Erotic Amusements (11 page)

“You’re…so…rough,” gasped Jeremy. “Oh.”

“You need it rough, you little slut. Take it and be grateful. Next time I’ll film you and all the girls in the world can watch you bitching and crying while I wank you. You are getting pussy whipped, pet, and don’t you forget it. Are you coming, Jeremy? Are you ready?”

“Oh fuck. I’m coming.” he exclaimed on a yelp.

Laura shifted her face so as to avoid the impending fountain, then watched it spurt all over Jeremy’s belly and pool in his navel while he writhed and sobbed and said, “Thank you, ma’am,” over and over again.

“There,” she soothed, stroking his brow and pressing her thumb into the blurry tears. “I’ve got you, pet. I’ve got you.”

Once he was untied and they sat together, naked, on the couch with another drink, he asked, “Does it work the other way round?”

“What? What do you mean? Do I let you top me? No. No, I don’t.”

“No, not that. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to. I like it the way it is. That was the most sensational orgasm of my life. You are incredible.”

“I know. So what did you mean?”

“I meant, if you keep your men away from Daddy, does he keep his women away from you?”

“Daddy? Women? I don’t think he ever brings women home.”

“So one of the most powerful men in town lives like a monk? I don’t see it somehow.”

“Ugh, please don’t ask me to speculate on my father’s sex life.”

“Sorry. Just couldn’t help wondering if you had a female role model in your life. You’re an unusual girl.”

“No. I see Mummy for a fortnight every summer. She’s been in Marbella since I was six. I wouldn’t call her a role model.”

“Oh. Was that upsetting for you? When she left?”

Laura shrugged. “Spare me the therapy, Jeremy. I’ve got everything I want.”

“Good. Except Rocky.”

“Mention his name again, Weill, and I’ll…”

“Okay. Sore point, obviously.”

“I’ll give you a sore point.”

“Is that a promise?”

Smiling craftily, Laura put down her drink and straddled Jeremy’s lap, manhandling his cock back into full flagpole stiffness.

“You bet it is, my little cub.”

Meanwhile, on the beach, beneath a gibbous moon that silvered the golden sands, Rocky and Flipp lay in a close embrace, lips fused, legs locked, entwined in every place their clothes allowed.

Rocky had a key to one of the huts where deck chairs and the like were stored, and he had dragged out a white plastic sunbed, which, while uncomfortable, at least kept the sand out of their crevices.

“Perhaps we should go inside the hut,” Rocky muttered. “Where no one can see us.”

“Spiders. Cobwebs.” Flipp shuddered. “No one can see us here, not from the promenade. We’re right under the wall.”

“I can’t believe a girl like you is afraid of spiders,” Rocky marvelled. “I thought you were made of tougher stuff. I thought you had spunk.”

“No, that’s you,” snorted Flipp. “Speaking of which—
are
there many mini-yous walking around town?”

“If you start listening to Laura, you’ll go mad. She’s jealous, love, and she’s a controlling bitch who can’t let anything go. She was lying. I don’t have any kids.”

“As far as you know.”

“As far as Mr. Durex knows.”

“Okay. Well, I don’t either. Just to reassure you.” Rocky snuffled into her hair, pulling her tighter. “Thanks for telling me.” He kissed her neck and she sighed into the cool night air. “God, I want you. Come into the hut.”

Michelle knew in her heart that Councillor Trewin was not an especially sophisticated man, but she knew Cordwainer’s tastes better, so she was confident that the platter of antipasti and bottle of good Italian white wine would make the meeting a more pleasurable experience for him. Trewin would probably hanker after crisps and sausage rolls, but it was too bad. He would just have to hanker.

“I won’t be back tonight,” she told her chef de partie, who was busy sweating over the grill. “You’ll be able to clear up all right, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he muttered distractedly. “No problem.”

“Table fifteen, two lemon soles, two surf and turf,” shouted another voice.

It was nine o’clock and the Fairhaven Restaurant probably wouldn’t get many more customers now. She could trust her chef to take care of the stragglers while she performed her own waitressing task upstairs. She took the tray and the bottle in its cooler and headed for the back stairs.

