The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories

The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories

Aimee Nichols

Smashwords edition.

Copyright 2013 Aimee Nichols

http://www.aimee-nichols.com

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For SM, the
long-suffering Dr Girlfriend to my Monarch.

Table of
Contents

The Mercy of Strange
Men

Down in the Park

The Gospel of Sophie

Lipstick

All Eyes On Him

The Window

Strap on Sex is So Passé

Exquisite Corpse

About the Author

Lydia is ready. Lydia has been ready for some time.
She has lost track of how long it has been since the Master
prepared her in the usual way — naked and face down, her knees bent
under her, upper body stretched forward so as not to put too much
weight on her thighs. Arms out in front of her and tied to the edge
of the platform with long leather cords. Legs shackled in the same
manner at the ankles. This is the way they have always done things;
the stretching pressure in her muscles has become as common a
feeling as standing up or walking around. She has learned how to
relax, how to breathe and move her weight about in order to delay
becoming stiff and sore from so long spent in one position. Even
so, she seems to have been here longer than usual. She is not sure
how much longer her body will hold out without the promise of
relief.

Surely the show
should be ready to start soon?

Time moves
excruciatingly slowly without the benefit of sound or images for
distraction. Lydia tries to clear her mind and be calm, as the
Master always tells her to do, but it’s not as easy as she would
like it to be. In isolation such as this, displayed to no one in an
empty room, her vulnerability is almost unbearable, but enticing at
the same time. She imagines how she would appear to an onlooker who
might happen upon the locked room by some twist of fate, unaware of
what was inside or why, shocked at their discovery, but a shock
mingled with arousal, perhaps. The blue and red hues of the
overhead lights cast purple shadows over her body, highlighting
curves and crevices. The position the Master has posed her in
pushes her arse out provocatively and gives her spine the
exaggerated curve of sexual mythology without her having to
deliberately arch it. Her long rich red hair tumbles over her
shoulders, obscuring her face from view. Her breasts are heavy and
round, and their weight extends from her chest, creating a buxom
and enticing silhouette. Her pale pink nipples are fully erect.

Already her
body has started to respond to the promise of what the night will
bring, the consequences of being displayed in such a manner. She
smiles, secret and sly. The Master will be pleased when he comes
back and finds her wet with no external provocation. She awaits his
return, as her cunt grows wetter and her skin ever more sensitive
to the air and atmosphere of the room. This is where she
belongs.

After an
eternity of waiting, when her body has calmed from its initial
arousal response but her mind still flares, her lust-heightened
senses detect the door opening and the outside breeze wafting in to
assault her bare skin, which prickles into gooseflesh in response.
She hears the quiet shuffling and low murmurs of the audience
taking their seats, and imagines what they look like, and what
their reactions are as they look at her, exposed and subservient
and untouchable on stage, like an exotic creature in a glass
case.

They will have
come here to see her having heard of her through the whispered
grapevine of gloat and conquest. The thrill of that fact never
fades. The familiar buzz of it starts in Lydia’ s mind and moves
through her body, coaxing her nipples and clitoris to erection
again. Unconsciously she arches her back, pushing her arse higher
in the air and her hairless sex towards the crowd. She can feel
their presence, their numbers growing. She can feel their attention
and readiness; the air is sharp with their sexual tension. She
wonders how many feign disinterest, and how many are unable to tear
their gaze away, staring without shame, confident they are at last
in an environment where they will not be judged and found guilty
for looking.

The Master
assured her one night, stroking her hair after a show in one of his
candid moments brought about by a job well done, that the men were
fascinated by her. She had a large repeat audience. Those who did
not return were normally forced by circumstances to stay away; the
Master had shown her a letter on a different occasion, from a
regretful former patron who had accepted a job interstate, but who
wanted to tell them how important a part of his life Lydia and the
Master had been, and that they remained in his fantasies. She had
been flattered that someone like her, who did not attract second
glances on the street as she quietly went about her everyday life,
should have such an effect on a person, on many people, outside of
those everyday situations and bonds. It was flattering, she
reflected, to become a part of someone’ s sexual mythology, to have
their thoughts turn uncontrollably to you and the brief moment you
were a part of their life. To not even have to know them well or
acknowledge their existence for this to occur. To know that even
after one night in someone’ s presence, you were a part of their
life forever.

Lydia had
agreed on this arrangement, so long ago now, because the Master had
promised to bring her out of her sexual shell. He promised that
their experiences together would provide the sexual release that
she needed so badly. She had been sceptical at first, even as her
cunt responded to the scenarios and ideas he described. How was
this supposed to liberate her? How was being naked in a room full
of strangers watching her become a sexual object going to do
anything to realise her own fantasies? In the end, she could not
deny how much the idea spoke to her and excited her, and how in
thrall to the Master she already felt, and how that thrilled her.
Refusal was an available choice but never a realistic option. From
the first night, her willingness to obey and experiment had
rewarded her. After that, she could not pretend there had ever been
any other reason for agreeing than her own sexual satisfaction. The
thrill was too great, the arousal too real.

