Lust and Longing Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Jenna leads a double life: by day she’s a government researcher; by night she’s one of the hottest dominatrixes on the London fetish scene. When she starts working for Alexander Louth, a young, arrogant MP, her sex life spills over into her professional life. Alex and Jenna’s shared passion makes overtime at the office a unique experience...

  Provocative and erotic, Lust and Longing ensures that nothing remains a secret any more.

  I travel the world collecting true stories of sex and seduction: women confide in me, and I write everything down in my red leather journal. My favourite stories, the most sexy and inspirational confessions, are the ones I publish.

  Jenna’s story is one of my favourites: her adventure spanned the world and involved money, power, lust and indulgence – all fabulous ingredients for a life lived to its limits. Jenna was obsessed with power, both in the bedroom and the boardroom. But when she met Alexander, this dynamic, decadent dominatrix found that sometimes it’s good to receive as well as to give.

  I hope that Jenna’s story inspires you to step out of your usual sexual role and push your limits. The potential rewards are orgasmic!

  Happy reading,

  Love,

  Madame B x

  CHAPTER ONE

  JENNA WAS 17 when she had her first taste of power. It was a hot December day, perfect rollerblading weather, and she was soaking up the Sydney heat in her bikini top and a pair of cut-off denims. She skated figure eights on the smooth pavements of Circular Quay, aware of but not acknowledging the admiring glances she and her friends drew from tourists and commuters on the ferries that pulled in and out of the harbour. Jenna loved the freedom that her blades gave her, and soon skated away from her friends and around the other side of the quay to the Opera House, whose white roofs bounced the sunshine back onto Jenna’s bronzed skin.

  Cocky, over-confident, she tried skating with her hands behind her back, skating backwards, taking corners with her eyes closed, zipping in and out of the sweeping nooks and alcoves of this unique building. Dangerously close to the curved edge of the Opera House, Jenna raised her left leg a little and wheeled around into a blind spot. She smacked into a strange man, making full body-to-body contact. He was dressed as conservatively as Jenna was casual, and she felt the buttons of his shirt and the stiff silk of his tie against her nearly naked torso. She also had time to register a broad, muscular body and flat stomach. Her blades added inches to her height, so she was around six feet tall: she was at eye level with this guy and she could feel something else too, even for the split second she was there, a hardening in the crotch that was level with her thigh. As she pushed herself back, disentangled her long, dark, sea-salt and wind-ruffled hair from his shoulders, she looked him in the eye. He was younger than she’d thought, only in his early twenties, despite the clothes that were designed for a man twice that age. He was a hottie, she realised, with a square jaw and hazel eyes framed by thick, light-brown hair which curled a little in the heat.

  But it wasn’t his looks that were stirring a new and overwhelming feeling in Jenna. It was the look in his eyes. A potent combination of both panic and arousal. She was young, he knew she knew he had a hard-on, he was still half-entangled in public with a semi-naked teenager and he was clearly freaked out as well as horny. This gave Jenna a taste of something new, delicious and addictive: power. This man was at her mercy. And she liked it.

  A pulse began to hammer between her legs and she was conscious of goosebumps developing on her golden skin and her nipples stiffening as if they were cold, even though the sun was beating down on her. Something primal, something programmed deep into her before she was born, made her speak. Although she had never uttered words like these aloud before, she felt as though she were finding her voice for the very first time.

  ‘Is your prick hard?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow, a rhetorical question since the bulge in the guy’s trousers was all the evidence she needed. He gulped and nodded. The prick in question swelled again behind tailored linen.

  ‘Get it out.’ He shook his head. Jenna put her hands on her hips, stuck out her tits, enjoying his total lack of control over his body.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Get it out. I want to see it. I’ve never seen one before.’ This was only half true. Jenna had plenty of experience, fumbles in the dark with high-school boyfriends, and she knew what it felt like to have a dick in her, to hold one in her hand, although she had never felt inclined to examine one at close quarters. She had wondered, at those times, what all the fuss was about. But this feeling of power over a total stranger was provoking urgent, hot changes in her body which were new and welcome: this, she suddenly knew, was the buzz people were talking about.

