Sex and the Stranger 2: A Mischief Erotica Collection

Sex and the Stranger 2: A Mischief Erotica Collection Justine Elyot Giselle Renarde Olivia London Tabitha Rayne Kathleen Tudor Heather Towne Ludivine Bonneur Senta Holland Rose de Fer Original erotica about irresistible strangers.New and original erotica from Mischief about the daring thrills, the passion and the intensity of opportunist encounters with the most seductive strangers. Featuring stories from Justine Elyot, Senta Holland, Rose de Fer and many other favourite Mischief authors.Nancy photographs wildlife as well as the sexy strangers she encounters in the great outdoors…A woman ventures off the beaten path in California in search of a master of bondage…When everyone at an upscale party wears fancy dress costumes, the temptation to misbehave becomes too great for some… Sex and the Stranger 2 A Mischief Erotica Collection A division of HarperCollinsPublishers www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) This collection is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. Mischief An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers The News Building 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.mischiefbooks.com (http://www.mischiefbooks.com) An eBook Original 2016 1 In the Wild © Rose de Fer California Dreaming © Senta Holland Once upon a Pool Deck © Kathleen Tudor Reflections © Ludivine Bonneur In with the New © Justine Elyot Clarence © Tabitha Rayne Dance Partners © Heather Towne Going on Thirty © Giselle Renarde Stranger, Come Closer to Me © Olivia London The authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work. Picture credit: Shutterstock (http://www.shutterstock.com) A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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EBook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008190170 Version 2016-03-29 Table of Contents Cover (#u5cb792a1-34ef-52bd-bcea-01d9aca9cf7d) Title Page (#u5de4223d-319f-5ab2-8864-8d1d49d65413) Copyright (#uc63a7b97-5f27-56c3-a773-99d2d9815f58) In the Wild (#u8e2c96f8-b0ed-5d61-b10e-8f91afdd6b47) California Dreaming (#ua29e77a4-1717-5284-9257-728e6c1f7f78) Once Upon a Pool Deck (#litres_trial_promo) Reflections (#litres_trial_promo) In With the New (#litres_trial_promo) Clarence (#litres_trial_promo) Dance Partners (#litres_trial_promo) Going on Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Stranger, Come Closer to Me (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) In the Wild (#u24b48870-6580-59ce-a9cc-83d5ac11fd9b) Rose de Fer The zebra inched forward, nibbling lazily at the grass and flicking its short tail. From time to time it shook its head to banish flies, flicking its bristle-brush of a mane back and forth. The rest of the herd was scattered across the grass, their heads down as they focused on their sole occupation – eating. Nancy sat back in the grass and raised her knees, using them like a tripod to steady the camera. She twisted the ring of the lens, zooming in on the nearest zebra’s face. His eyes were huge and dark, ringed with black markings like goth eyeliner. She pressed the shutter several times, getting closeups of the limpid chocolatey eyes, the black nose and mouth, the large square teeth. Then she zoomed out slightly to reveal the animal’s whole head. She loved the way he flicked his ears and twitched his mane. The eyes might be goth, but the hair was full-on 80s punk – a stripy Mohican that seemed a little at odds with the animal’s placid demeanour. What a crazy designer Mother Nature was, painting lavish black stripes on a white horse. Or were they white stripes on a black horse? The zebra’s mouth never seemed to stop. He munched tirelessly, cutting a path through the grass. Nancy wondered if English grass tasted different to him than the grass where he was originally from. For that matter, what did he make of the weather here? It was a balmy summer day, pleasant enough for the UK, but it was likely many degrees cooler than Africa at this time of year. As if in response to her thought, the zebra lifted his head and gave a loud snort. He looked around for a few moments, gifting Nancy with some great shots before dipping his head again and returning to his meal. She checked the camera’s digital display, happy to see that she had plenty of room left on the memory card. She’d already taken hundreds of photos of the herd and various individuals, but this one had proved the most photogenic. It was so peaceful sitting here watching him. She was far enough away that he probably wasn’t even aware of her. He might be startled if she were to reveal herself, but he might also just stare at her with those wide, inquisitive eyes, like a pet horse expecting treats. Maybe she could walk right up to him and feed him apples or sugar lumps. As a child she’d once seen an old Victorian photo of a man driving a carriage pulled by zebras. Like most little girls, Nancy had been mad about horses, endlessly begging her parents for one of her own. But once she saw the picture, she decided she wanted a zebra instead. She wouldn’t be convinced that they were wild animals that lived far away, that you couldn’t simply go and buy one from the local stable. Her parents had taken her to the zoo to see them instead, where a friendly keeper had told her all about them and even let her stroke one’s soft, velvety muzzle. The memory made her smile and she snapped some more closeups of the zebra’s head in profile, the grass stalks creating an interesting pattern where they crossed the stripes of his face. Her mind began to wander and she couldn’t help but think about the last time she’d ridden a horse – a bareback ride she would never forget. It was only a couple of years ago. She’d gone to Mexico to forget about David. Or was it Simon? Well, whichever one it was, he’d vanished from her mind the instant she met Xavier. She could still see her Latino lover, his rich brown skin, his chiselled physique, his penetrating brown eyes, so dark they were almost black. And his hands … He’d made her feel so tiny and helpless as he’d lifted her up onto the horse that night. The gleaming chestnut stallion was as unclothed as she was, and the sensation of the powerful animal between her naked thighs had made her dizzy with lust. She’d buried her hands in the long mane and squeezed her legs together as Xavier swung up onto his own mount and led them in a long graceful canter along the moonlit beach. The rhythm of the gait had been relentless, stimulating her almost past endurance. She didn’t even bother trying to control the horse; she just let it take her where Xavier led. Within minutes, she was breathing hard, clutching the stallion’s mane as pleasure surged through her, battering her like waves until the sensations took her over completely and she cried out, surrendering to a devastating climax. She’d barely been able to clamber down off the horse. Even on the sand her legs refused to work. Xavier had laid her down in the surf then and fucked her hard while the water lapped at their toes. She came four times that night. Nancy’s body tingled in response to the memory. It had been the best holiday of her life and the best fling of her life. She’d returned home refreshed and glowing, with no desire at all to get smashed and listen to endless break-up songs or wallow in the misery of a broken heart the way most people did after a painful split. The loss was David’s. Or Simon’s. Or whatever the hell his name had been. Xavier had been the perfect cure. One week of guilt-free mutual exploitation and a kind of sexual freedom she hadn’t known since – well, since ever. And that was where she’d left it. It had been an uneventful few months, with only a single one-night