The Red Collection (2 page)

She breathed heavily but silently. Part of her wanted to say ‘sod it!’ and then crawl out from behind her shield to kneel before him and take that juicy shaft into her mouth and suck on it hungrily. Either that, or lie on the panelled floor, legs akimbo, inviting him to push his swollen rod inside her …

But that wasn’t what he wanted of her, was it? And if she
broke
the spell by revealing herself, and seeing him in turn, it would be cheating them both.

So instead, she swivelled her wrist and thrust two fingers slowly into her vagina. This was a better way, she thought, beginning to thumb her clitoris.

Touching himself was a test of his self-control. Rarely in his life had John felt as aroused as he did now, staring at the black screen and focusing hard so he wouldn’t come.

With his hands on his thighs, fingers itching to stray to his cock, he took a silent step closer and peered at the four lacquered panels. The even number meant that it was of oriental origin. European repros tended to have an odd number. He’d had lacquered screens like this in the shop many a time – and some a lot better than this – but never one with this strange, almost living quality. It was like a third person in the room with them, and now he was closer, he could see more wear and tear …

‘Are you still stroking yourself?’ Her diction was still exquisite, but also huskier now.

Was she as affected by all this as he was? John licked his dry lips and prepared to reply. Behind her screen was she turned on too, her body hot and horny inside its slinky suit of clinging black plastic?

‘Yes! Yes, I am,’ he managed to murmur at last, stroking the pads of his fingertips up over the hollows of his groin, brushing his wiry pubic hair. Going close, so very close to his rigid penis.

‘But not touching your dick, I hope.’ Her voice was as clear and golden as honey, yet dark as blasphemy. ‘Not fondling your stiff, red, aching dick … Your hard-on. Your rod. Your erection.’ She seemed to roll the words around on
her
tongue as if she were swirling the tip of it around the very organ she named. He looked down, saw the head of his cock jerk and weep thick silver goo. His rod looked as hard as a bar of mahogany and it ached as if she had it in a vice. He clenched his hands against his hips so he couldn’t grab himself and wank to oblivion.

‘Aren’t you going to answer me?’ she asked, and across the crazed black lacquer, a vivid picture grew sharper.

She was lying on a Victorian, scroll-ended chaise longue, her sleek body upholstered in firm flesh and gleaming black vinyl. Her slim legs were splayed, and between them an ingenious zip lay open. Her gorgeous slit was open too, the pink folds swollen ripe like segments of red fruit.

‘No! No, I’m not touching myself, mistress,’ he said, as in his mind’s eye she did the thing he wasn’t allowed to.

A single long slender finger, the nail painted with a polish as black as her suit, slid into the peachy channel and sought out the very heart of her desire. There was no sound, because it was a silent movie, and any noise from within might make him miss any real sounds, but his mistress’s mouth formed a rosy, perfect ‘O’. The finger flexed, and the ‘O’ grew rounder than ever.

‘Do you want to?’ The fantasy fractured and John saw himself reflected in the screen’s blackness again.

The surface of the lacquer had seen better days, and the image was fuzzed, but he saw the faint outline of a white-skinned man, of medium height, with lightish, curly hair. At his groin, there was a shadowy smudge – his dark brown pubic tuft – but no clear detail of his pointing, rampant penis.

When he looked downwards, it was a different story.

He was huge. Bigger than he’d ever been. Bigger than it was possible for him to be. His flesh was red, the skin
stretched
and shiny with an angry inflamed sheen. His swollen glans seemed to yearn towards the screen and for a moment he had the mad thought that if he struck it against the nearest panel it might shatter the ageing lacquer.

Without thinking, he laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’ There was humour in her voice too, but the fact that she didn’t shout frightened him more than anger.

‘Me, mistress,’ he said quietly. ‘My hard-on … It’s sticking up. It’s ridiculous.’

‘So ridiculous that you don’t want to touch it … to caress it?’

There was a smile in the beautiful tones. She was toying with him, playing with him subtly, lightly, almost with kindness.

‘No, mistress … I mean, yes, mistress.’ He felt confused, angry with himself for getting confused; yet more and more excited because of it. ‘I do want to touch myself … I’m aching. It’s driving me mad. I’ve never felt this hard before.’