  ‘I’m not asking, I’m telling,’ said Jenna, discovering to her delight that the bossier she got, the more intense this warm wet feeling between her legs grew. ‘Take your right hand, undo your fly, and take your dick out of the trousers.’ Glancing around to check they could not be seen, the guy did as Jenna told him. His hand was shaking as he fumbled with his belt buckle and unzipped himself. Jenna admired the sturdy, peach-coloured stick of flesh that continued to grow before her eyes, watching appreciatively as the angle of his hard-on grew smaller until it was bolt upright, almost touching his belly.

  His trousers rode down around his hips, creeping further towards his knees. He could not have run away even if he wanted to. This further emboldened Jenna.

  ‘Stroke it,’ she said. ‘Make it bigger for me.’ Whimpering and shaking his head, the man appeared to refuse, but his dilated pupils and an erection that still seemed to be swelling and rising told another story. The stranger in the suit brought his hand to his dick, making a loose fist and wrapping his fingers over the head of his penis, pulling back the foreskin to reveal a proud, round helmet. A droplet of clear juice glistened on the very tip, and Jenna bent down to examine it further. She was so close that her breath caressed his skin, and she observed as another tiny trickle of liquid emerged from the tip of his cock. I did that, she thought, and when she stood upright again, she was surprised to find that she had slid her hand underneath her bikini top without realising it, and her fingertips were making circles around her swelling nipples. She pinched her breast, to clarify her thoughts as well as to increase her arousal.

  She locked eyes with him and felt herself grow wetter. She had never seen an expression like it. The mixture of fear and desire left no doubt that he was enjoying himself as much as Jenna herself – was just as excited by this sudden, random, horny encounter as she was. The difference was, she was the one in control.

  ‘It’s good,’ she murmured in a low whisper and casting a glance of mock disgust at his perfect prick, ‘but I think it could get bigger.’ Now it was his turn to speak.

  ‘Please … oh, this is torture,’ he cried, and she realised for the first time that he was not Australian: his accent was British, more clipped and distinct than hers. His voice carried years of history and discipline and good schooling: Jenna thought of him in a school uniform like the boys from the privileged public schools she’d read about, and the wetness between her legs warmed the gusset of her panties.

  ‘Please,’ he was saying, ‘just touch me, you don’t have to take it in your mouth, just put your hand on it.’
r />   Jenna shook her head, glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone and skated a sweeping circle around the guy. The only part of herself she allowed to touch him were dark tendrils of hair blowing across his face like dozens of tiny whips. He reached out to touch her, but she was too quick for him. She skated backwards out of his reach. Somehow, she knew he wouldn’t move. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hands above her head and executed a perfect twirl in front of him, letting her shorts ride up so that he could see the line where her legs joined her ass, stretching her arms so that her bikini top rode up, displaying the underside of her breast, threatening to reveal her nipple but not quite doing so. As she lowered her arms and pressed them together to deepen her cleavage, the guy’s hand moved faster and faster over his twitching dick.

  ‘Slow down,’ said Jenna. ‘It’s not over till I say so.’ Where the hell were these words coming from? She’d never heard people speak to each other like that before, but she felt as though she were reading from a script that was written down somewhere in the back of her mind. And saying them felt good. Especially when he bowed his head and murmured something that sounded like, ‘Yes, mistress.’

  Instinctively Jenna knew that there was a delicate art to what she was trying to do. Overdo it, and he would come before she gave him permission to. Be too lenient with him, and she would lose the authority that was getting them both off so much. Arching and twisting her young body so that he was visually stimulated while he wanked, she watched his face for signs of surrender. When she thought he was about to reach the point of no return, she acted. With a simple flick of a ribbon, Jenna released the halterneck of her bikini top so that her breasts were exposed. First one breast then the other was on show but stayed firm and pert without the support of the bra, two perfect teardrops topped by pinky-brown nipples that seemed to point up towards the sky.

