Tie Me Up Read online

  TIE ME UP

  A collection of twenty erotic stories

  Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2012

  ISBN 9781909335615

  Copyright © Xcite Books 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

  The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors’ imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  Contents

  Skin Deep Cathryn Cooper

  Jane’s Bonds Shanna Germain

  Tiger, Tiger Paige Roberts

  Black And White Photos Sommer Marsden

  My First Time Eva Hore

  Party Games Jim Baker

  Dangerous Games Eva Hore

  Fantasy DMW Carol

  Picket Fence Sommer Marsden

  Change Of Life Cathryn Cooper

  La Cage Aux Folles Kaycie Wolfe

  Travel Broadens The Mind Kirsten Schubinski

  After Hours Kristina Wright

  In The Saddle Primula Bond

  Under The Oak Penelope Friday

  Festival Cyanne

  Mistress Of All She Surveys Carmel Lockyer

  Teaching Derek Primula Bond

  Political Prey Jim Baker

  Maid To Misbehave Stephen Albrow

  Skin Deep

  by Cathryn Cooper

  The boy was beautiful. He’d come to stay at the insistence of a relative.

  ‘Francis needs somewhere to stay – it’ll only be for a while. Besides, it will do you good. Make you behave yourself instead of using these women the way you do.’

  His aunt had been insistent. She was old and wealthy and he had no intention of upsetting her.

  She was right of course; he did treat women badly. He expected and got total submission. They’d nibble his toenails if he asked them to. He was handsome, rich and never lacking for female company – physical contact only. Nothing emotional. He preferred variety for the sort of sex he enjoyed.

  The boy was an encumbrance he would learn to live with. Shut him away in a room in the east wing, and that would be that. Or so he thought.

  The boy, a lad of not much more than sixteen it seemed, had other ideas. Everywhere Carew went, Francis was there at his elbow.

  At first it annoyed him, but over a period of weeks something happened; for a start he registered just how attractive the boy was. His hair was dark blond, soft and silky, falling over his temple in a gentle wave. His eyes were of the rarest blue and fringed with dark lashes. His lips held the sensuous lines of a courtesan, full, wide and the colour of crushed rose petals.

  In the beginning he had sought to escape the boy’s company, but as time went on he found, much to his unease, that he sought the boy out, missing him when he wasn’t around. And that smile! That soft hand easing into his, the round bottom, the hairless chin and even the scent of the lad were intoxicating.

  At night he dreamed; wet dreams that he’d been inserting his cock between boyish cheeks, kissing that sweet, girlish mouth. His desires sickened but also tantalised.

  His friends began to notice.

  ‘Are you turning the other way?’ asked one of his friends. ‘It’s been noticed that you’re spending more time with the lad than with the ladies.’

  Carew fixed him with an icy glare. ‘How would you like your nose rearranged?’

  The friend had laughed and pretended it was all just a joke, but Carew knew it wasn’t. They had noticed his behaviour and losing face worried him. His reputation as super-stud was at risk. It embarrassed him. He had to do something about it.

  Priscilla Palmer-Tovey arrived at ThompsonTowers on the dot of seven. Like any parson’s daughter, Prissy was polite, punctual and, although not exactly plain, she wasn’t beautiful either. Carew watched her walk up the drive, straighten her hat and smooth her dress before she rang the bell. Priscilla was neat in dress but not prim when she was out of it, and at times that suited him very well indeed.

  He smiled and drained the lingering dregs of whisky from his glass.

  There followed a gentle knock on the door to his private sitting room which was on the first floor and had high lead-paned windows and wainscot panelling. Imran, his servant entered, bowing before making his announcement.

  ‘Miss Priscilla Palmer-Tovey, sir.’

  ‘As her to come up, and, Imran, tell Master Francis that I wish to see him.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  He poured himself another drink to help drown the confusion deep in his groin. He loved women. He knew he did, so why did the boy unnerve him so much and make him think otherwise?