‘Oh, surely you’re exaggerating,’ she said. ‘That’s what all men say … They’re always the hardest or the biggest. The soonest ready, the longest lasting … You men are always the best and most of everything.’

She was mocking him. Putting him down. She didn’t care about him at all, and why should she? He was just a client to her, a source of revenue.

And yet …

He couldn’t hear anything. She’d given nothing away. No rustle of clothing, no uneven breathing, nothing. Yet still he sensed she was enjoying herself. And that made his own pleasure greater. His cock felt as if it had grown another inch, and he didn’t care what she said; it
was
the hardest ever!

‘But it’s true, mistress,’ he said boldly. ‘I’ve never been harder. Honestly!’

It was her turn to laugh now.

‘All right. I believe you. Now describe it to me.’ She chuckled softly. ‘Tell me all about your prick and why you think it’s so wonderful.’

Oh, he’d been good, she thought afterwards, rubbing her blonde hair dry as she sat on the chaise longue wearing men’s pyjamas and dressing gown. She’d just had to shower again and that didn’t usually happen.

But there had been something about this John, and the way he’d described his cock and what she’d made him do to it, that had got her going. Unknown to him she’d masturbated furiously throughout the whole diatribe!

As he’d wanked, she’d rubbed and worried at her clitoris; as he’d described pushing a butt plug into his own anus, she’d reached around and fondled and played with her own bottom.

As he’d climaxed, gasping and gulping, she’d come too. It’d been bloody hard to keep her own moans in check, but she’d managed it. And she’d also resisted the temptation to call him back, afterwards, so she could take a look at him.

She felt a pang of regret that the only memento she had of John was the nice pile of banknotes he’d left on the Georgian side table, but there was always a chance he might become one of her regulars. Sometimes that happened; sometimes she never ‘saw’ a customer more than once.

‘
C’est la vie
,’ she muttered to herself, abandoning her towel and counting the payment again.

Generous John had left a tidy bit extra, and what with that,
and
her latest cheque for a series of television voice-overs …

Well, it was time, she thought with a smile, to hit the antique shops!

It’s a top screen, really it is, thought John, as he arranged his latest acquisition to its best advantage. Technically it was far better than the one that had concealed ‘mistress’ and yet because it hid no mystery, he didn’t like it nearly as much.

Three weeks had passed now, and a dozen times a day he’d considered ringing her number again, but something had happened that made him even more in awe of her.

He’d seen her in an advert on the box. Several times. She was beautiful, blonde and sleek, but somehow not quite how he’d pictured her. The voice had been the same though, and he’d almost come on the spot when he’d suddenly heard it one evening while he wasn’t really paying any attention to the telly at all. Deep, dark and complex, it had made a banal advertisement into a siren’s song that had stiffened him instantaneously. It even worked now, just from hearing her in his mind.

Embarrassed because there were people in the shop, John moved away to his work area, and opened a sale catalogue. A moment later, though, his concentration drifted. A woman was studying the black, lacquered screen.

Not his mistress, alas. This woman was no television blonde, just an average-looking and slightly dumpy brunette. She looked even less remarkable when she put on a pair of glasses to lean up close and inspect the screen’s inlaid design.

But when the woman smiled – presumably in appreciation of the screen – the erection that had just subsided twitched into life again. And it jumped even more when the woman looked across and smiled at
him
.

‘A very fine Coromandel screen,’ he said when he reached her, and then found himself launching into a rushed and rather jumbled sales pitch. She wasn’t looking at his crotch, but he had a feeling she was aware that his penis was hard. The woman said nothing, but nodded knowledgeably now and again as he spoke.

‘So, are you interested? I think I can make you a very fair price,’ he said in an attempt to stop babbling. The woman was looking him in the eye now – and down at his groin from time to time – in a way that made his head light and his cock as heavy as lead.

Then the woman spoke. In those rich, measured, perfectly modulated tones he’d heard in every dream he’d had since he’d visited her apartment.

‘No, thank you. I have a screen already.’ She licked her lips and gave him a slight, yet powerful smile that transformed her ordinary face into a beautiful icon. Until a few moments ago, he’d never seen that face before yet it was totally familiar. ‘Have you anything else that you’d like to show me?’

