Amanda's Young Men (8 page)

‘Er – yes. That’s me.’

‘You left your research behind at Forsythe Footwear.’

Puzzled, he said, ‘They wouldn’t let me back in to collect it.’

‘I have it. I’ll return it to you tonight.’ She dug into her purse. ‘Here’s my business card. My home address is written on the back. Be there, tonight, eight o’clock, for dinner.’ She slipped her card into the breast pocket of his pink shirt and pressed her heels down harder, for emphasis.

‘Yes, madam.’

‘You may call me Ms Amanda.’

‘Yes, Ms Amanda.’

‘Don’t be late. Oh – and I’ll take these shoes.’

On her way home, Amanda remembered that she had nothing to go with bronze, so she made a detour to Coquette. There she found an ankle-length stretch liquid-metal gown in bronze with a halter top. The salesgirl warned Amanda that it would be impossible to wear anything under it – which suited her purposes just fine.

8

AMANDA’S NEW DRESS
, or, rather, the body it clung to, seemed to render Paul speechless. It lived up to the name of its fabric – liquid metal. She looked as if she’d been dipped into molten bronze. It peaked where her nipples jutted, dimpled into her navel and flowed faithfully across the subtle swell of her mound. If she had pubic hair, it would have shown through.

She’d planned everything. Her dress was stunningly sexy and chic enough to intimidate a callow youth. The menu would appeal to a young man’s taste buds but was still more sophisticated than she imagined he’d be used to. Everything she thought she might need at any point in the evening was in place.

Paul had arrived in a charcoal-grey two-piece suit, smelling of a decent cologne and bearing pink roses. Obviously, he was hoping to ‘get lucky’ but uncertain that he would. After the little scene at Spikes, he had to be horny but nervous. He was on Amanda’s hook, ready to be reeled in.

She served cream of carrot soup with coriander. At her prompting, Paul explained his system for forecasting fashion trends. It was remarkably simple. He kept track of new styles as they emerged and charted their progress. If a trend started one year in Paris, and reappeared there the following year but also showed in Milan and New York, for instance, Paul was pretty sure it would explode across the fashion capitals of the world in the third year before beginning to peter out. He
claimed
that his system worked seven times out of eight. The eighth time, he recommended slashing the price and clearing the style out at cost, echoing Rupert’s opinion.

Amanda poured them a glass of Bull’s Blood each and dished up sirloin tips in a burgundy sauce, with Pommes Duchess and white asparagus tips. ‘That shoe that got you fired,’ she said, ‘weren’t you taking quite a risk?’

‘I was so frustrated, Ms Amanda. It wasn’t the first time Dumphries had underordered a sure winner.’

‘Tell me.’

‘There were many, but for instance, last summer, there was a Q-number, a flat canvas slip-on that came in five colours, cute and inexpensive. I wanted to order two hundred and fifty cases. It was made in China, so we only had one shot at it.’

‘How many did Dumphries buy?’

‘Thirty-one cases, one for each shop. Worse, when the shop managers saw it in the catalogue, they all wanted multiple cases, from five, I believe, to thirty.’ His face writhed in disgust. ‘One store sold out in two days. The last pair in the whole chain went within a month.’

‘What was his reasoning?’

‘Company policy. Stock up on “standards” and then buy the minimum numbers of each of a wide range of styles. Take no chances.’

‘Standards like?’ she asked.

‘All that Ogilvy & Fitch crap. Old lady shoes. Nurses’ shoes. House slippers, for Christ’s sake!’

‘You really love elegant shoes, don’t you, Paul?’

He looked at his plate. ‘I don’t know about “love”, Ms Amanda.’

‘Oh? I thought you shared my passion.’

‘Well …’

‘You like the shoes you sold me today, don’t you, Paul?’

He blushed and nodded.

‘I’m wearing them now.’

He whispered, ‘I know.’

‘Is it that you love both shoes and women, especially
together
?’

Paul nodded again.

‘And here I am, a desirable woman who is wearing sexy shoes.’

Yet another nod.

‘Do you want me, Paul?’

‘Want you?’

‘Do you want to fuck me?’

His confusion was delicious. Paul stammered and stuttered, nodded and shook his head, turned deep pink and just about managed to get out a sound that had to be a ‘Yes’.

‘Then follow me, and do exactly as I tell you. If you obey my every word, I promise you a sexual experience far beyond anything you’ve ever dreamt of.’

He made a strangled sound in his throat.