While the bar and restaurant still functioned, the guesthouse part of the Fairhaven was closed for redecoration and the smell of wet paint and turpentine lingered about the stairwell as Michelle climbed to the top floor.

She knocked on the door and heard Cordwainer’s beloved tones bid her enter. She put down the tray and the bottle on the small table that stood between her two owners and curtsied formally to both.

“Thank you, Miss Object,” murmured Cordwainer.

“Eh, very nice, but a bottle of beer and a bacon sandwich would have done, love,” said Councillor Trewin.

Michelle, eyes lowered as required, said, “I apologise if my service does not please you.”

“What? Eh, no, it does. It does. Carry on.”

“You may change behind the screen,” said Cordwainer, indicating a sectioned-off corner of the room. Michelle excused herself from their presence, finding a selection of fetishwear laid out on a chair behind the screen. While she took off her trim skirt suit and oiled and talced her naked body, snippets of the men’s conversation drifted over to her.

“So the meeting was productive?”

Michelle strapped herself into the shiny leather harness that crisscrossed her body, showing her breasts and bottom cunningly framed but fully exposed, letting the final strap dangle between her arse cheeks, leaving that element of her costume till last.

“Very, Charles, very much so. Everything signed and sealed now, in terms of planning permissions. We just need to sort out the building contract between us, and it’s all systems go.”

Michelle rolled glossy latex stockings up her legs, covering them up to midthigh, snapping them onto the handy harness clips.

“How did you deal with the environmentalists? Surely there will be trouble when the
Gazette
gets hold of it?”

“That tame scientist I told you about—he got his people to say that there was nothing unique or irreplaceable about the reserve. It’ll get its status of special scientific interest revoked in the next month or so.”

“Good. It’s always made me gnash my teeth somewhat to see such prime real estate given over to coots and moorhens. If the coots and moorhens want to live there, they can pay for the privilege, like everyone else.”

Trewin and Cordwainer chuckled companionably while Michelle, fingers frozen on her suspender clips, shook her head, thinking she must have mistaken the inference she had drawn from those last words. They couldn’t mean to parcel up the nature reserve at the western sweep of the bay and build on it. They just couldn’t. Surely. She decided she must have got the wrong end of the stick and carried on with her dressing, pushing her feet into ridiculously high heels and replacing her workaday collar with the leather-covered steel version.

“Building permissions are all in place,” Trewin repeated. “The licenses for the supercasino and the alcohol will be granted next week, I assume. I’ll be there anyway. I’ve got most of the others on side, apart from batty Barbara. We’ll work on her. What
is
this stuff?”

“Artichoke. Don’t you like it?” Cordwainer raised his voice. “Are you prepared, Miss Object?”

“One moment, sir,” she answered, flustered, picking up the nipple clamps he expected her to apply by herself.

“I’m putting on my watch timer. You will receive one stroke of the cane for each minute you keep us waiting.”

Her fingers trembled as the clips bit into her tender nipples. It was never a good idea to rush this. She would just have to put up with whatever penalty her masters decided to exact.

“I don’t
dislike
them. Just don’t understand them. What are they for? What’s wrong with a pickled egg, for God’s sake?”

“I certainly shan’t be serving pickled eggs in my new establishment. I envisage the full Las Vegas experience—obscenely luxurious in a way that appeals to high rollers and lowlives alike. Goldsands will finally be on the map.”

Michelle, wincing at the clamps’ sharp teeth, performed the finishing touches to her toilette. She passed the final harness strap between her thighs, fitting it neatly into her sex lips and the cleft of her buttocks. Its roughened leather rubbed her clit unforgivingly when she moved, sparking it into vivid life. The first time Cordwainer had made her wear this—oh, such a long time ago it seemed now, when her self-control was terrible—she had come three times in the course of serving his friends. He had had her whipped, hard, over the dining table and then taken by all four of them in a row. Her eyes misted with nostalgia and she stepped out from behind the screen.

