Satyrs, Sex, and Cookies: Unique Erotica
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by Doxy Wringer
Category: Erotica/Taboo Erotica
Description: A Sizzling Smorgasbord of Erotic Tales! From the creator of the smash hit, "Phone Sex Diary," comes a hot new collection of sexy stories with something for everyone! In "Hit and Run," a close call on the ride home leads a husband to reconnect with both his love and his lust for his wife. "Pecan Sandies" features Zoe, new to discipline, who meets her mysterious master in attempt to earn his approval and her first collar. "Satyr12" describes what happens when one woman gets more than she bargained for while shopping at an occult bookstore. In "The Ravenous and The Ravaged," you will meet a virgin sorceress who thwarts her rapists by invading the mind and body of an unwitting voyeur. "Latent Image" is the story of Jeannie who indulges her photographer boyfriend's birthday wish by posing with his favorite model, only to discovers she has an appetite for something much more filling than cake. In "Frank and Jessie," a husband stirs up dust in a forbidden tryst with his wife's sister during an annual family reunion. Be prepared, once you enter the world of Doxie Wringer, your own world will never be the same!
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, 2005
eBookwise Release Date: March 2005
13 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [137 KB]
Reading time: 89-124 min.
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
The note had said that I was to go in without knocking, but it still felt a little naughty. I couldn't help thinking that I was a wicked twist on Alice, about to embark into a new, bizarre Wonderland I'd never before known existed.
The silky white panties I had been instructed to wear were a little damp in the crotch. I wasn't certain if that was permitted or not, but the electric thrill pulsating in my belly had already spread to the warmth of my most tender places, and I was helpless to stop it. That flittering, fluttering vibration of desire had begun to swell the moment I'd agreed to this reckless encounter.
"It's all about trust, my little one," he'd promised into the phone. "All about pleasing and sensation. You have to know I'd never lead you to harm."
And I had truly believed he wouldn't lead me to harm. But how much could you really trust a man you'd never met in the flesh? Certainly the weekly conversations over the last two years had given me a basis to trust him--my tender-spoken, dirty old man who had instigated this strange relationship by replying to a post I'd made on an internet website. We'd worked our way from chat posts to phone calls over a casual courtship of double entendre and innuendo, and all of it had been leading to this moment. This moment when I would walk into his house without knocking, prickling and shivering, my white satin panties damp from the foreign intoxication of sexual anticipation.
He had instructed me to dress in white from head to toe--had dictated the entire outfit, and I'd spent the better part of a fortnight obtaining the proper wardrobe. A pair of white, strapless high heels resculpted the arches of my feet, forcing me to walk with a deliberate sway that was brazenly wanton. The hardest items to find had been the white silk stockings ("Not pantyhose or tights!" He had firmly growled into the phone). They had to be of the old-fashioned style, which were fastened to garters and a belt, their seams streamlining the backs of my legs. The garters and the belt themselves were a combination of frilly white lace and satin--a paradox that was almost decadent against the sensitive flesh of my thighs and hips. Then, beneath the garter belt was my now damp white satin thong with ties on the sides like string bikini bottoms. I had never known such lingerie existed, until he'd told me where to find it.
I shivered and rubbed my bare arms. The room was a little chilly for the white sundress, which barely covered me. Sleeveless and backless, it was the kind of skimpy scrap of cloth a girl only wore out in public over a bathing suit, with a short, tennis-like skirt and a pair of flimsy spaghetti-string straps to secure it behind my neck. No bra, and nothing in my hair. Those had also been inflexible commands.
So, I treaded lightly into the tidy parlor, which served as a greeting room to this old southern house. A charm and gentility floated along the hallway, with clean, if somewhat scuffed, hardwood floors that made my high heels echo like gunshots as I stepped carefully and peeked around corners. The furniture was antique and solid, mostly of simple, Amish styles, and the Spartan decor was a blending of dark fabrics and rich woods. Masculine and yet tasteful, and a little intimidating. It was like being in a library, this place of safety, but quiet formality.
"Don't turn around, pet," the familiarity of his voice permeated the alien silence of the room, sending goose bumps up my arms, and I stopped dead still at his command.
He walked up leisurely behind me, the lazy pace of his footsteps sounding with authoritative claps on the hardwood floor. I felt his eyes on me, emanating a heat that bore into my bare back like an impish youth focusing a magnifying glass on a powerless ant. Coaxing it to burst in flame.