stand since Xavier. Nothing to write home about. From somewhere overhead came the warning cry of a bird and the zebra glanced up, nostrils quivering as he scented the air. Nancy zoomed out to catch him in his posture of attentiveness. And that’s when she saw it. A tawny shape in the distance, hiding in the long grass. Nancy froze, her heart pounding. The air seemed just as frozen and the silence gathered like a storm. For several seconds she held her breath, paralysed with fear and not knowing what to do. Even at the camera’s full zoom, all she could make out was a blur of pale brown. It was just the right shade for the kind of animal she absolutely didn’t want to be trapped with. Then the zebra snorted and pawed the ground, returning to his grazing as he dismissed the idea of a threat. It took another few seconds for the penny to drop and then Nancy almost burst out laughing. She’d been so lost in the moment she’d quite forgotten where she was. She wasn’t in the Serengeti. She was in an open-air zoo in England, where the only lions were safely inside their own paddock and neither she nor the zebras had anything to fear from them. ‘Oh, you silly woman,’ she said to herself, and chuckled. But now her curiosity was piqued. She crept forward on her knees, drawing a little closer to the zebra. He glanced her way once or twice, but seemed satisfied that she was nothing to worry about. She was certainly no predator. When she’d covered half the distance between them, she raised the camera again. Now she could see the ‘lion’ clearly. And what she saw made her smile as she pressed the shutter release. A man was crouching in the grass opposite, pointing his own camera at the zebra. His face was obscured by the long telephoto lens, but she could see that his bare arms were appealingly muscled. Nancy took a few more shots of the leonine hunter, panning down over his legs and body. He was clearly someone who kept in shape. ‘Come on,’ she whispered, ‘let’s see your face.’ He couldn’t possibly have heard her, but a few moments later he lowered his camera. Nancy quickly snapped a picture and looked at it on the display screen. And liked what she saw. He was leading-man handsome: strong jaw, keen eyes, sculpted cheekbones. He had the rugged physique of a superhero, with all the sly bearing of a supervillain. Although the only thing he was stalking was zebras, there was nonetheless something roguish in his manner as he crept closer. He raised the camera again and Nancy watched him through her own, thanking Nikon all the while for making such great lenses. She could see every detail of her fellow shooter. His hands looked strong and sure as they gripped the camera, steady enough to zoom in close without needing a tripod. She also smiled to note that there was no wedding ring. Nancy saw the lens retract as he zoomed out, widening the frame. Then he stopped. He raised his head for a moment, then lowered it back to the camera. And angled it right towards her. A little rush of delight ran down her spine and she hurriedly hid behind her own camera, watching him watching her. At first all she could see was the convex curve of his lens and a distorted reflection of colours. His right index finger gently pressed the shutter button and she swallowed hard, feeling exposed, captured. Behind the camera he was smiling. Clearly, he liked what he was seeing every bit as much as she did. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do until she did it. She set the camera down and made a big show of stretching, as though waking up from a nap. Kneeling in the grass, she began slowing unbuttoning her shirt. As she did, she fancied she could hear the rapid click of her watcher’s camera as he snapped away. She stilled the tremor in her fingers as she fumbled with the buttons, finally exposing the tight khaki tank top she wore beneath in lieu of a bra. Although the air was warm, her nipples stiffened, standing out like pebbles through the thin fabric. She blushed a little and smiled to herself as she picked up her camera again and focused it on the man. He hesitated only a moment before lowering his camera. His eyes shone with mischief and his sensual mouth curled in a smile to match hers. God, he was gorgeous! He copied her movements, unfastening his shirt, one slow button at a time, teasing her. Only he was bare-chested beneath his. Her breath caught at the sight of his lean, sculpted torso and she almost forgot to take pictures. Her heart began to race as he raised the camera again. No signal was needed, no gesture. It was her turn now. Nancy reminded herself that she wasn’t a vague shape behind a window shade or a distant figure on a stage. She was as vivid and detailed through the powerful zoom lens as if she were standing right in front of him. With that in mind, she banished any self-consciousness and arranged her features into a sultry, come-hither look. Then she unfastened her shorts and drew them slowly down her long, toned legs. She’d worn her favourite black knickers, the ones with the scalloped lacy edge that framed her bottom so appealingly, and she hoped he was pleased with the effect. She half-stood as she stepped out of her shorts. Seeing the movement, the zebra looked her way for a moment before dipping his head again. She giggled. The poor, innocent creature had no idea what the rude humans around him were getting up to. Just as the barebacked horse in Mexico would never know how he had contributed to her best holiday ever. When she looked through the camera again, her companion put his hands together in silent applause at her little performance. Then, with slow deliberation, he kicked off his shoes. He stood there for a few moments, leaving her to wonder if that was all he was going to do, or if he would continue. Then he smiled and began to unbuckle his belt. Her heart raced. He unzipped his trousers next, casting the occasional glance in her direction. He slid them down and she clicked away at the slow reveal of his well-muscled thighs and runner’s calves. He looked like he spent a lot of time in the sun and it wasn’t hard to imagine him lounging on a beach with her or emerging James Bond-like from the waves. But, while his legs were gorgeous, it was what was above them that Nancy was most interested in. He was in black as well, something designer and fitted that showed off the growing bulge. She felt herself grow damp and she pressed her legs together. It was her turn again. And this time there were no more layers. She remained on her knees and swallowed hard as she took hold of the hem of her tank top and gradually pulled it up, treating him to a slow reveal of her slim waist, her ribcage, and finally her bare breasts. She kept her arms overhead for a moment, tangling her hands in the scrap of material as if she were tied up. The idea made her dizzy with desire and she closed her eyes, envisioning his strong hands clamping down on her delicate wrists, his warm body pressing down on hers. She did a little dance, gyrating her hips and writhing. When she opened her eyes again, he had moved closer. Perhaps he had been inching nearer and nearer all the while because she realised she didn’t need the zoom lens any more to make out his features. Xavier had nothing on this man. His eyes locked on hers with a fierce intensity as he freed his erection. The sight of it made her sex pulse so hard it was almost painful. She gave a little sigh of need and sank to her knees in the grass as he crossed the remaining distance to her. When he finally stood over her, peering down, she felt her hands flutter to the waistband of her knickers, almost as though he had willed them there. But he stopped her. He crouched down beside her and gently pushed her