The Collector

For the past ten years Kay Jaybee has lived a nomadic existence across the British Isles, collecting stories as she travels. Kay is a regular contributor to the erotica web site
Oysters and Chocolate
. A number of her short stories have featured in anthologies published by
Xcite Press
,
Black Lace, Mammoth Publications
and
Cleis Press,
including
Best Women’s Erotica 2007
and
2008.

My love and thanks to S and my family for their help and support. I am also grateful to AMH, BH, DB, RT, LW, NB and GM, for their encouragement and friendship, despite their occasional bewilderment at my choice of career.

Special mention must be made to both Samantha Sade and
Jordan LaRousse
of
Oysters and Chocolate.com
, who gave me my first real break into the world of web publication, and to Violet Blue, who backed my story
Jen and Tim
, and saw it through to publication in her anthology ‘
Lips Like Sugar
.’ Since that time, Violet has been kind enough to include several of my tales in her books, including
Tied to the Kitchen Sink
, which not only features in the anthology ‘
Lust
’, but has also been made into a pod-cast on her
Open Source Sex
web site.

1. New Territory 15
2. Jay 24
3. Learning 26
4. Studio Girl 29
5. Sweets 35
6. The Experiment 41
7. Car Love 43
8. Late Developer 45
9. Treasure 49
10. Executive School 57
11. Tequila 69
12. Bad Behaviour The Candle Holder 78
13. Untouched 82
14. Watching 89
15. Crushed 95
16. Break Time 99
17. Cupboard Lust 103
18. Dark Knight 105
19. Van 116
20. Alone 120 Epilogue 122

As the pile of manuscripts on my desk continues to grow, I am continually surprised at how easy it is to write this stuff. There is just so much material out there.

Hungrily, I listen to the erotic acrobatics of total strangers and commit them to paper, usually whilst in a café or coffee house. There is something deliciously naughty about sitting innocently writing in a crisp, white notebook, sipping coffee and eating pastries amongst the town’s shopping population. I often wonder if my fellow coffee drinkers imagine me to be writing extensive shopping lists, children’s stories perhaps, maybe a little light romantic fiction. Not highly charged tales of sexual submission. Not bondage and sexual slavery. I just don’t look that type, which just goes to show you can never tell. In fact, my rather innocent looking appearance is a very useful tool in my quest for stories of consensual depravity. I don’t look like a threat. People can tell me anything – and they frequently do.

In view of this confession of general ‘ordinariness,’ I feel that the first story should provide some proof to the reader that they’ll not be disappointed by what follows, that I am able to, as it were, put my money where my mouth is.

Occasionally, when my sources run dry, I do some in-depth research of my own; take some direct action. This usually entails a trip away from my residence in Oxford to London, where I take a short lease on a flat, adopt a more suitable persona (I should have been on the stage), and explore areas of potential inspiration.

The last time I went into the city was particularly rewarding; he was someone truly worth writing about.
I think it’s only fair to retell the story from his point of view.

It hadn’t seemed significant when he’d noticed which page she’d left the colour supplement open at. Perhaps it wasn’t; coincidences happened all the time. No. He saw now that it was no accident; she had been trying to tell him something.

She was sat at the corner table at the very back of the coffee shop. The armchairs were rather comfortable in that area; he always tried to sit there. As he worked his way along the queue, collecting an almond danish and ordering a frighteningly large black coffee, he watched her. Sitting slightly upright, she was partially obscured by a copy of
The Observer
, her long booted legs curled under the armchair, her red hair framing her small face. She was sipping a cappuccino. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched her develop a foam moustache, and quite uncaring, lick it off with her tongue. He looked away and concentrated on his tray as he pushed towards the till. It was disconcerting to find himself aroused by such a simple act. He paid, collected his sugar and turned to find a seat.

He could have sat anywhere, but she already felt like an itch needing a scratch. He had to talk to her. So what if she told him to piss off; he was only going to ask if he could share the table.

He asked and she inclined her head, not glancing up for more than a second; so he sat. This was new territory for him; he’d never felt such a need to say something, anything. He was the good looking one, the one who never had to say anything. They came to him. Now the silence seemed to be an oppressive presence in itself, like a whole extra person in the room who wasn’t saying anything.

This was ridiculous. He picked up his own paper, folded it to the business pages and took a bite of his pastry, trying not to mind that icing sugar was dusting his new black jacket.

She’d finished her drink. He flirted with the idea of offering to buy her a new one, but quickly dismissed it. He hadn’t even said hello to her. So why did he feel that time was running out? Why did he feel a strange sensation of panic that she was going to leave before he’d heard her voice?

As she unfolded her legs and tided her paper, she picked up her large brown rucksack, pulled out some keys and stood in front of him. He looked up into her face. He was being assessed. It was a strange sensation; he usually did the assessing.