Amanda continued, ‘Absolute obedience, right, Paul?’

‘Yes, Ms Amanda.’

‘Good boy. You’re learning.’

She led him into the living room and sat herself down on the wide deep black leather couch. Paul went to sit beside her.

Sternly, she told him, ‘I didn’t say you could sit.’

He jerked upright. ‘Sorry, Ms Amanda.’

Amanda pulled her dress up above her knees and arranged its hem across the tops of her thighs. ‘Get undressed.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me – strip off. I want to see you naked.’

‘I …’

‘Do it.’

Clumsily but swiftly, Paul stripped down to his bikini underwear – very skimpy with a leopard print. It barely contained his growing erection. A wet patch betrayed the extent of his arousal. Amanda concealed a grin. Yes, Paul
had
been hoping to get lucky. Well, he was going to, but far beyond anything such an innocent lad could possibly expect.

‘Lose the briefs.’

He paused for a second, took a deep breath and skinned his underwear down. When he straightened, it was instantly obvious that, while parts of him were still those of a youth, other parts were all man. His impressive manhood bobbed before him, rising from a thin patch of straight black hair. Paul’s hands moved as if he wanted to shield himself but he fought the impulse. He had a runner’s body, with long lean muscles, not bulky ones like Roger had had. Lower on his chest, she could see his ribs, but his hairless pectorals were hard shelves. His belly was slightly hollowed but nicely ridged. No hair there, either.

Amanda licked her lips. ‘Kneel at my feet. Take my shoes off.’

Reverently, he obeyed. If he feared having his hand pinned down by her heel again, he didn’t show it. But they’d already played that game and Amanda had no desire to repeat herself.

‘Now, take my right stocking off – just the right one, and be careful not to put a run in it.’

His fingers trembled. He bit his lower lip in concentration. The ‘cling’ at the top of her stocking seemed to confuse him at first but, once he got the hang of it, he folded the lacy band over, then over again, slowly working his way down Amanda’s long leg, over her trim ankle and off her delicate little foot.

‘You may kiss my toes.’

His lips pursed and touched the little toe of her left foot.

‘You may suck and lick.’ She lay back and luxuriated in the warm slithery wet sensations. As she’d suspected, he was good at it, either by experience or imagination she couldn’t say, although if pressed to guess she’d pick the latter. God bless these inexperienced boys with their pockets of untapped talent. They were gold.

Amanda was tingling all over when she’d had enough. ‘Stand up,’ she commanded. ‘Hands out, wrists together.’

Without standing, Amanda wrapped her stocking in a figure eight around his wrists and tied a firm knot. ‘Put the head of your cock here.’ She drew her left foot up on to the couch and pointed to her nylon-sheathed right knee.

It was difficult for the poor lad, but Amanda’s emerging philosophy decreed that it was good for a boy to work for his treats. He had to cling to the back of the couch with both bound hands, kneel on one knee on the couch and splay his other leg wide, foot to the floor, and arch his back. Amanda didn’t help him.

When his dark-pink glistening knob was in position, Amanda crossed her left leg over it, trapping it in the soft naked hollow behind her knee. ‘Fuck me there,’ she ordered.

After a dozen or so swivelling thrusts, he seemed to get the hang of it and began to speed up.

Amanda reached behind her neck and undid the tie of her halter. The dress slithered down to her waist.

Paul stared at her naked breasts. He missed a beat. She cupped her right breast, compressed it to extrude her nipple a little and pulled his head down. ‘Suck on my nipple. Suck it hard and deep. Make me feel it.’

He obeyed but his position, bent over, working his hips at an awkward angle and clinging desperately to the back of the couch, led to the inevitable. He tumbled to the floor.

‘You aren’t very good at that, are you?’ Amanda allowed a trace of displeasure to show in her voice.

He looked up at her, his expression heartbreakingly contrite. ‘Sorry, Ms Amanda.’

‘We’ll try something easier.’

‘Thank you, Ms Amanda.’

Inspired by the instructions Trevor had given her, Amanda said, ‘Kneel on the floor facing the couch, hands on it but knees back a bit and spread wide.’

Amanda stood, sucked her tummy in and wriggled her hips. Her dress hissed to the floor.

Paul knee-walked himself into position

Amanda pulled a tube of ‘tingling personal lubricant’ and a package of latex surgical gloves from under a cushion. Behind Paul’s back, where he couldn’t see her, Amanda pushed the six-inch heel of one of her shoes into a latex glove and into its index finger, before putting a pair of the stretchy gloves on to her hands.

