Phoenyx: Flesh & Fire (19 page)

I started, “Mrs. Groenenberg, I—”

Her palm caught me square across the other jaw, snapping my head around.

“Shut up, cunt. Speak only when spoken to,” she spat. “When I’m here, you are under my command. Is that clear?” She gripped me around the chin and wrenched me back to face her.

I nodded.

“Speak to me then, bitch.” She slapped me again, the other cheek this time.

I looked up at her with widening, weeping eyes. I chewed on my lip, holding back my response, wondering how far the she-wolf would go. Her stare darkened, like a thunderous sky. There was another slap coming, I thought, and I found myself back in my old boarding school dorm, being yelled and frowned at by the cruel house mistress, whose usual method of punishment was a tightly-knotted bed sheet lashed across the bare back and bottom, whilst I lay stretched over my bunk, face-down. Those memories kindled strange feelings inside me; I couldn’t remember ever fearing the house mistress, for she must have ended up disciplining me dozens of times for silly misdemeanors. Maybe I had been too immature to understand my own needs then, but it certainly felt as though Mrs. Groenenberg was fulfilling some of the same darker desires within me now.

And then I squealed out; in alarm, pain and just a little deviant excitement as she squeezed my right nipple between her pointed, burgundy-painted nails and twisted it, hard. The bitch’s smirk stretched as she squashed my teat more and more, making me writhe and twitch at her touch. She picked my breast up by that super-sensitive little peak and held it there in mid-air.

“You were saying?” she barked.

“Nothing, Mrs. Groenenberg. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”

She dropped my tit back down again and snarled at me.

“Keep your mouth shut, your legs open, and get on with your duties of pleasing me. I’ll tell you when I’m satisfied with your performance. Until then, don’t dare speak. Your tongue is to serve me, nothing else.”

I whisked my fingers back in between my labia, feeling my familiar lusts stir up again and the passion swirling through my guts. She curled a lock of my hair around her finger and led my head across to her thigh, pushing my cheek against her sheer silken stocking. She had good taste in clothes, I thought admiringly, as I breathed in the fresh scent of her sex. She dipped her other hand in there and rubbed her fingertips across my mouth, smearing me with her lady cum. I closed my eyes and breathed in deep, quickening my stimulation, wanting desperately to please her and myself.

I shut my eyes as I thought of everything in the world I had ever found sexy or erotic, grinding my teeth in anguish as the sexual overload filled my brain.

The first jets of my orgasm squirted between my fingers and spattered over Mrs. Groenenberg’s shoe and stockings. I screamed as I came, sweat and fire mingling on my tongue. The gush kept flowing as the chain reaction continued and, against all judgment – knowing it would probably earn me a reprimand – I dragged myself nearer and thrust my twitching pelvis up against her black stockinged leg, rubbing my moist, tender genitals into her silk. Her hand fell to my face as I stared, unblinking, up into hers.

Then I saw her smile through my gasping, groaning aftermath and she fed her middle finger into my mouth. I sucked my lips around it and drew it in deep, lovingly, as though it were a cock. I continued to grind my crotch against her until she drew her leg up and I felt the toe of her shoe push against my vagina, rubbing my own spilled juices back into me, almost penetrating me with that beautiful triangle of leather.

She pulled her finger and toe out of me and sat back spread open, seemingly satisfied with my performance, her arms folded behind her head and her clitoris erect and proud.

“Clean that mess up,” she said, and I eagerly wiped my tongue across her black leather, licking off my warm fluids and savoring the taste of my mistress’s shoe. I even sucked the toe for good measure.

“Good slave,” she smiled. “I’m beginning to train you well, I see.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Groenenberg. I try my very best to please you.”

“I think, from now on, you may call me Mistress. Do you like that, slut?”

I bowed my head. “Yes I do, Mistress.”

“Good.” She stood up and stepped away towards the bed, grabbing me by the hair as she went. I scrambled along after her, crawling at her heels like a puppy dog, until she threw me headlong across the bed where I just lay, gasping in fear and expectation, sprawled face-down over the pillows and sheets.

