The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories (2 page)

More murmurs of
assent, stronger now, in the tones of men trying desperately to
keep their arousal to themselves.

‘Very well
then.’

Lydia hears him
walk away, off the stage, and the heavy footfalls of his return. He
comes to stand beside her, but for several moments he says or does
nothing, and she wonders what is to come.

A sudden harsh
swishing sound cuts the air, and the biting sting of a riding crop
burns across her arse. She gasps in shock and pain, and her stomach
clenches involuntarily. The sharp pain always comes as a shock at
first, even when she is ready for it but doubly so when she is not.
It takes her body some time to adjust before she begins to enjoy
it. But tonight the Master is not interested in giving her time,
quickly bringing down the crop again, an inch from where he landed
it the first time. Lydia cries out in pain, and tears sting her
eyes. The crop bites into her flesh again, and her cry turns into a
low moan. The Master pauses, and strokes her sore, tender flesh,
whispering softly so that only she can hear. She relaxes against
his touch, knowing that it is only a matter of time before he hits
her with the crop again. Sure enough, he moves his hand away, and
she breathes in, waiting for the inevitable pain.

Her body is
ready this time, and the sting carries with it a faint echo of
pleasure. The Master rubs her arse again, the warmth of his hand
mingling with her heat, and she relaxes and begins to breathe
normally. He knows how to play her; he continues alternating lashes
of the crop with gentle strokes of his hand. She begins to relish
the hiss of the crop as it cuts the air, and her body begins to
reinterpret the pain of contact as pleasure. Soon she feels the
heat of her arse move lower down to her cunt, as she and the Master
both knew she would.

He puts his
fingers against her vulva and rubs it gently in a circular motion.
She can feel his fingers savouring her wetness. He pulls his hand
away and takes a step back.

‘The slut must
sate herself,’ he informs the room in general.

He steps
forward into her view but does not face her. He crouches at her
side, not looking at or speaking to her, and unties the cord that
binds her left arm. He then straightens, turns and walks back down
off the stage without acknowledging her. She feels a momentary
flash of disappointment at his lack of attention, but arousal takes
its place as she hungrily places her freed left hand between her
legs and begins to stroke herself. She rubs her clit with two
fingers, giving herself over to sensation.

She strokes
harder and faster, growling in the back of her throat as her orgasm
approaches. The audience is silent, awaiting her climax, feeling
the sexual electricity that filters through the room and crackles
off the surfaces. Their collective gaze is riveted to the source of
this energy; the woman who kneels, bound by leather ropes to the
raised platform in the middle of the room, and sweats from the hot
stage lights and her own palpable desire. Lydia feels their desire,
their arousal at both the situation and the close proximity of so
many other people, almost as strongly as she feels the sensations
caused by her fingers working on her clitoris. She rocks back onto
her hand again, offering her backside to the audience, and slips a
finger into her cunt. Then two. She takes the pressure off her
clitoris for a moment, knowing that if she delays her own orgasm,
she increases the sexual tension in the room as well as her own
eventual climax. Her thoughts fly to her master as she finger-fucks
herself, and she wonders what he makes of her display. Is he
watching her, his gaze on her glistening pink cunt, watching the
fingers thrust into it and come out a little more slippery each
time? Does he have his hand on his cock as he takes it all in? What
does he have planned for her after this?

She removes her
fingers and goes back to stroking her clit, bucking again at the
sensations. She will let herself come this time. She will come hard
and noisily, and her sexual release will fill the whole room and
everyone will be able to see what a little whore she is. The
thought of all her men sitting there, thinking about what a slut
she is and maybe with their hands on their cocks because of it,
sends her over the edge. She comes to orgasm with a howl, rubbing
her clit furiously and rearing back against her hand. She continues
to rub even after she is sensitive, lost in a post-orgasmic daze
and no longer aware anymore of the crowd and their various stages
of arousal. Nor does she notice her Master is at her side until he
has roughly grabbed her hand and bound it again with the
leather.

