Lust and Longing Page 4

  ‘Here’s the game,’ she said, lightly tugging on his balls and watching his dick bounce up an inch or two as she did so. ‘I’m going to suck your cock, but you’re not going to come until I give the signal. The signal will be my thumb up your ass. Don’t be a pussy, you know you want it there.’

  ‘I can’t hold on,’ whimpered Simon. ‘If you go down on me I’ll come, I won’t be able to help it, you’re so horny, I’ve never been so arous–’

  ‘Save it,’ said Jenna. ‘You will be able to help it, because do you know what will happen if you come before I say so?’

  He bit his lip and shook his head. Jenna took his forefinger and bit it, hard, so that she left teethmarks around his knuckle. Simon winced.

  ‘It’s a little uncomfortable on your finger, but if I do that to your prick, you’re gonna scream so loud they’ll break the door down and then what will they find?’

  She looked up at him, folding her arms so that her tits were pushed together. A snail-trail of his pre-ejaculate still decorated her tits. Jenna leant forward, savouring the smell of him. As well as his own personal masculine aroma, she could also smell a trace of soap. As she took his dick between her lips, she imagined him that morning in the shower, soaping his cock and balls, unaware of the adventure he was about to have in his own office later that day. Jenna’s fellatio repertoire was extensive, ranging from the slow-burning softly-softly techniques to full-on deep throating. She judged that Simon had suffered enough and to treat him to one of her more intense blow jobs. Her mouth bore down on his hard-on as she took him as far into her mouth and down her throat as she could manage, defying her gag reflex so that the tip of his penis, the most sensitive part, was banging away at the back of her oesophagus and his balls slapped against her chin. He was trying not to come but he couldn’t help the odd thrust. She responded by sucking even harder, creating a vacuum that she knew would trip him over the edge.

  He let out an animal moan that told her his climax was seconds away, and she stopped in her tracks, withdrew his penis and bared her teeth, making a little man-trap with her teeth around the base of his cock. As Jenna scraped her incisors along his tender flesh, he somehow found the strength to hold back. Good Simon. He had passed the test. She decided to put him out of his misery and into the realms of pleasure. She resumed her suck-fuck technique, enjoying the way his stocky prick filled up her face, grabbing his ass cheeks with both hands and then suddenly inserting her thumb an inch or two into his rectum. The liquid shot into her mouth in three, four, five huge pumps and the moan Simon let out was one of the sexiest sounds Jenna had ever heard. Once again, Jenna relished the power of her control: I did that, she thought, as this powerful man was reduced to the status of a helpless animal and spunk dribbled down her chin. I made that happen.

  Easing her thumb out of Simon’s ass, which elicited a fresh wail, Jenna used her athletic ability to the full, and climbed onto the desk where Simon still stood. In her heels, she was exactly the same height as him. She had one last trick up her sleeve before the adventure was finished. She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his back and waist, some distant part of her mind realising that this was the first time their bodies had touched face-to-face like this, and leaned in for a kiss. When he realised that she was transferring all the cum from her mouth to his, he shook his head.

  But his reluctance just emboldened Jenna and she took a handful of his hair and yanked and his mouth dropped open. He swallowed hesitantly at first, then enthusiastically, finally lapping up the pearly strands that adorned Jenna’s face, arms and tits. She wiped his mouth with the tip of his own tie as though he were a child and elegantly slid down his body with her own mouth, easing herself off the desk, stopping to suck the last few drops of spunk from his spent and limp cock. Simon stood on the desk, dazed as though he had just been beamed down there out of the middle of nowhere. In the time it took him to come back to the real world, Jenna had dressed and smoothed her hair down, looking exactly as she had when she arrived.

  ‘I take it I’ll start tomorrow?’ she said, taking the key from the filing cabinet and holding it up. Simon panicked, scrambled down and grasped for his clothes while Jenna threatened to open the door and expose his nakedness. She waited until he was back behind his desk before letting herself out. She had just one parting shot.

  ‘When do I start?’

  Simon, in his tattered shirt and spunk-stained tie, swallowed hard before replying in a guttural voice that was a shadow of the strident tones which had first attracted Jenna, ‘Next Monday.’

