. He felt the bed sag slightly as she climbed over
him and knelt astride his body, knees outside his hips, feet inside
his thighs. Everything went tight with panic. He couldn't breath.
Then he gasped as a cool trickle of liquid slid unexpectedly onto
his chest and she began to rub it in.

Very, very
gently, she traced circles around his tense chest muscles, merely
spreading the oil. Then she kneaded, pushed, and rubbed them into
submission with slick fingers. She rolled his nipples between her
fingertips, then worked her way downward until she had covered
every exposed area, and in spite of himself he knew he was enjoying
the experience, that his body was tuning in to her sexuality;
relaxing outwardly, but pulsing deep inside with vibrant sexual
need. As she leaned over his body with those expert and strong
fingers that danced so erotically, he felt the warmth of her breath
across his mouth. Then she slid forward to nuzzle him beneath his
chin, up the side of his face, in his ear. Oh, the soft weight of
her breast hung against his sensitised skin, moving the hairs of
his chest with the subtlety of a summer's breeze.

His penis
swelled. It was impossible to stop it. He groaned with annoyance,
pleasure, fear, and anger at her easy manipulation of him, but when
his rising prick encountered softness, wetness and warmth, it
hardened instantly into a thrusting tool.

She didn't
lower herself onto him, though. She teased, and he felt the
contractions of her vagina fluctuate against the tip of his penis
then slide away again and again. 'Oh, God,' he said hoarsely. 'If
you're going to do it, bloody-well do it! Don't just piss
about!'

'I am doing
it,' she replied softly. He groaned. 'I'm pleasing myself. You're
just the slave upon which I'm choosing to do it.' He felt her
strong thigh muscles come into play again, and he slid out of her
once more. She began to rub herself up and down the base of his
rampant penis giving him no satisfaction whatsoever, and for the
first time in his sexual career, he realised that achievement of
his orgasm was not first and foremost in his partner's mind. She
stretched out, her feet separated and slid down the length of his
stretched legs, and he felt her doing press-ups over his rampant
sex while her lips brushed and rubbed at various body parts; his
lips, his chin and ears, and his nipples.

Faster and
faster she went, rubbing herself forward and backward until he was
nearly crying with the strange, erotic sensations she was
producing. Then with a groan, she came. Kevin felt the small pulse
of her orgasm against his balls. He'd never felt that before.
Esther never did that. Alicia never did that; nor Jeannie, nor
Rose, nor Suzanne... the list was endless, his memories tortured.
Had they all been faking? With a blinding flash of understanding,
he realised he had never made a woman come in his life.