She realises
what is happening and lowers her head submissively. Although still
recovering from her exhibitionistic orgasm, she focuses her senses
on trying to locate where he is now that he has moved back behind
her, and tries to guess what his next action will be. She does not
have to wonder long before she feels the sting of a slap on her
right buttock, and gasps aloud, out of shock more than pain,
although she can still feel the trail of the crop across her flesh.
Before she has time to recover her composure, a second slap lands
with a sting upon her left buttock. There is murmuring rising from
the crowd; they are excited by the Master’s actions, and by her
response. She arches her back and leans in towards the direction
his hands are coming from, and is rewarded for her impertinence by
several more slaps, coming in quick succession across her arse. Her
gasps come steadily, and morph quickly into moans. Then without
warning he stops. She pauses, dazed, and whimpers for more, beyond
capability of speech. She wants desperately to turn her head to see
what is happening, but knows she must not. There will be a
punishment if she does so, and far from being a continuation of
what she has experienced so far, she fears it will rather be the
cessation of the Master’s touch, the premature ending of the show.
The pause, however, is temporary, and she guesses it is for show.
His hands come at her from her side, striking her in such a way as
to slap both arse cheeks. She pushes back against his hand once
more and is rewarded with several more slaps. She feels her
responses grow more theatrical, mindful even in her aroused state
of the audience. She wants them to want her, although they will
never touch her in the way the Master is doing now. That’s part of
the point, she thinks, and makes a show of trying to squirm away
from his punishing hands. Lydia, for all she has become, remains a
terrible actress: there is far less show than genuine desire in her
responses.

The Master
stops, and as the pause lengthens, Lydia despondently comes to
realise that he has decreed that part of the show to be over. She
holds her breath and waits for him to begin the next stage.

She feels him
kneel down behind her, and leans back to offer him her arse. He
responds by spreading her cheeks, and keeping them apart with one
hand, he rubs lubricant on her asshole. The lube is cold and
unexpected, and she jerks away involuntarily. He pulls her back
towards him and she feels him place the head of his cock against
the tight ring of muscle, and braces herself for the pleasurable
pain that she knows will come with his thrusts. Her arse is still
relatively virginal, and any penetration comes with a heady mix of
searing pain and intense pleasure. She does not know if the
pleasure stems from the pain itself or the taboo of anal sex, and
she doesn’t care.

He plunges into
her and she screams as he embeds his cock in her with an air of
propriety, his left hand wrapped around her thigh so she can’t try
to struggle away from him. He pauses for a moment for her to take
in the sensation of his cock in her arse, stretching her out, and
then withdraws almost all the way, leaving only the head of his
cock inside her. She relaxes for a moment - too soon, as he thrusts
back into her again with the familiar sensation of pain and
profound pleasure. She begins to wail, a steady keening rhythm, an
ode to the pleasure of pain and the pain of pleasure, in sync with
his thrusts as they become more measured, and gradually the tone of
her shrieks alters from the low pitch of pain to the high pitch of
pleasure. She gasps in between squeals and rocks back against him,
relishing the new sensation of pain this brings with it, a deeper
sensation that is not as sharp as the pain of the initial
penetration. He takes this as his cue to bring a new element to
their fucking, and as he thrusts into her, brings his palm down
flat on her arse in a hard slap that echoes through the room and
through her tender flesh. She manages to gasp out a guttural
request for more. Each slap sends a jolt straight to her clit, the
sensation of her stimulation mingling with the harsh sting of his
spanking and the ache from his cock up her arse, so that she
doesn’t know where pleasure leaves off and pain starts. He begins
to spank her in time with his thrusts, and she writhes below him,
not knowing whether to beg him to stop or insist that he never
does.

‘You love this,
don’t you, you little slut?’ he enquires in a voice loud enough for
their captivated audience to hear.

‘Yes’ she
murmurs softly.

‘Louder. I want
our guests to hear. I want you to tell the whole world what a slut
you are.’