  Jenna was so elated with her new job and her new slave that she half-skipped, half-ran along the corridor. She was barely looking where she was going when she rounded a corner and bumped head-first into a man in a suit. An electric shock travelled through her as their bodies collided the same way they had at the Opera House years before: her flesh recognised him a moment before her eyes did. But it was him: that tight, square jawline, that crop of hair, those hazel eyes … that firm, taut chest that she had just felt, for a split second, pressed against her tits.

  ‘It’s you!’ breathed Jenna, waiting for him to recognise her. She knew that in her suit and chignon she was a million miles away from the teenage rollergirl she used to be, but surely his body was responding just as hers was.

  There was nobody else in the corridor. She waited, smiling, for him to acknowledge her, to give her some secret sign that he hadn’t forgotten that first encounter. Her first and best slave, here, on the other side of the world. This was more than a coincidence: this was destiny.

  ‘I’m in a hurry, you stupid bitch,’ he said. ‘Can’t you look where you’re going?’ He shoved her to one side, stalking down the long corridor without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JENNA WASTED NO time in establishing a base in London. Her first move was to get a place of her own to live. She couldn’t crash on Jacqueline’s futon forever and besides, she did not want to jeopardise her only friendship in London by letting sex get in the way – and the sight of tiny, fragile Jacqueline curled up in bed, eating toast in only her T-shirt or slipping into the shower after a night of submission was turning Jenna on so much that she knew that, if she stayed, sex, or play, would definitely be on the cards.

  Jenna used the week-long window between landing the job and starting it to do four important things. Find a flat. Join a gym. Buy a bike. And find somewhere to party.

  Finding a flat was easy. She simply walked into the first estate agents that she liked the look of. She told the young man behind the desk, an eager, greasy little guy with mousy-coloured hair twisted into hard little spikes, which exposed his pale scalp, that she was looking to move into somewhere within the next 24 hours. She didn’t give him a chance to give her the hard sell, just told him what she wanted, the kind of apartment she was looking for, and the areas she was prepared to live in. She also made it clear that she had enough money to pay a deposit and her first month’s rent in cash.

  Jenna took the second flat she saw: a clean, spacious studio apartment on the top floor of a converted warehouse – modern and functional where Jacqueline’s bedsit had been tumbledown and make-do. She swept an approving eye over the original wooden floorboards, the whitewashed walls, the high ceilings and the full-length windows of panelled glass which afforded a view over the rooftops, warehouses and bars of South London. Even better, the apartment was directly opposite a sleek modern gym. Across the street and a couple of storeys below her, she could see the rows of treadmills being pounded by gym-bunnies, and the chrome of the weights machines glinting in the sun. Perfect.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she told the agent, who was looking at her with an expression she recognised. Jenna knew she could have had him there and then – perhaps he was not used to dealing with women who were so brisk and businesslike. He was clearly getting off on her control and authority. But his suit was too cheap, he was too eager, it was too easy. Yesterday, she had had one of the most senior personnel office
rs in the House of Commons fucking her face and begging to be allowed to come, not to mention that second-chance encounter with the man from the Opera House. Jenna was on to bigger and better men now.

  She took a cab back to Jacqueline’s studio, where it took her five minutes to pack her case. She left a thank-you note with her mobile number by the sleeping girl’s bedside, kissed her soft pale skin and inhaled her slumbery aroma. On the street, she hailed a cab and was living in her new apartment within an hour. She took off her shoes and revelled in the pure white light that bounced off the walls in this modern little sanctuary high above the city.

  Before long she was over the road at the gym, paying a membership fee upfront and insisting that she got the introductory tour of the gym right now.

  ‘You’re keen, aren’t you?’ said the girl behind reception, eyeing the sports bag that contained Jenna’s gym kit.

  ‘I don’t see the point in wasting time,’ replied Jenna. ‘And besides, I’m dying for a workout.’