  ‘Now,’ she said, watching the guy’s face crumple like a ball of paper as he came, his features contorted as his dick bounced and twitched, sending a jet of warm white liquid into the air, some of it landing on Jenna’s breasts. After his five seconds of ecstasy had subsided, his face became smooth and unlined again, as though someone had unscrewed the paper and returned it to its virgin state. Jenna thought, as she fastened her bikini and covered her breasts again, that she had never really known somebody look quite so at peace and content. Or so beautiful. Seconds after that, panic of quite a different kind returned as he realised that he had just shot his load over a complete stranger, and that somehow she had made him do it. He began to stammer an explanation.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, I don’t know what came over me …’

  ‘I think you’ll find that you’re the one that came over me,’ said Jenna with a wink. ‘Go on, fuck off out of here.’ The suited stranger obeyed this final order with haste, tucking his still-swollen dick back into his trousers, post-cum dribbles already staining the fabric on the inside of his thigh. He disappeared around the corner of the curved building, and was gone.

  Jenna leaned back on the sun-warmed white tiles of the Opera House. She could not think at all, she could only feel. Her tits felt heavy and tender, her pussy so swollen and sensitive that it hurt when she closed her legs and her whole body felt as though it was in motion. From a distance, an observer would have assumed that the lone teenage girl rocking backwards and forwards was moving in time to a song played through headphones. They could not have known that she was squeezing her thighs together, letting her pussy lips massage her clitoris, until the roaring in her ears subsided and juices flooded her shorts as she succumbed to her first orgasm, while the image of the anonymous stranger’s helpless, beautiful face danced before her eyes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE GAP BETWEEN finding out what turned her on and finding similar souls with the same tastes was a short one. She plucked up the courage to walk into a sex shop in Oxford Street and picked up a couple of magazines and flyers with pictures of the kind of woman she wanted to become: PVC-clad, or whip-wielding women in fabulous, skin-tight outfits who radiated confidence, fun, and adventurousness – but most importantly of all, power. These women were unafraid to meet the camera’s gaze, their defiant, heavily made-up eyes inviting her into their world. She was so nervous that she could barely meet the shop assistant’s eye and shuffled out with the stack of magazines and flyers tucked underneath her arm, which she slipped inside a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald. Back home in her bedroom, she opened the cover of the first magazine, and what she saw aroused her so much so quickly that a little damp patch appeared on her panties before the page was even fully turned. It was a picture of a woman dressed in a metallic catsuit, the tips of her tits poking through slashes in the fabric. She was feeding a bulbous nipple to a naked and blindfolded man who knelt before her. Jenna’s fingers found their way to the nub of her clitoris, her thumb stroking the tiny bud while forefingers made themselves into a tiny penis and jabbed in and out of her slippery slit. From first seeing the photograph to the moment she had an orgasm probably took about 15 seconds. She was hooked.

  For two weeks, Jenna locked herself in her room, reading the magazines from cover to cover, absorbing every picture, touching herself as she read. She liked to read them sitting cross-legged, naked but for the only pair of high-heeled shoes she owned, one hand squeezing and pinching her tits, rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger while the other hand flicked and rubbed at her clit. She used the paperclips that bound her college essays to clamp her nipples so that they felt numb – and then super-alive when she tore them off again. She fucked herself with the handle of her hairbrush, astonished at how wet she could get time after time after time.