hands aside. Then he took hold of the material himself and tugged them down firmly over her bottom. She gasped, a wave of heat flooding her face. She squeezed her thighs together as her heart throbbed and blood pounded in her ears. For a moment she thought she might actually faint. He guided her forward, positioning her on all fours. Grateful not to have to meet his eyes for the moment, Nancy lowered her head, losing herself in the submissive posture. Her knickers were bunched around her knees, making her feel even more exposed than if they’d been removed entirely. She wondered if he could see how wet she was. The cool air caressed her sex and made the tiny hairs stand up all over her body. When she felt his hand in the small of her back, she trembled. He pushed her – gently, firmly, making her arch her back and push her bottom up. She obeyed the unspoken command, surrendering to the moment and his quiet authority, blushing to the roots of her hair at the thought of how open, exposed and available she was. How completely his she was. Then he hit her. She gasped as the flat of his hand came down sharply on her left cheek. She froze, shocked and aroused at the same time. The sting faded to a pleasant warmth that surged through her skin, instantly making her hungry for more. She wriggled a little, inviting him. He obliged with another swat to her right cheek, spreading the stinging warmth through her entire bottom. But he didn’t stop there. With a firm, steady rhythm he delivered a series of alternating smacks. First one cheek, then the other. Nancy yelped and whimpered with each one, but he grasped her around the waist and held her still. When she tossed her head at a particularly smart swat, she noticed the zebra watching. The sight of it made her think of Mexico and the bareback moonlit ride that had wrung such an intense climax from her. She wondered if this man could do the same just by spanking her. She blushed deeply at the mere thought of him trying. He had adjusted the position of his hand, lowered it just enough to strike the little delta where her bottom met her thighs, just where she was wet and inviting. Each smack sent vibrations through her sex, awakening all her nerve endings. If he carried on he would definitely make her come. She wanted him to. She wanted him to do anything to her. Everything. Don’t stop, she urged him silently. Whatever you do, whatever you want to do … just don’t stop! He seemed to sense he could get her off just by smacking her. Unless it was obvious from the way she was writhing in his grasp, responding to his masterful touch. He stroked her punished flesh, the warmth of his hand intensifying the warmth in her bottom. Not daring to break the spell with actual words, she moaned, a strangled little sound that unequivocally begged him for more. He traced the line of her spine with his fingers before resting his hand once more on her bottom. She braced herself for another onslaught, but that wasn’t what he had in mind. His touch was gentle now as he slid his hand down to where she wanted attention most of all. She didn’t care how shamelessly wet she was; she just wanted him inside her. But he seemed determined to make her wait. He drew his fingers tantalisingly over her nether lips only to move away again, eliciting a little cry of dismay from her. His hands encircled her ribs, finding her breasts. He cupped them softly, fingers sliding back and forth across her nipples. His touch sent hot little pulses through her body like electric shocks. They went all the way to her sex, inflaming the sensitive bundles of nerves down there. Her skin felt alive, every pore hungry for sensation. When at last she felt his fingers against her sex, she pressed back against him. Asking, demanding. He laughed softly and slid them along the dewy slit, teasing her open like a flower. She angled her legs apart and arched her back more, offering herself to him. With her body, she begged him to take her, to throw her down in the grass and fuck her like an animal. Her body was aching for it. There was no resistance as he slipped one finger inside, then another. She reached back for him and he guided her hand to his erection. She wrapped her fingers around his hard cock, squeezing to make it pulse harder. She could almost taste him, the hot salty meat of him. But her mouth wasn’t where she wanted him the most. Not just now. She released his cock and he positioned himself behind her. She expected him to plunge forcefully inside her cunt, filling her in a second. But he made her wait. He pressed the head of his cock against her slick folds, pushing it in slowly, agonisingly slowly, one inch at a time. Nancy pushed back against him, urging him on. But he was in control, and he wanted her to know it. He fisted one hand in her hair, while with the other he held her firmly by the waist and made her take him at his own languid pace. Her head swam with lust, with the feeling of being overpowered, controlled, used. It was exquisite. Not even her most skilled lovers – not even Xavier – had ever done anything like this to her. She never wanted it to stop. Finally he was inside her, filling her completely. Her legs felt like water, incapable of holding her up. She clenched her muscles around him and he responded with a sharp intake of breath. He released her hair and tightened both his hands around her waist as he began to thrust, slowly at first, then with more and more force. Nancy ground her hips against him, whimpering at the exquisite sensations as he fucked her slow and hard, then faster and faster. She was only vaguely aware of their surroundings, but she bit her lip anyway to keep from crying out. She couldn’t help imagining some other photographer hiding in the trees, telephoto lens zeroing in on the shameless couple shagging in the grass like wild creatures while the zebras looked on, bemused. His thrusts grew longer, harder, deeper. She pressed her hands against the ground to hold herself steady against the onslaught, gasping and whimpering each time he drove himself fully inside her. Her whole body was quivering with the thrill of it, the lewdness of it, the unbridled, primal lust of it. When her arms began to burn with the strain, she folded them and dropped her head to the grass like a penitent. The position engendered a feeling of deep submission that made her flush with exquisite warmth. Her lover gripped her pelvic bones as he pounded her sex, plundering her, making her body sing. She closed her eyes and bit the back of her hand to stifle her cries as she felt the rising twinges of a spectacular climax, like fireworks inside her flesh. The sensation built and built until it consumed her, flooding her with pleasure so intense it was almost painful. She screamed into her skin, muffling her throaty groans as her sex throbbed and flared around his cock. He came with her, filling her with hot jets of semen. Wave after wave of bliss washed over her, sweeping her under, threatening to drown her. Lights flared behind her eyes and she collapsed in the grass, gasping and spent. It was a long time before the sensations began to subside, and then at last to diminish and fade. By then he was curled around her, spooning her. He kissed the back of her neck, making her shiver. He cupped her breast, tweaking her nipple back to a hard little peak that reawakened the twinges of ecstasy between her legs. She felt his cock stiffening against her arse. The skin was pleasantly sore from the spanking. ‘Oh, my God,’ she moaned, ‘I can’t even walk yet!’ He laughed softly, a rumbling purr in her ear. ‘I can carry you.’ Nancy smiled and pressed back against him, enjoying the strength of his embrace, the warmth of his body against hers, the flare of heat in her bottom. She imagined him parting her cheeks to fuck her there and a little shudder of lust ran through her limbs, making her feel faint with desire. There were so many things she wanted him to do to her, so many positions, so many places. What other lascivious tricks must he know? A little murmur was all she could offer him in response. She loved the idea of being carried off by him, either in his arms or thrown over his shoulder, fireman-style. If she kicked and struggled, he would just smack her again until she behaved. Then he’d have to tie her up. She squirmed in his embrace, her mind overflowing with fantasies he could fulfil. The sun was beginning to set as they both struggled to their feet and retrieved their discarded clothes. They dressed in silence, but they were not alone. Zebras surrounded them. They had spread out across the field during their human visitors’ exertions and come closer, no doubt intrigued by the strange sight. Whey they had packed away their equipment, Nancy curled into her new companion’s embrace once more. ‘Why don’t you come back to my place?’ she suggested. ‘We can look at our photos together.’ ‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘I got some fantastic shots.’ ‘Me too.’ He smiled, then added, ‘I even took some pictures of the zebras.’ California Dreaming (#u24b48870-6580-59ce-a9cc-83d5ac11fd9b) Senta Holland The blood-red skirt was spread out all around me. Silk cooled my shoulder blades. I felt like the angel of lust with wings of vermilion. Or maybe it was just the music he was playing … My legs were bound safely to the bed. My arms tethered wide so I could fly. Lust streamed up from my ankles, all the length of my legs. My thighs trembled. My vulva lips stood big and round. My hips ached with fire. Just the slightest touch with the tip of his finger on my clitoris … ‘Senta,’ said the stranger, ‘you are beautiful.’ I breathed a deep sigh into the delicate veil on my face. You Said That All the Men You Knew The sun takes its time to set over the Pacific. Particularly when viewed from Nepenthe, the fabled new-age restaurant high on the promontory in the middle of the Big Sur. Up there, where you can see rows and rows of rugged cliffs running north to Monterey and south to Don’t-Even-Want-To-Know-Where, time stretches both ways, too. Or maybe it’s just the legacy of five decades of well-heeled Californian weekend hippies. Four of them had driven me up that afternoon in the beat-up maintenance truck from Esalen Retreat Center further south, where we were all working the grounds and kitchen by day in order to finance exploring our spirituality at night. They were lovely boys, really. Maybe some other time … Right now, I was waiting for someone very different. ‘Be careful,’ the guys said, ‘he’s a stranger.’ And drove off. Yes, yes, I thought. And you were strangers too, three weeks ago. Ever since I had announced my plans to travel around the world by myself, back in London, many months back, disapproving voices popped up everywhere, warning me about the perils of strangers. And those were the people who thought I was just travelling. I can’t imagine what they would have said if they knew that the main purpose of this journey was to find love. Lovers. Lovers all over the globe. Sometimes, when the voices insisted, I got fed up enough to present them with the statistics. ‘The most dangerous man you will ever meet is the man you live with’, I said. They didn’t hear me. By the time I was waiting on the terrace at Nepenthe, suffused with vermilion shadows from the huge sun spilling its light all the way from Japan, I had had quite a bit of experience with strangers. And with lovers, too. Stairway to Heaven I didn’t know who was going to come up the steep Nepenthe stairs, hopefully not breathing too heavily. All I knew was his name, Simon, and his love of music, and of the New Yorker magazine. And some other shared interests, of course. The first time I got to the cliff of the Big Sur, the very first day, I ran through the scent of the pine trees towards the soft moist ocean, and I saw two huge grey whales. They surfaced just as I got there, ascending from the blue waters in a long elegant arc that looked absolutely effortless but must have challenged all their enormous muscle strength. Then they submerged again, in perfect sync, without so much as a splash. Power and control. Was this what I expected from Simon as I was waiting in my four-inch heels (slipped on surreptitiously for good luck after the boys in the van left)? Was I waiting for the Tall Dark Stranger that every fortune teller had promised me? Mobile reception is very bad in the Big Sur. So all I could do was watch the gathering shadows. And the door. I had become quite good at recognising who my suitor was when he entered the place of our rendezvous. I always tried to be there first, and this time I had positioned myself carefully, on the terrace, just outside the big glass doors to the well-lit restaurant inside. I could see him before he could see me. As always, the stranger looked different from any way I could have imagined him. Simon – I was sure it was him – was neither dark nor particularly tall. He was slim and slight, with a stylishly trimmed beard and somewhat thinning hair up top. Good thing I was sitting down with my four-inch heels. He looked around, quickly, almost as if he was an animal of prey rather than the big bad predator his online name had suggested, and when he didn’t immediately see anyone who matched my description and (somewhat partial) picture, he seemed to shrink a little. I saw a familiar expression on his face. ‘Life has stood me up again.’ Hello, Ruby in the Dust Then I moved, uncrossed my legs, flicked my hand languorously through my long hair, showing him just the shadow of my outline against the darkening sky. It worked. His peripheral vision turned him into a hunter again. He crossed to the glass doors and stood on the threshold. His eyes found mine. But then he looked around again, not sure. Could this woman really be the one from the site? I liked that. Softly, I called his name. ‘Simon …’ He looked back at me. Surprise, recognition, adjustment of expectations and then a secret delight that muscled itself all across his face in a big wide smile. Yes, this woman was real, yes, this woman wasn’t a freak and you know what, on even a first look, he felt he’d hit the jackpot. I’d seen that kind of smile before, on the face of a stranger, here in California. To me, surprising. Men didn’t smile at me like that in London. Was the woman he saw really me? Every time I saw that smile, I smiled back. I crossed my legs to bring my beautiful heels into view. Just as the outside lights went on. Soft lights, of course, no pollution. If you scrunched up your eyes, you could just see the outlines of the hills. It must be getting cold out there. Simon liked the view. He smiled again. ‘Please, sit down,’ I said. I enjoyed the slight formality. Maybe we should have a cup of tea. Or at least he should. He was going to have to drive. We made a little light conversation. About the weather, about the beauty of Big Sur. ‘We used to play Monterey a few times,’ he said. ‘And Carmel, for more exclusive gigs …’ Oh yes, right. He said he used to be involved with the music industry. The food came. It was excellent. ‘I’m a kitchen hand,’ I said. It wasn’t entirely true, but true enough for the moment. He nodded. I invited him to share the gourmet avocado squares on my plate. Extra points for not exclaiming that he couldn’t believe there was no meat in them. On the contrary, he made some knowledgeable comments about the flavour combinations. He could cook, he said. I believed it. All Along the Watchtower Of course we had met before, only just not in person. We met on the famous website that had become my home from home. I found most of my best lovers there, all over the world. ‘I feel lucky,’ he said. ‘It used to be so hard to meet a great woman who was into kink.’ ‘Or anyone at all,’ I said. ‘I wish there had been a site like this ten years ago.’ Simon raised his shapely eyebrows. ‘Make that twenty, for me.’ We shared the ensuing silence. And the sadness about years lost to shame and exclusion. Simon was fragile, like me. We were not just suitors and hunters, we were members of a secret tribe. And I liked the fact that he refrained from forcing his personal history on me. We listened to how the wind rattled the big trees and flew over the roof of Nepenthe. For a while, that site had a very elegant lady in a green and white outfit on the landing page. She looked like everything I wanted to be. I dived with gusto into long, exciting conversations and noted with relief, again and again, how sexy it is to speak without fear. Some of these conversations had been going on for months. I didn’t plan to be in California for ever. Simon and I, however, had only been writing to each other for a few days. One fine night, moon shining high over the Esalen Internet Hut, he just popped up. He was bold and light-hearted. He peppered his messages with unabashed philosophy. He quoted poetry. Real, complicated poetry. And he was free tonight. He used to be a roadie for some band that was famous in America, he said. And now he was a surveyor of land. The dream didn’t pay. But he wasn’t giving up on other dreams. Like me? Me? At that time, I was all dream. California dreaming all right. People Are Strange When You’re a Stranger ‘So,’ he said. He hesitated for a moment, coughed, then forged ahead, ‘so we’ve already chatted, of course, but – can we talk a little more about what you – like?’ I didn’t answer immediately. I was wondering about his tone. It sounded a little slick. How often did he pick up women and did he care about who he picked up? Without noticing, I had moved a few inches away on the bench. Simon moved away, too. ‘I – is this too much?’ he said. ‘Too soon?’ ‘No, no,’ I said. There was some awkwardness. I felt foolish, then I felt lost. Was I really the proud, self-assured woman confidently selecting lovers that I had thought I was? Simon looked away into the darkness. ‘I don’t do this sort of thing very often,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know what to expect. I thought maybe you wouldn’t be there. I thought, OK, in that case I’ll just have a glass of wine and enjoy the view. It’s a long time since I last came to Nepenthe.’ ‘I am here,’ I said. I laid my hand on the table but he didn’t touch it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You are here. I must say you are – so much more than I expected.’ ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Although – can I ask? What did you expect?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not exactly doing very well at this, am I?’ ‘You’re honest,’ I said. ‘That’s good.’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I thought – you’re a stranger.’ ‘So are you.’ We looked at each other as the shadows shivered. Nights in White Satin Simon speared the last-but-one avocado square. ‘So,’ he said, after some waves crashed into the rocks down by the shore, ‘so what DO you like?’ He leaned back and pointed the delicately constructed vegetable arrangement at me. It really looked very refined from all angles. ‘I like – I like being passive,’ I said, looking straight into his eyes. ‘Or, maybe, receptive is better.’ ‘That sounds very good to me,’ he said. ‘I like to be the one who moves.’ ‘Ah!’ I said, crossing my legs the other way. ‘What’s your favourite?’ he asked. ‘Really?’ He sucked the food off its stem. ‘I love – I love – bondage,’ I said. There was music on the terrace, but it too was subdued and designed not to overwhelm nature. As if anything could overwhelm that Big Sur night. Had I said the B-word a little too loudly, in my enthusiasm? Bondage is a word that makes me flush with happiness whenever I get to say it. Bondage. I want to say it now. Join me if you like. Simon had heard it, for sure. He automatically looked around, like that prey animal again. No one at the surrounding tables paid any attention. The waiter didn’t hover. Nepenthe had good staff. I relaxed. Simon leaned forward. ‘Me too,’ he said, a little more quietly. ‘I love bondage too.’ He lingered sweetly on the word. And now he laid his hand on top of mine. His was cool and soft. I relished the sensation. And, true to my word, I let him be the one who moved. I closed my eyes so I could feel him better. He ran his fingers over the back of my hand. Delicate lines of investigation, following the shape of tissue and muscle. And the bone underneath. ‘I like soft wide bonds, around my wrists and my ankles,’ I said. ‘Not too tight, but certainly, certainly not too soft. I love that pressure.’ So much easier to speak with my eyes closed. ‘All sorts of ideas spring to mind,’ Simon said. ‘Let’s see what I can create. Improvise, like the guys did on stage.’ ‘Oh, yes, right,’ I said, ‘you used to be a roadie.’ ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘In my wild youth.’ ‘So you should know about ropes.’ He smiled. ‘But, like you, I prefer silk.’ Not to Touch the Earth The stars were shining brightly over the Big Sur when we walked down the slightly dangerous Nepenthe stairs. More dangerous in four-inch heels of course. Which made it only practical that Simon should catch me when I wobbled on the steps about half way down, and wind his arms around my waist. I held him tight. We stood there, blending into the night, breathing together. We didn’t kiss. Just stood. The pine trees sent out sharp scents that reminded me of childhood baths. ‘I can’t find my car,’ Simon said when we finally made it down. He shook his head. That was little weird, I thought. There weren’t that many cars left. Most of them looked kind of grey in the environmentally sensitive lighting. Were we going to walk to Carmel, 20 miles away? ‘It’s because I’m in another world,’ he continued, looking at me as if for guidance. ‘I can’t help,’ I said. ‘I’m living in my dreams.’ He nodded. ‘And also I’ve never seen your car.’ He found it, of course. It was grey (really grey in all lights of day) and very comfortable. Surveyors need to drive all over California, apparently. He drove me back to Esalen, down the long and winding road along the cliffs. We kissed. A long kiss in the car when he said goodbye, under the watchful eye of the Esalen night guard. Another long kiss when I got out, leaning into his window. Simon was a stranger in the sense that I had never met him before. But he was not at all a stranger in the internal landscape of my mind. On the contrary, I’d been intimately acquainted with him since I became aware of my sexuality. He was the man who had already spoken a word of magic from my most secret dreams. True, though, I had no idea what the life of a roadie was like, or what he surveyed now. Of course we had made an appointment. Welcome to the Hotel California I had the four-inch heels in my bag again when the time came. The Esalen boys didn’t need to know everything. Something I had no need to hide was my skirt. The blood-red silk skirt that spread out so wide, like a corona around the sun. I’d worn it before, to fire-dance night just outside the Esalen canteen, and to shamanic journeying in the hilltop tent, when the drums rang out and we were asked to imagine falling down into a hole. It actually had tiny little bells sewn into it that made an elvish sound that you could hear tinkle when I moved. If you were very close, and if the night was still. The skirt was long, all the way down to the ground. I had to lift the front when I walked. I loved that skirt. The boys loved it too. They made extra room for its extravagant layers in the van. I had many compliments from the female shaman about expressing my true nature. They didn’t know the half of it. ‘Here it is.’ Simon opened the door to the hotel room and ushered me in with a little bow. Quite some time since I had been in the proximity of such a well-cut jacket. That room was expensive. White and asymmetrically shaped. Big windows on a veranda that overlooked a pretty creek with ducks. We shuttered them. It had a huge bed. Firm. I tested it with a well-placed thump. Simon busied himself while I went to the bathroom. The secret smile was back when I came out, walking slowly inside my skirt in an attempt to create the famous ‘gliding’ effect. ‘I’m so happy you are here with me. Welcome!’ he said, very formal again. ‘Do you want to play?’ Suddenly, the thought that I had seen him somewhere before flashed through my mind. But where? In my dreams? On TV? Was there a difference? As I was searching the memory banks, a shadow passed across his face. Had other women changed their minds at the last moment? Had they walked out on him and the expensive hotel? ‘Yes, I want to play,’ I replied, and ‘Yes!’ again. I could speak as loudly now as I wanted to. With a single swift movement I pulled my shirt over my head. I threw it with good aim, I thought, and it landed in a heap on the far side of the big bed, where it made an interesting contrast to the hyper-white sheets that went some way to justifying the price of the room. Maybe. I noticed that there was a selection of black and grey silk strips laid out on the cover, precisely aligned and colour graded. And a beautiful embroidered veil. Go Tell Me Where Your Freedom Lies Simon laughed and touched my arm. We embraced. He smelled of very discreet aftershave. Something else we didn’t get much at Esalen. ‘You’re so enthusiastic,’ he said. ‘You’re so fast.’ ‘Too fast?’ I said. ‘Are we waiting for … something?’ ‘No, no,’ said Simon. ‘Just – just come and stand over here.’ He led me to the foot of the bed and positioned me very carefully, like the big loudspeaker in the show that had to be calibrated according to scientific principles. One inch to this side, one half-step to the front … I followed him. This was a dance only he knew the steps for. Finally he was satisfied. He stepped back to survey me from the distance of the shuttered windows, then came close. Softly, he touched the outline of my best bra and followed it gingerly all the way across. His hand raised little shivers. Simon lowered his head, then kissed my breasts just above the fabric. ‘Later,’ he said. Then he looked me up and down. ‘I like this skirt,’ he said. ‘It looks like a big theatre curtain. With all these delights underneath …’ I wiggled a little to make the tiny bells rustle … ‘Take your seats and switch off your phones. The performance is about to start …’ I said. Simon took his jacket off and hung it around the back of a chair. He was even slimmer than I had thought. His shirt was white and crisp. Every fold was in its place. Then he knelt down in front of me. Aha. We were going for the mystery intro. But it worked. Seeing him on his knees before me made my stomach give little hiccups. Simon reached out and gathered the rim of the wide red skirt. The little bells fell to the side with a tiny zing. All I could now hear was Simon’s breath and mine. And the discreet humming of the air-conditioning. Simon nudged the silk fabric up my left leg, revealing my body underneath. So far all he could see was my leg, but somehow he made me feel deliciously naked. Pale skin and lemongrass soap scent. Each tiny shaved hair was trying to stand up. Goosebumps all the way up my spine. As the journey up the silk road progressed I couldn’t help smiling to myself. Because I had a surprise for Simon, too. Simon pushed the skirt up almost all the way. He lingered at the top of my left thigh, the right one still unrevealed. Then I felt his breath on my skin, just at the top of the leg. He lingered for a while, giving me a row of small delicate kisses that led his mouth towards more intimate regions. Then he moved my skirt up further to reveal the middle of my body. Oh. Simon lifted his head just enough to give me a look. To acknowledge and approve. Yes, I had no pants on. He held the skirt wide open with both hands, just to make absolutely sure. I glowed with pride. Then nothing. Nothing for a while. Suddenly, I worried. How could I have forgotten! I should know, really, I should know. Didn’t I share a bunkroom with six female Americans just behind the organic garden shed? Hadn’t I learned how they were striving to be as hairless as possible? (Except on the head – very long hair like mine could be seen floating on the waters of the hot tubs in all colours achievable by human ingenuity and sometimes also nature.) Hadn’t I seen them, again and again, come out after a long session in our minuscule old bathroom, bleeding nicks and cuts on their baby legs? Had I not witnessed them agonising about the various bikini-line solutions – just ‘trimming’ ‘so that it looks tidy,’ ‘landing strip’ or the dreaded, super-painful ‘full Brazilian’ that their boyfriends seemed to expect? I had partly given in and now shed my weekly blood in the shower like they did, a kind of penance for being female. But I refused to go higher. So when Simon softly drew the red velvet curtain aside, of course he saw my pubic locks in all their glory. Member of our secret tribe or not, how could I forget that he, too, was American? What did the silence mean? Was Simon trying to overcome his revulsion? Was he going to run screaming from the room? Had he actually settled the bill yet? He leaned back a little and I could see his face. He had simply stopped to give himself time to look. Look intensely. As if he had discovered a new and entirely absorbing phenomenon that deserved his full attention. I said nothing. I stood strong. I had a lot of practice in those heels. I looked down on Simon’s body, wiry, supple and alert. (And still fully dressed.) For him, there was no worry. He didn’t know what drama had just taken place. Venus in Shocking Red Inspection over, he touched the outside of my vulva. No. That wasn’t quite correct. He touched – I had to search the online dictionary in my head to find the correct term. No, no. Delete! The previous phrase was incorrect. He hadn’t touched even my outer lips. ‘Maybe later.’ I hoped so. Simon held the palm of his hand over the area above my vulva lips and just beneath my lower belly. Almost, but not quite, touching me. With great care and concentration, as if I was a precious but fragile object that could easily be broken by a clumsy man. I don’t know why, but tears came to my eyes. I blinked them away. My Venus mount. Yes, I remembered now, from some textbook I had consulted long ago when I longed to know so much more about sex than I had access to in reality. That’s what it was called. Simon would probably know and be able to give a detailed explanation of the provenance and meaning of this slightly pompous name. Luckily I didn’t have to say it, quiet or loud. Under his palm, I could feel what an elegant shape that mount of Venus was. And it started to respond. Surprising me no end. What was this? Just under the almost-touch of Simon’s hand I could feel the skin warm up, and as he started to place his fingers, delicately, like spider’s legs, to circumscribe its luscious curve, I could feel the whole area flush with heat and expand. Had it always done that when I was making love? How could I know so little about my own body? After all this time? Simon leaned forward and bestowed a deep, sucking kiss on my Venus dome (and my generous blonde curls). A little stronger than the kiss he had given my thigh. A little longer, too. Then, still holding up the generous folds of fabric with his right hand – the silk brushing my thighs, rousing goosebumps whenever he moved – he started to trace the outline of my pubic hair with one finger. Simon had very slim, elegant fingers – it made me wonder if he really could have been a roadie, for whatever kind of band, unless he maybe was one of the guys who did the finer work of setting up decorations, adjusting wires, sliding the volume fader up and down. I don’t think anyone had ever paid as much attention to this part of my intimate anatomy before. None of my former lovers. Not even I myself. But it must be important. ‘Venus Mount’ – the hill of the goddess of love. Further investigation was indicated. Fortunately, Simon was dedicated to the cause. Maybe I should read the New Yorker, like he did, instead of silently mocking it. Right now, he explored my Venus-like skin as if his fingertips were recording a secret map that needed to be memorised for all eternity. Simon repeated his subtle but insistent motion, lingering over some points (were they some esoteric pressure points? Maybe the female shaman would know.), then moving towards the top, accompanied by just a slight, playful caress of my lower belly with his thumb. I started to feel a resonance deeper inside my body. Completely unexpected. On some level I guess I had still thought I was being nice, indulging Simon’s artistic temperament and perhaps his penchant for the unconventional, but now I wondered. Who was indulging whom? As I was thinking that, my vagina responded with a deep, long tug on the sleeping muscles around her. This was no gentle pre-foreplay. This was pretty much a systemwide call to mobilise. I looked at Simon with new eyes – what I could see of him, since he was looking down, utterly devoted to his art. Playing tunes on my body with his fingers. Maybe I had heard wrong. Maybe Simon was not the roadie, maybe he was the musician. Maybe he was a famous musician in disguise, selecting profiles from women on our home site, women like me who were less likely to recognise him. Maybe he would have turned on his heels and fled Nepenthe if I had, falling down the stairways to heaven in his rush to remain incognito. My legs started to tremble. I hadn’t known that my four-inch heels would have to give quite such a lengthy performance. But I decided to stand up as long as I could. His fingers never stopped moving. I didn’t know it then, but that was sort of Simon’s trademark: whatever he did, he performed with relentless subtlety. That was how he pleased himself. Maybe he could feel the awakening tremors underneath his fingertips – or maybe he just enjoyed looking at me, blonde curls, pale white skin, slowly opening pink vulva. I loved it. Warmth spread out over my skin. My breath accelerated. I had to put my hands behind my back and join my fingers to stop myself joining in. Simon’s fingers lingered just above the top of my vulva lips. I could feel welcome pressure as he traced their luscious opening. The entrance of my vagina started to contract. I wanted to widen my stance, to open my legs, but I couldn’t. Not on those heels and not without falling over. So I held my position, like a good little soldier girl in the field of love. My vagina contracted more strongly. My spine tingled all the way to my head. My vulva lips opened further, inviting him in. But Simon moved his fingers back up the mount. A little faster now, a little more urgently. Next time, I thought, I would like him to cover his fingertips in paint, so that I could see all the intricate tracks. Maybe in gold. Gold? My pubic mound ornamented in golden intaglios like the wardrobe of the Yellow Emperor? Where had that thought come from? Never mind. The sensations inside my pelvis became too intense for much linked-up thinking. Every little blood vessel opened wide. Every little cell was getting drunk on happy-hour cocktails. I tried to breathe steadily but when I took a deep gulp of air it came out as a big long sigh. I could hear Simon respond with something between a moan and a grumble. Then he moved back a bit so that he could look up into my eyes. His expression was still serious and intense. So different from me. A big wide smile made its way onto my face. In spite of that difference, we connected. In a place with no passports or personal identities. Who cared what his profession was? We kept looking at each other. Simon kept up the rhythm. He knew my song by heart. My vagina tightened – again in a different, unexpected place. Every nerve from the bottom of my stomach to the back of my butt vibrated inside. Like hidden threads of fire underneath an old volcano, smouldering away the centuries, covered by ash and stone, until, one day, someone ignites them and then – oh, then. I could feel the magma rising through its secret paths. My body was dancing on a sea of flames. I did try to stand firm on my four-inchers. Pretty, yes. Simon had liked them at first view, high on the promontory of Nepenthe, when I crossed my legs on the rough rustic bench. Standing still, of course, denied those internal tremors their release. They had no choice but to double up on themselves. The tension grew. My fingers twirled into each other, I had to hold on so hard. These fault lines must explode at some point. Have to. Come on. Don’t you know this, in California? Simon smiled at me, a little absentmindedly. He was still focused on his great work. Could he read me through my skin? Could he feel the trembling inside me, with those sophisticated fingers? Another sigh came out of me. Simon nodded. Was this the sound of a good instrument? I tried to imagine myself as a big cello, or (they would have liked this at Esalen) a Javanese gong. But what came into my mind was a picture I had seen of that strange nineteenth-century device, the glass harmonica. It was loved by Victorian audiences who sat, fully dressed in layers of underwear, with thick fabric on top, watching a blind young girl, herself completely covered up to the top of her neck, stroke tenderly, with naked hands, a series of slippery revolving glass rings, assembled in a long, huge phallic contraption. The glass harmonica produced high, eerie sounds, like ghosts demented by denied desire, or, as the writers of the time liked to phrase it, like the voices of disembodied angels. Stripped of Victorian trappings, the glass harmonica is an unashamedly erotic instrument. And as Simon applied himself to me, I started to feel like that great spiral of cylinders itself, responding with internal vibrations to the virtuoso’s every touch. A touch that now sent my vagina into a huge tremor, starting deep inside and rippling out in all directions. My inner lips parted to let the clitoris head slip out. My hips opened. I started shaking in earnest now. My spine buckled and heaved. I had to spread out both my arms to grasp at empty air for balance. My whole body shook with wave after wave of grand orgasm. At that point I decided that my feet could no longer carry me. I finally let go and allowed myself to collapse onto the bed. For a moment, as I fell back, I didn’t know if anything would hold me up. If I would fall into nothingness. If I would crash onto the floor. If a door into interstellar vacuum would open up and I would fall through, backwards, like Alice on Fire … My landing was soft. My head bounced a bit, but my shoulders were met by an accommodating mattress. I felt dizzy, but not unpleasantly so. The wave of orgasms