  ‘Don’t worry, old chap,’ he muttered to himself. ‘With Priscilla’s assistance, it will be confirmed before the boy’s very eyes. He’ll not mistake your meaning, old boy. He’ll get the message that you want no more of those doe eyes and come-on looks. Good God, didn’t you leave all that behind you at boarding school?’

  e’ll not mistake your meaning, old boy. He’ll get the message that you want no more of those doe eyes and come-on looks. Good God, didnGood

  A peel of laughter preceded Priscilla’s entrance. She rushed into his arms, her face flushed and hot beneath his lips.

  ‘Darling, Roo,’ she gushed, her eyes as bright as a child’s on Christmas morning. ‘How marvellous it is to see you again.’

  She smelt of lavender and cabbage roses and her dress seemed a mixed bag of the same – pretty, floral and as busy as a cottage garden.

  He smiled. ‘Prissy. It’s nice to see you too. I’m really glad you could come.’

  Prissy’s eyebrows rose. She looked surprised. ‘Why, darling Roo. How kind of you. I’ve never heard you say that to me before.’

  Now, thought Carew, I’ve truly spoken out of character. I never tell her it’s nice to see her. Will she suspect I have a specific purpose in mind – a more urgent purpose than usual?

  He smiled casually into the round face, the pale eyes and freckled nose. No, he decided, Prissy would not suspect. Like a hungry cat, she would lap up any titbit of affection he threw her and, as always, she would be malleable to his wishes.

  He made an effort to control his body and make it as it always was when she appeared – rigid, unbending. All the moves were hers, all the pleasure would be his.

  She ran her hands over him, her breath coming in quick, short gasps as she explored his hard chest, his tight stomach and the hot mound in his trousers. Her hand was still rolling over it when Imran returned.

  Francis, eyes downcast, was right behind him. Immediately on his entering the room, something stirred beneath the hand of the parson’s daughter. Carew was very aware of it. So was Priscilla. Her eyes opened very wide. With a tremendous surge of willpower, Carew reverted to polite protocol in order to disguise Francis’s effect on him.

  ‘Ah, Francis. I have someone here I would like you to meet.’

  He spoke stiffly, moving his body away from the touch of Prissy’s hand.

  Priscilla greed Francis politely, but Carew wanted more. Grasping her shoulders he nudged her forward.

  ‘Don’t you think Francis is a good-looking young man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he’s shy,’ said Carew, ‘and you, my darling Prissy, are going to help him get over his shyness. We’re going to show him something that will warm his blood. I guarantee he’ll never be shy again – especially with women.’

  In response to his fingers, Prissy’s nipple pushed against t
he bodice of her dress.

  Carew ordered the boy to sit and watch. Without being ordered, Imran came forward and stood beside the brown leather chair in which Carew sat down.

  He smiled at Priscilla. ‘Well, my dear Prissy, let us show this virgin youth exactly what a woman can do for a man, and exactly what a man can do for a woman.’

  With an ecstatic expression on her face, Prissy dropped to her knees between Carew’s legs and began undoing her dress buttons. Generous breasts begged for release against the confining pinkness of her bra. Pushing the cups down, she brought out first one breast then the other, the nipples as big as cherries.

  Priscilla’s breasts disappeared between Carew’s knees as she leaned forward, her hands clasping the arms of his chair. With admirable dexterity, she undid his trouser zip with her teeth.

  Carew glanced at Francis. The boy was bug-eyed; no doubt he’d be playing with himself given half a chance – that is if he were inclined towards women, a fact Carew was not at all sure of.

  He gave Imran the nod. As Priscilla snuffled to get his cock into her mouth, Imran’s brown hands bound her wrists to the chair arms with what looked to be leather dog collars.

  Priscilla was positively guzzling at his erection, licking the end, tickling the opening with the tip of her tongue.

  Carew threw back his head and moaned in satisfaction. Wondering whether the boy was having an erection, he looked over at Francis and met his eyes, saw the flush of his cheeks and wondered anew…

  Another nod from him and Imran lifted Priscilla’s skirt, folded it around her waist and pulled down her knickers.