‘Here,’ she said, ‘suck on this.’ She set the other shoe on the cushion in front of his face, its heel towards his mouth.

Obediently, Paul took the metal spike between his lips and began to suck.

‘And maintain the position,’ she instructed.

He jerked when she squeezed cold lube along the full hot quivering length of his shaft. Amanda felt as if she was radiating. It was – and wasn’t – the familiar glow of lust. It was all that, and more. It was the
power
. It elevated her. She had a toy, a living breathing toy, totally in her command. She was a puppeteer, with a human puppet. Whatever she wanted to do to it, she could. Whatever she fancied it doing to her, it would.

With absolutely no consideration for Paul’s pleasure, though he doubtless enjoyed her touch, she explored his length with
her
oily latex-covered fingertips. Its shape wasn’t round in cross-section, but more like a slightly squished circle, with a thick ridge running up its underside. Its head was bulbous and hard, even harder than its shaft. With it resting gently on her palm, she could feel its pulse.

Paul moaned.

Moving with deliberate slowness, intending to make it maddening for the boy, Amanda caressed him from his fine black pubic hair to the very tip of his shaft, ending with a gloss of her slippery palm over its head.

Paul was rigid and quivering, drooling around the heel he held between his lips.

One-handed, Amanda squeezed more lube on to her free hand’s sheathed index finger. Paul had tight hard buns. It had to be all the deep knee-bends his work demanded. She worked her hand edgewise between his cheeks and found the clenched knot of his bottom with her finger’s tip.

Paul shuddered and made a questioning sound, which Amanda ignored. She ringed his anus, spreading lube, and then squeezed more on to the rubber-shielded tip of her shoe’s spiked heel.

‘There, there. This won’t hurt, not much anyway. Be brave. Just relax. Amanda will make it nice for you, Paul.’

With infinite care, Amanda pressed the covered spike against the pinhole pucker of his anus. A fraction of an inch at a time, the invader sank into his flesh. ‘Tell me if it’s terrible,’ she said.

Paul went stiff and held his breath. As Amanda slowly impaled him, she stroked his manhood with an increasingly firm grip, picking up the pace each time. The muscles in his back twitched. His neck knotted. He had to be in emotional turmoil. Did he love or hate being buggered by the heel of one of the shoes he doted on? Likely, both.

‘Breathe,’ she commanded.

He did as he was told, his breath a ragged panting sound that further charged the air between them. If he was tortured by what the hand holding the shoe was doing to him, it was obvious he loved what the other hand was up to.

When two or so inches of the spike were embedded in Paul’s bum, Amanda relented and tugged it gradually back out, until only its tip was still inside him, and then pushed it back in again.

It wasn’t easy, maintaining one rhythm with the hand that was jerking him off and another with the one that was buggering him but Amanda didn’t have to keep it up for long. It was so much fun, kicking off a night of passion by showing her new lover just how expertly she could bring him off, knowing there’d be umpteen more orgasms for him, and plenty for her, before the night was through. This wastefulness was positively decadent, and she loved it.

Paul arched, dropped the shoe from his mouth, gurgled and climaxed. She just managed to catch his ejaculate in a wet-wipe and spare her couch.

Amanda slipped the slim heel free of his body, and gave him a count of ten to recover. ‘Sit on the edge of the couch. Spread your legs and lie back. Put your hands behind your neck and keep them there.’

Warily, but without protest, Paul did as he was told. Amanda had to grin. His face was crimson and he was doing his best to avoid her eyes but, at the same time, his gaze was avid on her naked and voluptuous figure. Maybe he’d seen the bare bodies of a girl or two of his own age, but, just as young bodies possess a certain quality that they lose as they mature, so do mature bodies gain different earthier attributes that are equally or even more sexually attractive. Or so Amanda’s philosophy decreed.

Amanda knelt between his thighs. His balls, like Rupert’s, were tight and close to his body, two almost hairless perfect gemstones encased in a sac of the thinnest, smoothest leather. She handled them with care, arranging his scrotum to hang nicely over the edge of the couch. The rest of his lovely young package lay limp on his thigh. She blew on its head. It twitched and rose a fraction. Her left hand took its base and lifted it. Even that slight attention engorged his flesh. Her right hand cupped his balls, with its index finger’s tip lower, in gently palpitating contact with his anus’s ring.