  It was company policy to assign new members a personal trainer to show them how the machines worked and devise a fitness plan. Jenna, who understood exercise equipment perfectly, as training was part of maintaining her dom’s physique, was frustrated by this, preferring to be independent even when it came to exercise. But she changed her mind when she met her trainer: Barrington was a tall Jamaican with broad shoulders, huge arms, a perfectly flat stomach and an ass like two beachballs. His hair was dreadlocked and twisted into a pineapple shape on top of his head, and when he smiled a platinum-capped canine tooth flashed under the harsh strip lighting of the gym. Jenna instantly warmed to his no-nonsense, brisk style of instruction as he put her through her paces on the treadmill.

  ‘OK, Jenna,’ said Barrington, as he fitted the belt that measured her heart rate around her rib cage under her breasts. It was the first time she’d been touched so intimately for weeks, and she felt a pang of longing for another person’s hands on her flesh, which she instantly managed to subdue. ‘I just want to see what you can do, then we can work out a programme for you. I’d like you to run on this treadmill, exerting yourself just enough so that you’re out of breath.’ Jenna accepted the challenge, enjoying the old familiar sensation of running fast as her legs pumped and her feet pounded the black conveyer belt. She let the loud dance music that blared out through the speakers dictate her pace, and did not falter when Barrington turned up the speed and then the incline of the treadmill so that she was running hard, fast, and effectively uphill. It was the first serious exercise Jenna had done in over a week: it felt so good to flex her body as well as her mind. She felt the cooped-up tension of her 24-hour flight melt away.

  ‘So, Barrington,’ said Jenna, ‘how long have you been at this gym?’ Barrington grinned. Jenna noticed this time that his front tooth had a tiny chip which gave this big, muscular man a desperately sexy air of vulnerability.

  ‘You’re good,’ he told her. ‘Most people are red in the face or struggling for breath running at the pace and incline I’ve given you, but you’re still chatting as easily as though you were strolling. You’re obviously used to training hard.’

  ‘I do everything hard,’ said Jenna, looking Barrington in the eye and returning his smile. Again, she was recognising a kind of kindred spirit, but Barrington was not somebody she wanted to dominate, he was one of her kind. Tough. Disciplined. Ambitious. His reply confirmed what she had thought.

  ‘I’ve only been in this line of work for a couple of years,’ said Barrington. ‘I was in the army for six years before that. I used to put the cadets through their paces at boot camp. And now I’m here. I tell you what, I’ll look forward to training you.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was going to pay you to be my trainer,’ replied Jenna indignantly.

  ‘Yes, but you will, won’t you?’ said Barrington, annoyingly sure of himself.

  ‘Let’s see what you can do with me first,’ said Jenna.

  The next 90 minutes were an adrenalin-charged test of Jenna’s physical endurance. She did 50 press-ups, 100 stomach crunches and lifted weights far heavier than any iron she’d pumped before. She came alive and responded to Barrington barking direct, army-style instructions. After an hour and a half she was shaking and had to admit she couldn’t take any more. She had forgotten that the feeling you get after a really intense workout is similar to the one you get after a really intense orgasm; your mind is completely clear, your body is utterly spent and satisfied, and your limbs feel like milk and honey.

  ‘OK, Barrington,’ said Jenna. ‘You’re hired.’ And then, as she put her damp hand in Barrington’s large, warm dry one and shook it: ‘You don’t know where I can get a motorbike, do you?’

  She signed a contract with Barrington, followed his directions to the showroom and bought herself the latest model Suzuki with the same snap-judgment determination she’d chosen her flat earlier that day. She would have loved to have bought a leather biker suit but settled for a crash helmet. She got to know the bike’s weight and swing as she powered through the London streets, which were already beginning to feel like home.

  The next few days were spent shopping, working out and exploring the city on foot but mostly by bike. Jenna would often cruise the streets around the Houses of Parliament and fantasise about the new life she was about to embark upon.

  But by Saturday, Jenna had begun to feel odd. It was some time before she identified the vague, hollow feeling in her abdomen as loneliness. She was too proud to call Jacqueline, not wanting to appear desperate. No, she would do what she had done in Sydney and carve out her own niche. She flipped open her laptop and googled ‘fetish scene’. The list of clubs that swam before her eyes was so extensive it was impossible to take it all in at once, so Jenna decided to refine her search and added the words ‘dominatrix wanted’.