Her crop cracked across my raised ass cheeks. I had no idea quite where this game of hers was going, but it would be interesting, I thought, to find out. I didn’t mind playing the part of her sexual toy, as I knew that most of the power rested with me anyway; after all, her need seemed to be much greater than mine. Perhaps she understood that too and there was a little bit of jealousy driving her to these cruel outbursts.

“I’ll see myself out,” she said when she had stopped whipping my quivering bottom into a burning, throbbing mess.

“Thank you, Mistress,” I said as she left the bedroom. I waited for the sound of the front door crashing shut and then got up, feeling the waves of pain which pulsed through me. That probably ruled out my plans of sitting in a hot steamy bath later that evening, although the sensation wasn’t totally displeasing. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, twisting my neck to get a good view of the red risen welts and stripes across me, and the sight teased a little trickle of excitement out from between my legs.

I wondered for a moment if any of this was truly healthy, but it made me smile and I knew that I wanted more of it. It would probably have to wait until after I came back from Tokyo, but the desire and the imaginative scenes that it fuelled would linger in my head, and throughout my body, in the meantime.

The rest of the week passed as it usually did, quietly and without incident. I spent some afternoons sitting on the balcony with Boris, lapping up the summer sun and knowing that every weekend I spent at the Klub was more money in the bank, more savings for my future, more cash for when I really needed it: like funding a deposit on a new apartment if Mrs. G decided to kick me out once she had gotten bored with me, or decided to take offence at something I did or said.

There was also, of course, the offer that Honey had already made me, which would allow me to save up even more. Yet still I hesitated, afraid and unsure of such a commitment and placing my comfort and security entirely in the hands of someone else. I already had that kind of situation with Mrs. G, but I knew how to please her and what she expected from me. And as the weekend approached, I began to grow a little uneasy, knowing it was my last night at the Klub before we both left for Tokyo, and knowing that Honey would be throwing that offer at me again before too long.

Friday night, Honey wasn’t around, and I barely saw her on Saturday as she was on stage later in the night than me, and I’d already finished my set by the time she arrived. That night I decided to be extravagant and took a cab home, because I was too tired to stand upright. I got in and literally fell over the sofa (having been sufficiently unmotivated to switch on the lights) where I stayed for all of the night and most of Sunday morning as well, when I found myself roused from a muddled and befuddled sleep by a string of raps on the door.

It was Mrs. Groenenberg, although looking a little unfamiliar at first.

She’d done something fanciful with her hair, and was wearing rather heavy make-up, unlike her usual severe and scrubbed appearance. She leant herself against the inner doorframe, and then I noticed the wine bottle in her hand. A bit early in the day to be drinking, I thought, unless she’d been at it all night.

“Morning, girl,” she said, and I smelled, and tasted, Bavarian vineyards.

“Morning, Mrs. Groenenberg,” I said, trying to smile. This really was the last thing I needed at this time in the morning after another long, hot, Saturday night at the Klub. “I, um, thought you’d be at church.”

“
Fuck
the church,” she spat. “What did they ever do for me? Nothing, but spread lies and rumors and little nasty insinuations.”

She lurched past me, swinging her bottle as she went. Her usual red pencil skirt was hitched up, and she was in a rather fine-looking pair of knee boots, which I quite fancied the look of myself.

“Shut the door,” she said from half-way down the hall, waving a hand absently behind her. I did just that and followed her to the bedroom.

She plopped down on the edge of the bed, legs apart, bottle resting between her knees, idly stroking it between her fingers as though she was thinking about pushing it up somewhere she ought not to. She looked up at me as I came in, my body trembling with not only the change which had swept over her, but the mysterious circumstances which had brought it about.

“How’s my pretty little slut this morning, anyway?” she asked.

I pulled the ragged hair back from my face. “Waking up, I guess.”

“Long night last night?”

“Yes.”

“Get fucked, did you?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s not like that. We only dance, and strip.”

“You should get it while you can,” she said, leaning back on the bed and drawing one leg up. “Before you know it, you’ll be too old for anybody to give a damn.” She flicked a line of hair away from her nose. “Or if they do – they’ll soon find something younger to attract their fancy, and piss off and leave you to it.”