The room
continues to fill up, the murmuring of the voices growing deeper
and louder. The presence and arousal of the men is almost a
physical force now, and it seems there are a lot of them. Lydia
strains to detect the Master’s presence on the stage, to hear the
deep timbre of his voice even if his words are imperceptible. She
cannot, and despite her arousal she tenses. Surely wouldn’t leave
her alone at the mercy of strange men? He would not go that far,
she thinks, a faint chill of doubt crystallising in the back of her
mind. He would not overstep her boundaries completely, despite his
talent for pushing them further and further from what they used to
be, despite the fact that they are unrecognisable compared to the
boundaries she thought were unmovable before she started coming to
him. But would he completely disregard her limits?

As she frets
and begins to feel over-exposed in her bonds, she fails to detect
the closing of the door, signalling no more admittance for the
night’s entertainment. Her worries cease when she hears her Master
addressing the audience in his deep tones. She listens to him
explain the formalities and rules of the night, and thank them for
their attendance, promising they will not be disappointed. She
imagines the long-time attendees nodding impatiently, aware of what
they must do to stay, waiting for their arousal to be sated, and
the newcomers concentrating on taking in everything he says, lest
they commit some faux pas that will see them ejected from what they
already know will be a very memorable night. The dark bass of the
Master’s voice ricochets though her body, and her yearning begins
anew. She does not know what he has in store for her, but she
craves to find out. Her waiting and anxiety will not have been in
vain.

He finishes his
speech and comes to stand by her side, positioning himself, as
always, near her right hip. He is out of her peripheral vision
range, and turning her head is forbidden. She tries to content her
self with the knowledge of his presence and noting how she can feel
his immense sexual energy even from a distance.

It is time for
the show to begin.

‘And what,’ he
coos in a voice loud enough for the audience to hear, ‘does my
little slut wish to learn about tonight?’

Lydia
recognises the familiar opening line, tenses in anticipation of the
erotic menu to come. Her cunt clenches involuntarily. She wonders
if the audience is tensing too, knowing the outline, but not the
content, of what is to come

‘Perhaps we
could teach you about water-play? Some nice naughty droplets
running down your body from one of our gentleman guests? Perhaps
some live lesbian action between two supposedly heterosexual women
- or is that more of a men’s fantasy, my little girl? A dirty one
for us boys and our incorrigible ways? I’m sure
nice
girls
like yourself would never deign to fantasise about something so
base and so unattainable, so unrealistic and
common
, because
everything you would think of wanting would be romantic and
attainable and not even the slightest bit vulgar. That’s because
nice girls like you think you don’t have to beg for anything, isn’t
that right?’

At this he
pauses momentarily to lightly brush his fingers across her vulva,
spreading the wetness he finds there, and without thinking she
thrusts herself against his hand. In response, he moves it away,
and wipes her juices on her arse cheek, disdain obvious in the
forceful drag of his fingers.

‘As you know,
my dear, and as our esteemed audience are probably aware by now, I
take great pleasure in stripping young ladies like yourself of your
illusions about these matters. I must say, I’ve never had any
complaints so far.’

Lydia hears
murmuring from the crowd, sounds of amusement and agreement. She
imagines the men nodding their heads at her Master’s words, pleased
to finally have someone voice the thoughts they’re not meant to
think, looking down on her, and she flushes with embarrassment.

‘But I’ve
gotten off track, haven’t I, my repressed little darling? We were
talking about your lesson for tonight, how you want to show your
debauched desires to our esteemed guests and prove the existence of
the slut heart that beats inside stuck-up middle-class nice girls
like you.’

It is always
the same. It is lies and performance, a mask of exaggerated disdain
for the benefit of the audience, but he sees inside her head and
dredges up her darkest shame and desires, proving her to share the
desires she considers contemptuous and base in others. He makes her
acknowledge what she’s been taught she should not yearn for. He
scorns her for her needs; every man here is riveted by the
forbidden lust that rages through Lydia’s body and mind. Images
flash through her head and she lets out a moan and pushes her
pelvis back toward her Master, unconsciously offering herself to
him.

‘What is
this?’

She doesn’t
answer. She can’t, she’ s not allowed, but she wouldn’t anyway. She
knows what happens when the Master starts asking her questions.

‘Are you trying
to control what happens to you?’ He says it quietly, but there is a
resonance in his voice that she knows will carry to even the men
seated up the back of the room.

‘I think Lydia,
our little slut, is trying to tempt me. I think she wants to
control what happens to her. And I do not think that is
appropriate.’

There is
murmuring from the men in the crowd.

‘I don’t think
girls who think they can be tied up with their pussies showing in
public and not have to give up control to the men who know better
than they should be allowed to get away with such cheek. What do
you think, gentlemen?’