“Four minutes, Miss Object,” said Cordwainer, glancing at her over the rim of his wineglass. “Four strokes of the cane. I gather you want to practise your caning technique, Trewin? Perhaps you could do the honours.”

“Glad to. Fetch the cane, missy, and bring it to me between your teeth. No, on your knees, please.”

Michelle crawled to the sideboard where a selection of spanking and flogging implements reclined, picked up the length of cruel rattan between her teeth and returned with it to Councillor Trewin, knees chafing against the cheap acrylic carpet.

He took it from her and stood, bending it contemplatively.

“Stand and touch your toes,” he ordered. Michelle’s least favourite position, she reflected ruefully, a devil to sustain, especially when her bottom burned with the heat of a blast furnace. Trewin was learning a lot from his sadistic mentor.

Bent thus, the harness strap tightened over her clit and abraded the sensitive inner flesh of her buttocks, bisecting them neatly so that they were offered for the cane with the skin stretched taut. Michelle’s elegant talons found the pointed toes of her stilettoes and scraped the surface as she swayed, straining to maintain balance on those vertiginous heels, dreading the first cruel cut of the cane.

Trewin did not extend the anticipation in the same way as Cordwainer, nor did he prolong the agony. “Now you must count these out, little slut,” he informed her gruffly and then, without further ado, the rod sliced down on her rear and she uttered a small cry that turned into a long moan before obliging him with a “One, sir.”

Cordwainer, she thought, would have let that stroke fizzle and burn for a good half to full minute before laying on the next, but Trewin lacked his finesse and was in haste to deal the second blow. Michelle pushed back on her heels and sucked in her breath, but her “Two, sir,” was steady nonetheless.

“You need not hurry,” remarked Cordwainer from his armchair. “We have all night.”

Michelle was made to wait for the next stroke, until her calves began to ache in sympathy with her bottom, with its twin slashes of raised red.

“You’ll have to work on your punctuality, little slut,” said Trewin, and Michelle felt a prickle of something—irritation?—at his chosen endearment for her. She wanted Cordwainer’s low, dark, elegant voice calling her “Miss Object” again, not this gruff usurper. But at least Cordwainer was watching, and hopefully approving, her abject humiliation at the hands of another. She would take this caning to the best of her ability, for him. She worked at stilling her twitching muscles, composing her screwed-up face, maintaining the perfect punishment posture, while Trewin stood tapping the cane against his leg, examining the stripes he had made.

“Okay,” he said. “Yes, we have all night. That’s good. Right. Ready for another.”

Fierce pain, white-hot, something Michelle could never imagine getting used to, although she had learned to breathe through it, to mentally trick herself into finding it bearable. A small sob this time before the count of “Three,” and sighs of satisfaction from the sadists in the room. Trewin had learned his lesson this time, and he let the stroke build to its peak of intensity before he lined the cane up for its final assault, choosing a low portion of Michelle’s buttocks, where it would hurt the most and cause maximum discomfort over the course of the evening.

He didn’t have Cordwainer’s whoosh, snap of the wrist, explosion of heat, but he could hit hard enough to hurt, even if the stroke didn’t quite line up so neatly with its fellows. Cordwainer prided himself on the complex geometrical patterns he could draw on a girl’s behind, whereas Trewin was happy with a jumble of purplish markings, any old how. The fourth was a killer, though, and Michelle cried out, providing Trewin the satisfaction he craved. “Four, sir. Thank you for correcting me, sir.”

“You may stand corrected,” he said, and chortled at his weak witticism.

Michelle straightened her back with some difficulty and hopped from one foot to the other, limbering up those overworked calves.

Cordwainer rose and joined Trewin in examining Michelle’s rear. The pair of men laid their hands over the burning stripes, admiring the heat and hardness left by the cane, something for Michelle to remember her lesson by.

“We are both low on wine,” Cordwainer reminded her once the men had returned to their chairs. Michelle stood before them, refilling their glasses, before kneeling at their feet, head bowed, waiting for further instruction. This was the true meaning of waitressing, she thought.
I am a person who waits. I await their pleasure
.

