OK, OK, I know - you all think this was a cynical move aimed at trying to boost a flagging readership - and, yeah, you'd have a point (I've looked at this week's ratings and these are real tears I'm crying, guys...) But it rather like the current occupants of the Oval office and Downing Street, it was the recipient of the largest number of votes and, like it or not, that's what democracy is all about. So purr-leeeeaaasse stick with me on this, OK? This is real high quality stuff - not quite Belle de jour, obviously - but one or two notches up from Pussy ranch and several even more despicable sites that even I won't look at.
So, make sure there's no one looking over your shoulder and get a load of this:
Sunday 20th April, 2003
Easter Sunday. ‘Heike’ calls around to the flat. Charlie is away at his sister’s. I’m still in my dressing gown. She says she is here to ‘punish’ me for my sins. I judge from the attire beneath the long overcoat she is peeling herself out of – spiked collar, PVC cat suit, thigh-length leather boots, monstrous gothic cross - and a little doctor’s case, that it may be an interesting chastisement. She strides through into the kitchen on her skyscraper heels and clears the table, sweeping away the domesticity of my half finished cereal bowl and the newspapers with a contemptuous clattering and clanging. Pieces of cracked crockery rock and spin on the floor as she opens up the little black bag and takes out what unfolds as a black velvet sack. ‘Confession time’, she intones, at once inviting and professional.
Before I can confess - or protest - she has pulled it over my head and I can feel something heavy, thin and dimpled tightening around my neck, chafing at my collarbone. My desperate breathing sucks the silk lining up against my tongue. She straddles my head on the kitchen table pinning my ears to my skull with her booted thighs, the shiny groove of her crotch rubbing up and down my velvet hooded crown. The weight of her cross jiggles sharply in my navel as her studded tongue journeys downward over my now moist folds. Thin pain from the pricking of my belly by her collar is drowned out by the blissful, bloated agonies of her oral flagellations.
I am moments from my climax, when she leaps off me. I pant out, ‘where have you gone? Where have you gone?’ and hear the fridge door open and gently thud shut, her muffled, mocking parodies of my helpless pleas are barely audible above the hum. The sharp pins of her heels slowly pace up and down, I imagine them pock marking the linoleum as she pauses to grind shards of ceramic to exquisite powder with her platform sole. Her slow march ticks like an insufferable metronome whose insistent rhythm keeps me delicately poised, panting, awaiting my end. A numbness on my left nipple as an icy block swells my erect teat into a permafrost hillock, then a frozen hot dog. Slowly, barely perceptibly, a transit occurs, a tunnel blasted through its saveloy core, throbbing heavier as the numbness thaws it into a pulling, piercing ache spreading across my bap. Her lips and sharp teeth lash and bite and tease, balled tongue gliding along the length of whatever she has pinned me with, gentle drops felt by my breast. She wrestles me on to my front and grips me in a half Nelson, as I glide furiously up and down her shiny thigh. I feel faint and dizzy. Sensing my limpness, she lays me on my back and, through the rhapsody of her rippling fingers brings me through crescendo to my diminuendo.
I lie limp and in heaven, a martyr in her arms as she removes the hood, my eyelids a flimsy barrier to the sheet of bright light above them. She kisses my lashes, catching small, stinging tears on her lips. I look up at her, faint specks of dried blood dot her lips and cheeks. The spiked collar is now pushed up on her forehead to form a radiant crown of silver pins. She pulls a large Havana from the doctor’s bag and lights it, taking a long, self-satisfied lug that turns the brown ellipse into a glowing, orange-tipped beacon at the tip of her out-stretched arm. Her exhalation fills the room with pungent fumes as she stares out impassively into the middle distance from her stiletto plinth, as if surveying a mighty ocean of sauce and sleaze. She places her cigar-free hand on her side and dips a hip to thrust a knee towards the water, balancing her angled leg on the very tip of her chunky stack sole - a burlesque dominatrix towering over me. ‘Heike’ flicks the brown roll of leaves and frees a delicate shower of ash over my punctured, still moist breast and drawls, ‘Happy Easter, Tina’.
For further extracts, please go here.