“Did that ever happen to you?” I asked, and then chewed my lip in fear. I really hadn’t meant to say that, but the words were out. And besides, she didn’t look too offended.

She just looked away. “Yes, it did. And not just once.” She stretched up her hand and I took it. She pulled me down onto the bed beside her.

“I held back when I was younger,” she whispered, “like you. I had offers. Long legs and big tits, I had boys and men falling down in front of me. I thought it would be funny to play with them and lead them on. It was a power thing. I liked to be in control.” She paused to swig from the bottle, a long, gulping, sucking swig. The red wine began to trickle from the corner of her mouth and then she stopped, and wiped it away. “And before I knew it, I was thirty, and needed someone, quick so the rest of my life wouldn’t be spent in poverty and misery.” She swigged again. “Well, I got one out of two. Which is why I’m warning you, girl – take the pleasure when you can. Do what you will, who you will, and be grateful to God that you can.”

I stretched out beside her, resting my head in my hand. She was starting to sound so much like Honey, I wondered if they’d already met again.

“You look pretty with your hair like that,” I said eventually, being honest. She put the bottle down beside the bed and threw her head back, flicking stray locks away from her forehead.

“Do I really?”

“Yes, Mrs. Groenenberg. You have such a good body as well.”

“Hmm.” She ran her hands over her breasts and down her front. “I’m glad somebody thinks so. I deliberately avoided having children so that I could stay in good shape for
him
. Now, I can walk around naked after a bath, and I don’t even get noticed.”

“You’re still very sexy, Mrs. Groenenberg. I love being able to satisfy you.”

“I love how you say that.” She drew her other leg up and ran the toe of her boot along my hip and thigh. “And I love everything about you,” she added in a throaty whisper that was almost a cough, or a sob, or something in between. She was getting emotional, and I didn’t know how to deal with that. So I appealed to her sense of dominance over me.

“Thank you, Mrs. Groenenberg. Mistress.”

“Yes. On your knees,” she said, and cupped her breasts in her hands. I slid off the bed and knelt down between her legs. “Put your hands up my skirt. All the way up. Touch me.”

I did, running fingers over her stockinged thighs, pushing the skirt back as I went. I kissed along the tops of her legs, stopping when I got to the surprising sight of her red cotton panties. She gasped as I ran a finger across her crotch, tracing the outline of her labia through the fabric which was already darkening with moisture.

“Mm, you dirty bitch. Give me more of that. Make me feel like a slut, just like you.”

I pulled her panties down and she opened up for me with a long sigh, her whole body unwinding beneath me like a spring. Her outer lips were thick and soft, and I surmised that she’d been playing with herself previously, yet again.

Little gasps and groans leaked out of her as I squeezed my tongue deep into her. My finger risked a visit to her ass, as I remembered she had mentioned that once before, and she responded with a dirty snarl of approval. I brought her thick, elegant clitoris out into the open and made it stand up for my tongue.

“Yes,” she squealed, pushing her hips hard against me, and I knew she was close. “Fuck my ass, you dirty fucking cunt. Fuck me.”

I pushed my fingers deeper into her hot, soft passage, and then she gushed all over my face with a sharp, short scream. I swallowed her juices as I triggered her to another orgasm, which had her banging her fists off the wall above her and thrusting her pelvis so hard against my chin she almost knocked my teeth through my upper lip. She squeezed her breasts hard, squashing and kneading them as if they were dough until they fell out of her dress. She lifted one up and set her teeth around the nipple, chewing and gnashing on it ferociously until I was sure she’d be drawing blood.

I kept my fingers pressed as deep inside her twitching asshole as I could, holding her there, reveling in the exchange of power. I had her like a puppet, at my command, and could make her cum again and again with a few swift strokes of tongue or finger. She grabbed a handful of my hair and brushed it over her vagina, rubbing it against herself as she sobbed in her ecstasy.

“Hmm, my gorgeous pussy slut,” she purred, making eye contact with me. Her face crumpled in a gloriously perverted leer of delight. “I’ve never had a prick inside me that could make me squirt like you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Groenenberg.
Mistress
.”

“Thank
you
, you evil succubus. Your tongue is the tool of the Devil. And how I wish I could sit on your face every night.