  Priscilla squealed as Imran guided his firm, brown rod into the folded crescent of flesh poking out from beneath her thighs.

  ‘In,’ said Carew, his voice steady despite his fast breathing. ‘Out,’ he said.

  So directed, Imran thrust and repeated on demand.

  ‘Is she very wet?’ he asked.

  Imran nodded.

  ‘She’s aching for it. But you’re not having it all yet, Prissy. Not until you take more of my cock into your throat. Do you understand?’

  Prissy understood alright. He knew her well. Knew what she liked and what she was capable of.

  With both hands, he manipulated Prissy’s head so that her movements were suited to his pleasure. As he did so his eyes never left the face of the boy he knew as Francis.

  ‘Now,’ he said to Imran. ‘Give it to her hard NOW!’

  As Imran increased the speed of his thrusts, Carew pressed Priscilla’s head more firmly into his lap. ‘Suck! Suck me dry!’

  He turned to Francis. ‘Go on boy. Feel her. Press your hand between her legs and she’ll come. Go on. Now!’

  Francis stared round-eyed but did nothing.

  Carew was furious. The moment he had withdrawn from Priscilla’s mouth, he zipped up his fly leaving Imran to unbuckle the woman from the chair arms.

  ‘Get out,’ he said to both of them. ‘I want to speak to Francis alone.’

  ‘You disobeyed me. Why was that?’

  The boy’s cheeks were pink with embarrassment. His eyes glistened as though the shocked stare was there to stay.

  ‘I…’ he began, then swallowed. ‘I didn’t want to. Not with her.’ And then that smile again.

  With me! That’s what he means! With me!

  ‘That is that!’ shouted Carew, his emotions in more disarray than his clothes. ‘You’ve tried my patience enough. It’s time you learned not to be so provocative towards me. I won’t have it. Do you hear me? I won’t have it!’

  Francis rose slowly from the chair. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’

  ‘You didn’t mean! You didn’t mean!’

  This was all too much. He couldn’t go on feeling like this. It had to be thrashed out of the boy physically. There was no alternative, not if he was to keep his own sanity.

  Before the boy could make a run for it, he grabbed his wrists, yanked him to his feet and dragged him over to the window. The curtains were held back with multi-coloured ropes; he used one of these to bind the boy’s wrists together. He threw the end over the overhead rail and tied it firmly in place. He tied him facing the window, anything rather than have those blue eyes beseeching him to desist.

  ‘Please, sir…’ pleaded Francis.

  Carew heard him, but something about the boy’s tone did not ring true. He couldn’t help but get the impression that the boy was pleading for more, not to be released.

  Carew clenched his jaw in anger. This confusion, he’d endured; this pain of enticement to an act unnatural to his true nature. The lad was infuriating! So he thought this would be pleasurable did he?

  Smiling, he took a bundle of ornamental twigs from a tall urn and bound them together with sticky tape. The tape gave him an idea.

  ‘Sir, are you really going to…’

  Before Francis could say anything further, before the melodic voice and the big blue eyes could get under his skin, Carew placed a length of tape over the soft pink lips. He considered the eyes too, but thought better of it. It was the boy’s voice that got to him.

  ‘I’ll teach you,’ he said as much to himself as to the boy.

  His hands trembled as he undid the boy’s trousers and pulled them down. The smell of youthful flesh resurrected his flagging penis. He slapped at it, thinking it would go down. It didn’t.

  Fixing his gaze on the plump, round bottom, he reached for the bundle of twigs.

  Concentrate. Don’t look at his loins.

  The twigs made a whooshing sound as they flew through the air. Francis jerked as they landed across the smooth flesh.

  Carew didn’t stop but raised them for a second, a third and a fourth time. Not until he’d landed six strokes did he pause to study his handiwork. What had been white flesh was now criss-crossed with pink stripes. With trembling fingers he touched what he would once have regarded as taboo territory. The flesh was so soft, so beautiful. He had a terrible urge to release his swollen member, perhaps running it between the lovely cheeks.