rolled over me. I rode that wave. I felt as if the world had splashed out on a free flight to the nearest supernova system. Simon dived after me. He pushed my legs down, not without once more admiring the elegant line of my four-inched feet. He then took the long silk strips that were lined up next to where I lay and wound them around my ankles. Was there no end to his artistry? I just lay there, warm and soft, spent but still alert. And he took his time. First the deepest black, right across the top of my feet. Soft and wide, but very firm when pulled together. Didn’t I read somewhere that silk is strong enough to catch a falling plane? Or something? I must ask Simon, if I remembered. Then came the next strip, lighter in colour but equally strong. Simon went halfway up to my calves, winding one strip through another. The result, as far as I could see if I lifted my head, the only part of me that I was willing to move, was very stylish, like a black and white photograph. The result for me was renewed arousal. All the way up from my feet, but this time fast and powerful. I wasn’t sure if it was possible to come just from having my ankles bound, but it seemed that I was going to have a chance to find out. ‘Simon,’ I said, ‘I love it. I love what you do.’ To my own ears, my voice sounded dreamy. Perhaps a little slurred. But Simon understood me. He reached up to stroke my cheek. Touched my best bra. Then he returned to his work. Every tug of the silk strips was answered by renewed tension between my legs. A few times he looked up at me, again with this intense, focused expression as if he could see something in me that I didn’t yet know. Like the designer of an instrument, aware that every little curve will affect its resonance. And of course the tension of the strings will have to be tweaked just right. Even if it hurts a little. Was Simon maybe the one who tuned the guitars for that famous American band? Listening to the vibration of a single note, eyes closed, head cocked to the side … And then I wished it was not so slow. I wished he would move on, move up, move all over me … And he did. My ankles were now firmly bound, to each other, to the bed. Simon carefully teased out the folds of the wide red skirt (I knew by then he would never tear such beautiful material) and arranged it in a glorious circle around my naked body. I felt the welcome pressure of his body on mine. His shirt brushed my skin, smooth and cool. His pants a little rougher. Hot flushes ran over all my body. Yes. Gravity still worked. I lifted my shoulder to help him spread out the fabric all round. I felt as if I had wings. Deep-red silken wings of lust. I threw out my arms. Simon kissed my wrists, then bound them quickly to the edges of the bed. I felt the soft caress of the exquisite silk strips. His movements were confident. No need for trial and error. Once you’ve tuned an instrument, I suppose, it gets easier to get it into shape. He tugged on the bonds to make sure they were both secure and safe for me. My lungs had no choice but to expand. I sighed with satisfaction. Moving slowly on top of me, Simon put his arms around my neck and gave me a deep, deep kiss. I kissed him back. His tongue was just as good at exploring unexpected delights as his fingers. He advanced and retreated, he licked and pushed. Then he allowed me to respond. I tried to suck at his tongue. He let me, then he moved away. Then covered my face with little quick kisses. Then slipped his tongue back in. We savoured each other’s flavour. Then just stopped all the tricks and gave it up in one big, breath-stopping, deep, deep kiss. Then relaxed and lay still, embracing each other. His shirt stroked my naked skin. All my body was aroused. ‘Are you ready to play?’ Simon said. ‘Yes,’ I said. Not as loudly as before, but with even more enthusiasm. Now I knew what he could do! Simon reached over to the edge of the bed. What next? What next? I was very ready. The embroidered veil descended over my face. ‘Better so,’ said Simon. ‘Yes,’ I said. The veil was very thin. It moved with my breath. Total Eclipse of the Heart It was a really big bed. Underneath my veil, I could still see the outline of Simon’s shape. He had slipped down again, and now, finally, he was parting my vulva lips with his fingers. All fingers now, all at once. He spread the outer lips apart. As he caressed them, he contemplated them, outside, inside, the whole of my vulva displayed under his hands. I tried not to breathe too deeply. Difficult when every nerve in you wants to jump around and dance. Simon moved on to explore my inner lips. He touched them with great care; he teased them out and up. They stood up for him fiercely. Pulsing hot. I wish, I wish … Ah … Finally, finally, Simon found his way to the stem of my clitoris. Those fingers that I had thought too delicate for rough roadie work now pressed down hard, in exactly the right spot the very first time. Oh, man, this man knew what he was doing. Instant response from my vagina. Simon pushed hard, patrolling the fine and excruciating line between lust and pain. Even as he increased the tempo, and my clitoris throbbed uncontrollably with the rhythm of his ever tightening circles around her, Simon kept me moist and safe. I was glad I was bound hand and feet. I didn’t have to hold still, making Simon lose his grip. My hips couldn’t help it: they moved with him. But my legs stayed fixed, and my arms kept me spread out. The tension inside me wanted to burst out. Simon swiftly changed his approach and started to move his thumb up and down the very wet shaft of my clitoris. I didn’t sigh any more, I moaned. Up, down, sideways sweep. Full circle. Circle again. Then widdershins. Then he pressed hard. So hard. So hard! I screamed. Simon nodded in approval. The instrument rang true in the upper register. Then he reduced the tempo again to a slow spiral, moving away from the clitoris to my throbbing inner lips, and back. I wanted to say something but all that came out was a high, haunting moan. Like the ghosts from the glass harmonica. ‘I love how you look,’ Simon said in the voice of a true expert. ‘Very unique.’ ‘Really?’ I managed to squeeze out. Not sure if this was a compliment. Simon, lovely stranger, you’ve woken up so many new sensations, you’ve made me discover a new source of delights, you’ve brought me up the stairs and back again, and now, just now we were practically knocking on heaven’s door – please don’t wake up my female sense of insecurity. Not now! Of all times! But Simon, so tuned into every slightest physical response, was impervious to my fear. ‘With those luscious deep-red outer lips and those delicate, almost dainty inner lips,’ he continued, as always completely focused on the task at hand. ‘And your clitoris – at first so small and round, compact, sleeping curled in upon itself, and then, when it is aroused, how the colour changes from pink to red to almost blue, and how it grows, tall and firm, almost like a miniature penis … ‘So beautiful, Senta. You are so beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone quite like you.’ A big wet tear rolled down my face. I couldn’t wipe it away, so it had to run. Simon stopped talking. Instead he used his mouth to cover my purple, glistening clitoris in a big deep kiss. Like the kiss he gave my mouth before, it was the kiss of a lifelong devotee. His tongue licked all around the stem, then upwards with a quick flick. More! More! He lingered, savouring the taste of my supremely erect clitoris – then obligingly intensified the pressure. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/giselle-renarde/sex-and-the-stranger-2-a-mischief-erotica-collection/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.