  She absorbed everything, words as well as images, learning that there was an entire parallel universe where people went to play games of power and submission, restraint and bondage. She learned that some women were naturally submissive, and loved to be dominated by men who played at being merciless, unflinching masters, while other women only felt true sexual gratification if they were the ones wielding all the power, who love to bring men to their knees, and command orgasms. No prizes for guessing which camp Jenna fell into. She was happy to find that if you were a woman submissive, also known as the sub, or a bottom, there were plenty of willing masters (or mistresses; many women enjoyed being dominated by other women), but that if you were a dominatrix, or a dom, or a top, then the supply of men willing to put their sexuality in your hands is almost limitless. Jenna knew that just reading the magazines was not enough. She had to go to one of these clubs, find these people, and become one of them. She laid the flyers on her bed like a deck of tarot cards and selected the one with the image she liked the most – a man’s naked back decorated with a latticework of whip marks.

  Jenna dressed for her first night wearing her usual denim cut-offs teamed with the high-heeled shoes which she wore daily when she spent hours bringing herself to orgasm, and a corset that she had found in a charity shop which cinched her athletic torso into an hourglass shape. She ringed her eyes with dark kohl and shook out her hair so that it became a wild, dark mane. Posing in front of her bedroom mirror, she had felt powerful and confident, but as she approached the entrance to the club, she began to feel nervous. What if her jean shorts made her look like a novice? Would anyone laugh at her? Would she be allowed to play the dominatrix on her first night – would anyone even let her watch, see how it was done?

  She stood outside the location on the flyer, a doorway in a side street lined with office blocks on the south side of Sydney, hardly an area you would associate with deviant sexual activity. After inhaling and exhaling deeply, she pushed her way through and stepped into her new world for the first time.

  The black-walled club was only a few square metres wide, and the dancefloor little bigger than her bathroom at home, but it was rammed with people she instantly recognised as kindred spirits. She could smell the rubber, leather and plastic of the clothes people wore here. Black shiny substances abounded, as did
human flesh. Jenna had never seen so much skin displayed in so many different ways, so many pairs of trousers with cut-outs for the buttocks, crotchless panties, peephole bras … all the exotic finery she had seen in her magazines was suddenly paraded before her in a live fashion show. People were friendly and said hello, but she was intrigued to realise that although the whole point of the club was for sexual expression, she actually felt less leered at and hit upon than she would in an average city-centre bar.

  As she nursed her drink, a Jack Daniels and coke, a girl not much older than Jenna with a shaved head, multiple piercings in her ears and wearing only a single length of black tape wound around her slim frame, smiled at her.

  ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’ said this entrancing creature in a strong New Zealand accent. Jenna could only nod shyly. ‘I’d recognise that look anywhere. I’ve only been coming here for about six months myself, and the first time I came in I was so nervous I hid behind a curtain in the first hour and a half. But I’ll save you the trouble of doing that. It’s a great crowd – let me introduce you to some people.’ She pointed to a booth in the corner where a collection of bodies were drinking and laughing, draped over each other. They didn’t stay still long enough for Jenna to count them, but she guessed there were six or so people, all young, all beautiful, all barely dressed. The sight of their bodies pressed up against each other and limbs casually intertwined almost made Jenna lose her breath. She shrugged off her uncharacteristic shyness.

  ‘Sure, that would be great. I’m Jenna, by the way.’ The shaven-headed girl held out her hand and Jenna shook it.

  ‘I’m Kristin,’ said her new friend, interlacing her fingers through Jenna’s and leading her over to the corner booth. ‘Come and meet the gang.’

  The others turned out to be fellow students of Kristin’s from the University of Sydney. Jenna was drawn to one of the guys, Mark, although she couldn’t have said why. He was not exceptional-looking, and his vest and jeans outfit was positively conservative compared to his friends’ clothes. But there was a vulnerability about him which attracted her. Jenna liked the way he kept pushing his glasses further up his nose as they kept falling down, and the way his quiff was wilting in the heat of the club. Conversation flitted between talking about their university course, intriguing gossip about people Jenna didn’t know and, of course, sex. Eventually, as she had known they would, they asked her what she was into.