  He groaned and closed his eyes. His worst nightmare! He desired a boy!

  When he opened them again, his eyes strayed to Francis’s reflection in the window. No tear escaped the clear blue eyes. The boy did not struggle but eyed him expectantly.

  As though he knows I cannot resist.

  He allowed his hand to touch the silken hip; he frowned. Surely it curved like a woman’s?

  A rush of blood blemished his cheeks as his gaze fell further down the reflection to a triangle of hair. His jaw dropped. There was no penis; not a vestige; none at all!

  He ripped the tape from the full lips.

  ‘I’m Frances, not Francis,’ she said with a smile.

  His jaw dropped.

  ‘Your aunt was worried that your tastes prevented long term relationships. We hatched a plan. You see? We had a relationship before we had sex. This kind of sex. The sort I like.’

  Carew finally found his voice. ‘We haven’t had sex.’

  Her smile broadened. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘But we will. We most definitely will.’

  Jane’s Bonds

  by Shanna Germain

  It comes to her by mistake. Although it’s her address on the plain brown envelope, it is someone else’s name; perhaps the house’s previous owner. She and Derek have lived here for almost five years, but they still get mail for the people that owned the house before them, people they’ve never met. She’s about to stick the envelope back in the mailbox with a please forward notice on it, when something below the name catches her eye: ‘Or current resident’. Oh, that’s me, she thinks. It looks like junk mail of some sort, but she opens it anyway.

  Inside the envelope is a purple catalogue, offering ‘sexual satisfaction for women’. She lies down on the bed and starts flipping through it – she’s never seen so many women-oriented sex toys in her life. Sure, she’s been to Fanta-She’s-R-Us downtown (once even with Derek) but it always seemed like all the products were geared
toward men – videos that offered nothing more than fake boobs and way-ugly men grunting, those ridiculous-looking fake-mouths, rows and rows of cock rings.

  But in this catalogue (which, she realises with little surprise, is from a female-owned company), there are tons of toys for women – cool tie-dyed dildos in pink and purple, lipstick shaped vibrators, even videos directed by women. She flips toward the back and there, tucked away on the last page, is a toy that catches her eye: two purple cuffs lined with fake fur.

  She traces her hand along the page, imagining the cuffs’ fur-lined softness against her skin. She’s never used toys like these, but she’s thought of it often, when Derek sometimes takes her hands and presses them to the bed during sex. She wonders if he’d go for it – probably not. Her husband’s a wonderful man, but is still sometimes stuck in his religious upbringing, feeling guilty for anything outside of the missionary position. He’s grown a lot since they met (getting him to go to Fanta-She’s-R-Us was a big one) but still, he balks at things that are outside the mainstream (going to a strip club together for instance) and she never wants to push him too far or too fast. Still, she sighs, as she runs her hand over the cuffs on the page, a few toys would be nice.

  She reads the description: ‘Soft and delicate, yet tough in all the right ways, these fur and silk-lined bonds are sure to please.’ And there’s even a matching blindfold. She wonders if she should just buy them, let Derek find them somewhere in the house and act surprised. Or maybe she should put them on her wish list – her thirtieth birthday is coming up.

  An image pops into her head of opening a gift like this, late at night, after a good meal and a glass of wine. Perhaps she’s already opened her other gifts, and they’re cuddled up in bed when Derek reaches beneath the pillow and pulls out the blindfold and cuffs. They’re not gift-wrapped, but it doesn’t matter because they’re so soft and silky and festive already. She’s about to say thank you and wrap her arms around his neck when he grins sheepishly and says, ‘Shhhh…I’m afraid I’ll change my mind.’

  So she lies back and closes her eyes. He fits the blindfold over her eyes a little clumsily, his big fingers fumbling through her hair. She’s tingling down to her toes in anticipation – it’s all she can do to lay still and let him work. But she doesn’t want to scare him, so she stays still, focuses on her breathing – in, out, relax – and enjoys the waves of excitement running through her body. When she opens her eyes, she can’t see anything – a little aura of pink light through the fabric, but that’s all.