‘
Yes
’,
she moans, her voice husky and raw. ‘
Yes, I am a slut, and I
love this. I don’t want it to stop
.’

He spanks her
harder for her confession and she squeals again, her cheeks
stinging profusely. She rocks back into him, and can feel the
tell-tale throbbing that means his orgasm is building. He
repositions his left hand so that he still controls her movements
with it, but is able to stroke her clitoris with his fingers. She
rubs herself against his hand frantically, then lets out a deep
growl and comes again. The contractions ripple through her arse and
set off his orgasm. He comes deep inside her with a grunt, and she
feels his cock throb as it releases his hot streams of semen into
her. She lets out a final moan and collapses under him, and his
cock slides out of her well-lubricated and very well-fucked arse;
her bonds, which had been stretched taut throughout their sex,
loosen now as their prisoner sprawls on the floor offering no
resistance.

She lies and
pants, satisfied and looking up at him now as she is allowed to do
once their act is over. He relaxes into a crouch to stroke her hair
and looks back at her appraisingly, proud of what she has achieved
tonight.

Behind them,
the audience bursts into a raucous round of applause.

Living across the road from a popular park has its
advantages. For one thing, trees, grass and flowers aren't exactly
in abundance in a big city, and being the country girl that I am, I
like to feel some connection to my roots. And so it has become my
habit of a Saturday afternoon to take a newspaper or whatever novel
I am reading to the park, stretch out in the sun, and enjoy a few
peaceful hours outside the cramped confines of my small flat. It's
an escape, albeit a small one, from the stresses and frustrations
of my life. It also offers some occasional entertainment.

Today the park
is pleasantly empty, with far fewer occupants than usual for a
Saturday. I stretch out on the grass in a spot where I am a few
metres away from the elaborate main fountain that is a centrepiece
of the park, shaded and hidden by a sprawling, ancient oak tree and
some shrubbery. Comfortable on my stomach, I rummage for my book,
and begin to read.

Despite my
engrossment in the novel, I eventually become aware of a splashing
noise that does not sound like it comes from the fountain's pumps.
I look up and see a young woman sitting alone on the edge of the
pool, running her fingers violently through the water, occasionally
splashing it onto the concrete surrounding the fountain in an act
of unconscious rebellion against some formerly controlling parent –
‘Don't play in the fountain!’

She appears
young, perhaps twenty. She is slim, dressed completely in black,
her bleached off-white hair mostly obscured by a knitted hat. Her
hair is chin-length, and the ends stick out wildly in all
directions as if fighting the oppression of the beanie. She gazes
moodily into the water, completely oblivious to the silent voyeur
who watches from a near distance. I alternate between reading my
book and watching her, noting that her face grows steadily stormier
as the minutes tick on. She begins to make little pacing journeys,
getting up to stamp around for a few seconds, then throwing herself
back down on the edge of the fountain. I wonder what could be
upsetting her so, and ponder whether I should get up and try to
offer some consolation. But what would I say?

After maybe ten
minutes, another young woman joins her. She stands up to greet her
companion, and they begin to speak rapidly. I can't make out any
words, but the voices that carry on the wind are the sounds of a
disagreement taking place – one soft and apologetic, the other low
and harsh. The newcomer is red-haired, the kind of bright fiery red
that can only come from a bottle. Her skin is luminously pale, and
she is dressed to flaunt her voluptuousness. Her curves threaten to
explode from her clothes at any moment, and I can’t help but notice
how the plump backside that faces me looks good enough to eat.

They sit down
together, close like confidantes, but still with the stiffness of
conflict unresolved. I return to my novel, slightly ashamed of
being so willing and eager to watch their emotional drama unfold.
I’m itching with curiosity about the two women and how their
disagreement will play itself out, and there’s more than a little
bit of car-crash fascination in watching a couple fight so
publicly, but I force myself to concentrate on the words in front
of me. Eventually, though, I give in to the temptation: the urge to
see how the argument will turn out makes me think of somebody
watching a soap opera. It's too hard to keep my eyes on my
book.