‘Are you coming then?’ She spoke very softly, her green eyes shining with a sort of inner power.
He was about to ask if she was sure, but she’d already turned around and was heading for the door.
He was well aware of the fact that he was probably about to make a total fool of himself, but he followed anyway. She walked very quickly; striding along in impossibly high heels. It hadn’t occurred to him until that point that she might be a hooker. What if she was? He’d just walk away. Maybe?
He followed as she turned down a gap between two shops. There was a flight of black iron stairs that led up to a flat above one of them. She stopped. ‘Two things,’ she undid her leather jacket as she spoke, hitching her scarf open to reveal a delicate neck completely unadorned by jewellery. ‘One; I do not do this for money, and two; I am not inviting you in for coffee.’
He nodded, undid his own coat, and followed her up the steps.
The hall was very narrow. It led to a modest kitchen diner, where she placed her paper, spread open, on the table. Sorting out the magazine, she opened it up as if she was going to settle down to read, but then didn’t.
He hadn’t got as far as making small talk. In fact he hadn’t even got as far as attempting to make small talk, when she took him by the hand and led him into the small living room, sitting him down on the small maroon sofa. She knelt and, placing a restraining hand on his leg, undid his shoes and placed them neatly to one side. Then she did the same with his socks.
That was when his body stopped making his hands clammy and his heart beat faster, and sent all excess blood directly to his dick. He’d known he’d been half way to a hard-on already, but now there was no disguising the fact.
‘You would be a Coldplay man, or maybe Keane? Dido?’ She stood by the tiny stereo.
‘Dido.’
She nodded, pressed buttons and waited as the haunting notes built up to the opening number.
He should do something. He tried to stand, but she just raised her hand and he quickly sat down again. Maybe this wasn’t his show; new territory.
She was standing about two metres away from him. Her jacket had already hit the floor, and he caught his breath as he watched her long slim fingers begin to undo the buttons of her white blouse. She looked straight at him the whole time; each movement in time to the music, and he found himself wishing that he’d chosen something with a faster pace.
His throat felt dry as she revealed a beautiful cream bra. He could see her nipples, hard and dark, pressing against the thin lace. He started to wonder how wet she would be, and then stopped himself. If he started to think like that he’d shoot his load before he even got his trousers off. He’d never felt so unsure of himself as she stepped out of her suede skirt, letting it drop over her boots.
Now he desperately wanted to touch. The smooth shoulders that had just been revealed cried out to be caressed. Anyway, he was becoming uncomfortable; his cock was digging into his waistband, as it struggled to force itself from his jeans unaided. He should say something, but he didn’t want to break the spell.
She stopped. He stared at the floor by her feet and worked his eyes slowly upwards. He tried to imprint the vision before him onto his brain inch by inch. High heeled boots; beige. Soft pale flesh emerging from lace hold-ups; cream. Slightly see-through French knickers; cream. ‘
Keep going. Try to drag your eyes away from the neat silhouetted triangle your eyes can just make out
’, he thought to himself as he swallowed, continuing his inventory. A flat stomach with a neat belly button. A cream lace bra encasing neatly rounded breasts which poked tantalisingly over the top. He took a deep breath and looked at her face. Small features, bobbed red hair, deep green eyes which gave absolutely nothing away.
The room was charged with electricity; so enticing, so dangerous. She moved forward and gestured for him to stand. He hadn’t been able to suppress his groan as he stood. His stomach felt strange and his dick ached to be freed from its confinement.
He waited, doing nothing. He didn’t know what to do, so he let her take control; keep control. She took his belt first; pulling it out very slowly, loop by loop. She slid the brown leather between her fingers. ‘I like belts.’ That was all she said, but he suddenly realised that he wanted to hit her with it. He needed to yank down her knickers and punish her for being perfect.
She undid his shirt next. His arms hung against his sides. He wanted to touch so badly, but he sensed that that would screw things up. This ritual, so painfully slow, was possibly the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
When she kissed his nipples he yelled. It was like someone placing an ice cube down his front on a scolding day; wonderful, but totally agonising. Her mouth worked its way across his tanned chest. His hands automatically went to hold her face, but she took hold of them and kept them firmly by his sides, whilst her teeth began to graze the skin above his jeans waistband.
He’d read about women who could undo jean flies with just their teeth, but had dismissed them as pornographic fantasy. It appeared that he was wrong. It took a very hard tug of his jeans however to get them right down. His cock had swollen so much that it was now stuck with its shiny red head sticking out of the top of his white briefs. He would never forget that moment, it was the first time he saw her smile as he flushed with embarrassment at his obvious need for her body.
‘No, don’t worry. I think he looks gorgeous,’ and with that she yanked off his underwear and stared with sheer lust, admiring him standing to attention before her. Never before had he felt so utterly naked; or so totally observed.
Her eyes flicked to a small table by the sofa. A condom sat waiting. He nodded in silent understanding, hope flooding through him.
She had begun to quiver then. Perhaps she was real after all and not some incredible apparition with iron clad self-control. He watched amazed, as she came in front of him, without a single finger being laid on her. Power. She’d made him want her, and that alone had got her off.
It hadn’t ended. He feared for a split second that that might have been enough for her, and his services were no longer required; but her hands came up to him now and she’d pulled him close to her. In a quiet whisper of pleading she said, ‘I seem to have been rather naughty,’ she glanced at the belt. ‘I wonder if you would mind administering the punishment I am obviously due.’
He swallowed again then as he nodded. Had she known that was what he wanted to do to her? His cock stirred on its own; he badly needed relief. He’d never had to wait so long for his own satisfaction before, and he wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to come all over her as they stood there. The girl was psychic; she had to be, for suddenly, as he picked up his belt, she fell to her knees and, in a totally unexpected move, engulfed him between her red lips.
It was like being encased in the softest silk and pumped to death. She was unquestioningly an expert. As her tongue lapped his tip, whilst her throat surrounded him, he ran the belt between his fingers. The pressure began to build and he felt as though he would explode. His head swam and he clamped his eyes closed, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady himself. As his spunk hammered down her throat he threw his head back and roared. He felt light headed, drunk, and yet now he was free of his initial frustration, the realisation of the shift of control flooded through him.
She was still on her knees when he opened his eyes. White droplets of his load trickled from the corner of her mouth. She did nothing about them; just let them run down her chin and her neck. He watched the sticky drops lodge into her cleavage. That was self- control; he would have had to wipe them off. Her eyes looked up at him through her fringe. She said nothing, but her thoughts were so loud they almost echoed around the room. ‘
Now I’ve been really bad haven’t I
?’