“Kiss our feet,” Trewin suddenly ordered on a whim. “I don’t think I make her do that often enough. Or boot licking. I could get into that, I think. Having her lick my muddy, dusty boots after a day overseeing the site.”

Cordwainer made no reply. He never had dusty shoes, so the fetish was presumably not one which appealed to him. He allowed Michelle to put her lips to his cherry-polished shoe tips, then watched as she repeated the process with Trewin.

“You kissed mine first, Miss Object,” he said. “In future I want you to attend to the councillor first, where I or others are present. He will take precedence now.”

Michelle’s heart sank a little further. With every new act of abjection, she seemed to be getting further away from, rather than closer to, Charles Cordwainer. She had thought that surrendering herself to his every desire would make him love her. Another brick in the wall of her confidence was dislodged and she felt something close to fear.

She knelt a while longer, letting the low tide of their conversation wash around her ears without taking much of it in. The banging in her head repeated the same message over and over.
Charles is leaving me, Charles is leaving me.
Trewin’s shoes, poorly polished and bulging a little at the toe, began to revolt her. Above them, argyle patterned socks stretched away until they disappeared beneath his trouser hem. Argyle patterned. Not the uncompromising black favoured by her Charles. He would never wear patterned socks. It was not masterful attire. Also, if her delicate nose did not deceive her, the councillor’s socks could do with a launder. She knew he had been single for many years, following the sudden flight of his flighty wife, but all the same—surely he had a housekeeper or something. Surely there was no need to wear the same pair of socks twice before washing. Or perhaps he was just unnaturally odiferous.

“Artichoke, Miss Object?” Cordwainer’s cruelly amused voice awoke her and she sat up and begged in the way that he liked, straight spined, shoulders thrust back, palms up and tongue out like a dog’s. He placed the delicacy on her eager pink tongue and watched her chew and swallow before patting her on the head.

“You’ll need something to wash that down with,” suggested Trewin, pointing a finger at the crotch of his trousers.

“Good idea. The councillor first, Miss Object, then you may attend to me.”

Michelle knelt between Trewin’s knees, unbuttoned his fly, then extracted the thick cock and heavy balls, handling them as if they were treasure before bathing the shaft with her tongue. She remembered that Trewin had always enjoyed a little bit of fluttery licking and teasing before the fellatio proper, and she was rewarded for this piece of observation with a ruffle of her hair.

“Oh, she’s good,” he said, stretching his arms above his head appreciatively. Cordwainer’s mobile phone rang and he began to rasp into it while Michelle tried her utmost to concentrate hard on giving Trewin the oral pleasure he demanded, and eavesdrop at the same time.

“No, the Fairhaven. What do you mean? How can they have just left town? Oh, I see. Well, do they have family? Parents? Brothers or sisters? See if you can find any and perhaps suggest they put you in contact. The usual methods of persuasion should work. Yes, I know that. And they know that I don’t just let my debts go. I always find my missing debtors. Always. Or, at least, you do. Yes, tomorrow morning. I’ll see you then.”

Michelle sucked and fondled, hearing Cordwainer click off the phone, tutting and shifting irritably in his armchair. From the corner of an eye she watched him take a big mouthful of wine.

“Keep going, slut,” Trewin urged. “Don’t slack now.”

He must have been talking to Rocky.
Gorgeous, sexy Rocky, oh, if she were ten years younger…She began to pretend that Trewin’s cock belonged to the leatherclad enforcer, that it was Rocky’s big gloved hand in her hair and his muscular thighs either side of her. This was a game she liked to play when she was performing for some of Goldsands’ less glamorous deviants. He was dangerous, just like Charles, but in a different way and, unlike Charles, he seemed to seethe with passion. She often wondered if he enjoyed the work he did for her master and had concluded that he must feel the same way she did: ambivalent, slightly self-loathing but ultimately driven by practicalities and pressing needs. And, in her case, love. That bit probably didn’t apply to Rocky.