In the space it took to draw a breath, questions were posed, then answered in John’s mind, and he realised that the face you saw on a TV screen and the voice you heard didn’t necessarily have to belong to the same person. And what you
thought
you wanted to see wasn’t always what you actually wanted.

‘John?’ she prompted, her voice so resonant and glorious it seemed to make his cock sing.

His own voice was thin and light, yet it also had strength. ‘Whatever you want, mistress. I’ll show you anything …’

She smiled and nodded, and then – his shop and his customers forgotten – John fell to his knees before her and started tugging at his zip.

The Best of Hands

YES, I UNDERSTAND
perfectly,’ murmurs Madame Guidetty, escorting us into the room. A silver coffee jug stands on a tray, on her desk, flanked by two fine bone-china cups and the usual paraphernalia of milk jug, sugar bowl and tongs. There are just two cups because I won’t be taking coffee.

‘Do be seated,’ Madame continues, smiling almost flirtatiously at my Master, ‘and we’ll have our coffee while I outline our range of services.’

‘Thank you, that sounds most pleasant,’ my Master answers genially, sinking down into a comfortable, deeply upholstered chair set at right angles to Madame’s spacious desk. He glances at me and I blush furiously. He has noticed my transgression – the fact that I am staring about the room, and at Madame, and at him, when I am supposed to keep my eyes lowered at all times and I realise that I will suffer for it soon.

It seems that Madame has observed my slip-up too. ‘Perhaps Susan could stand in the corner while we chat?’ she suggests pleasantly, although there is, I detect, a faint thread of excitement in her barely accented voice. ‘In a display position, possibly? I always find that tends to curb a wilful streak quite nicely, don’t you, Monsieur?’

‘A good idea, madame,’ returns my Master, his own voice rather vibrant too. ‘Would it offend you if Susan removes her skirt and her slip? I always find a greater degree of exposure more effective … Although if that isn’t your practice here, perhaps I could trouble you for the loan of a couple of safety pins?’

‘No need for that,’ says Madame, ‘we too recognise the subduing qualities of partial nudity. It is a measure we rely upon heavily.’ She pauses, and I hear a slight click, then the sound of a bell ringing somewhere else in the house. ‘There, I’ve summoned a maid to take Susan’s slip and skirt.’

My heart begins to lurch around in my chest. Yet another stranger to see me embarrassed. I colour even harder and feel sweat prickle and run beneath my arms.

‘Well, Susan?’ my Master prompts, and with shaking fingers I unfasten my skirt. Just as I am stepping out of it, there is a knock at the door.

‘
Entrez!
’ calls out Madame, and a maid enters, a beautiful dark-haired girl, with a sullen, sultry mouth. Her uniform is old-fashioned and immaculate; her apron is snow-white, and her buttoned shoes shine like polished jet.

‘Ah, Florenza, Susan here doesn’t need her skirt and underslip for a while … I wonder if you would take care of them for her?’ Madame speaks to her maid in almost an intimate manner. Against my will, I begin to speculate on the type of duties this Latin beauty might perform. She gives me an expressionless look as I hand her my skirt.

Sliding down my lace-trimmed half-slip, I become more and more conscious of my undies. They are chosen by my Master, as always; and, as always, they are costly and luxurious. The slip is heavy satin, pure white, and was bought at an exclusive Knightsbridge boutique. I sense both Madame and
Florenza
silently pricing it, and thus estimating how highly my Master values me.

My stockings and suspender belt, which I will retain, are both equally extravagant. The former are fine deniered, smoke-grey – to match the formal suit I wear – and with a thick welt of lace; and the latter is white silk to match my underslip. My panties, however, are very plain, just the simplest of white cotton interlock, bikini-shaped, but not especially brief.

I pass my slip to Florenza and she folds it neatly, placing it upon a chair, on top of my already folded skirt.

‘Florenza,’ says my Master, his voice appreciative, although I do not know whether this is in regard to the sight of me, skirtless, or due to the dark girl’s undeniable loveliness. ‘I wonder if you would be good enough to lower Susan’s knickers for her? Just as far as mid-thigh, that will be perfect for our needs.’

‘Of course, sir,’ replies Florenza dutifully, her voice rather more accented than Madame’s and clearly indicating quite a different nationality.