  To her delight, the first result in her list was an invitation for dominant women to come and play that very evening. There was even a picture of the club interior: stainless steel and dark black brick gave the place a bleak, sleazy, industrial feel, but as Jenna clicked on more pictures she saw that there were also private rooms decked out in plush, dark red velvet and wrought-iron furniture, twisted metal chandeliers giving the place a gothic edge. Most thrilling of all was the picture which showed a huge cage on a raised podium in the middle of the dancefloor. Tiny thumbnail pictures showed masters and servants embroiled in power play there, faces obscured by masks or pixelated by the web designer. Jenna was pleased to note that the bodies engaged in acts of torture and sexual coupling before her were for the most part good-looking people with young, toned, lithe bodies like her own. Her eye was drawn particularly to one image of a pale, slim, naked male body lying prone on the floor of the cage, his arms and legs splayed, his erect prick deliciously vulnerable. Standing over him was a shaven-headed Asian woman, resplendent in a red PVC bra, from which hung a chainmail skirt which only just covered her thighs and afforded a tantalising glimpse of her pussy. She wore matching scarlet boots that laced up over her knee, a spiked heel pressed into the man’s chest. Jenna’s pussy began to throb as she imagined herself in those clothes, standing over that man, having him gaze up at her cunt while her heel dug into his flesh, finding the soft spot between two of his ribs and pressing down just enough to make him see who was boss. Jenna’s fingers travelled idly down her body, and she slid her right hand into her panties, wondering if she should get herself off. It would be so easy to gratify herself, but if she ended up going out tonight she wanted to leave some tension in her body. She sniffed her fingers before going back to the keyboard, inhaling the tangy juices which hinted at the pent-up tension she could release if she went out tonight.

  She clicked back to the homepage. Her heart soared when she noticed the address; the club was based in Westminster, not far from the office where she was to work. The place was sure to be swarming with public-school-educated, kinky, dirty British men just desperate for a taste of her own brand of Aussie-Amazonian domination. Jenna th
ought it would be very, very easy to make the right kind of friends here.

  She showered, washed her hair, shaved her legs, underarms and all of her pussy, shivering with desire as the blade skimmed the soft folds of her cunt and revealed flesh that was tender and sensitive. Then she chose her outfit carefully. She wanted to wear something that would highlight her unique selling point: her toned athletic body, her brown sinewy limbs full of strength, rare in women on the scene. Jenna knew that she would be up against the usual pale, hourglass-figured women who could pour their generous curves into constricting corsets giving their bodies a dramatic outline that she could never hope to compete with. But few other women would possess her nut-brown skin, her muscular thighs, the washboard stomach as hard as modelling clay, the gym-honed glutes which gave her a high, round ass, the breasts which were full and firm without breaking up the beautiful streamlined sinew of her silhouette.

  Jenna chose her warrior princess outfit: an attention-grabbing, traffic-stopping, made-to-measure ensemble which screamed ‘I’m in charge’. It was a bra made of beaten metal, a double breastplate of dull bronze which encased her firm flesh and created a shelf for the perfect, round symmetry of her tits. No matter how hard and erect Jenna’s nipples got, it wouldn’t show. The bottom half of her costume was a chunky bronze belt fringed with red leather straps which covered just enough of her ass and pussy to justify the name ‘skirt’. But only just. A gusset of pale red leather, like a tongue, covered her denuded cunt.

  The gladiator-style leather sandals were laced up her knees, but no gladiator had ever worn shoes with platforms this high, or with heels this spiked. In this footwear, Jenna was over six feet tall, towering above the men, just the way she liked it. Copper cuffs at her wrists and around her neck completed the look. Jenna let her dark brown hair dry naturally, and it fell in wild snaky tangles around her shoulders. She wore no makeup; let the burlesque girls paint their lips red and line their eyes with kohl. She wanted her body, not her face, to stop the men in their tracks tonight. As the sky darkened, the tall windows in Jenna’s apartment became a mirror, the panelled glass pixelating her reflection. She saw a fragmented image of a strong brown body which said, ‘Don’t fuck with me.’ She threw a long black coat over her costume, and was ready to go.