"Don't I get to see you, Master?" I whispered hoarsely, my voice trembling girlishly. In any other situation, I'd have been disgusted with my own timidity.
"I haven't decided that yet," he breathed huskily, and my body stiffened at the realization that he was mere inches from me. At any moment his hands could be touching my bare skin--the front of him could be sidling up against the back of me. "And you are to remain silent. Do not make another sound until I give you permission."
I bit my bottom lip and nodded. I had forgotten that rule. I wondered if I would be pardoned for the oversight due to my novice status. I focused on the wall and watched our faint shadows enmesh together.
"Nice," he whispered into the long curtain of my hair, and his large hands cupped my shoulders.
I jolted and yelped at that first touch, unable to help myself. His extended, hardened fingers sparked off my lightly tanned flesh like flint and tinder striking. I had broken his direct order of silence again, and a fit of trembling assailed me. Slivers of qualms and misgivings sharpened an edge in my nerves. My head started to spin from the wild and reckless situation I had just willingly placed myself in. It was the type of rash decision that was usually documented years later by an episode of Forensics Detectives or some such show. I could almost compose the narration myself...
Zoe met with her online lover at the designated location, but did not live long enough to comprehend that she had surrendered her life into the hands of the most prolific serial killer US history had ever recorded, south of the Mason-Dixon Line. It was only through the tireless efforts of Forensics Detectives that the tiny particles of bone found at the site were able to be identified as hers...
"Easy," his forehead was resting against the back of my head now, his calm hands stroking up and down my arms. "Easy, little one. Don't be afraid. We'll go slowly--as slowly as you like, and it all stops the moment you say. I think it's a little too early to expect obedient silence from you, so speak as you like for now, sweet pet."
"I ... I'm a little scared," I whispered, my eyes tightly closed in effort to not begin screaming out in terror like a child. His tender caresses down my arms were helping, but my mind and pulse still waged war against his efforts to soothe me.
He responded by circling his arms around my waist and pulling my bare back tight against a hard male chest. I felt the crisp cotton of his shirt, and the muscular heat that radiated beneath. Rather than adding to my feeling of cornered danger, his embrace gave me back a little of my own gumption.
"Tell me the words," he instructed softly. "Make them comfortable in your mouth."
"Pecan sandies," I smiled after a moment's hesitation. And the simple act of smiling did wonders to ward off the fear that had been knifing through me.
"And what do those words mean?" he asked gently.
"They're my favorite cookies."
His chuckle was genuine in my hair. That one sound--the timbre of his generous humor--dispelled the last of the panic from my soul. "Yes, they are your favorite cookies. What else?"
"They mean the game between us of Master and pet will stop immediately."
"And?" he pressed.
"And..." I fumbled for a moment, nearly forgetting one of the most important lessons he'd been drilling into me over the course of our telephone conversations. Then, my memory kicked into gear, and I recited my next words like childhood times tables. "And they mean that I have all the real control in this game."
"What will happen when you speak them?" he reiterated.
"Everything will stop."
"And who ultimately controls our game?" A light squeeze accompanied this question. That tiny hug did more for my heart that a thousand whispered endearments.
"Good girl," he praised me, his face nuzzling in my hair. "And what is this game all about, my little one?"
"Trust," I replied unwaveringly. "And pleasing, and sensation."
He held me for another long moment, and I leaned back demurely, completely at ease now. And I felt him smiling with me.
"Just another moment, my little one, and we'll begin again. It feels good to hold you for the first time in these arms."
"It feels good to be held, Master."
My answer pleased him and I felt his head give a curt, satisfied nod. Then his body withdrew from mine slowly, reluctantly, and I was once more slipped into the role of submissive pet, trembling before him on display.
"Keep your eyes closed, and do not open them until I give permission. You may speak only to ask permission for something or to acknowledge my commands. Do you understand, pet?"
"Yes, Master," I nodded, clenching my eyes as tightly shut, as he bade, though I ached for the sight of him.
He circled me like a predator, pacing in a wide arch, his hungry eyes drinking me in. Subconsciously, I began to tremble again, though this new shaking had nothing to do with fear. His bold examination brought every doubt about my body to the forefront of my thoughts. And I knew a dark blush branded me like a full-body tattoo.
Even with the two-inch heels I was less than five and a half feet tall. In bare feet I just cleared the five-foot mark, and there was only so much window dressing a girl could employ to give herself a sinuous, leggy illusion. My limbs were slender, but hinted at the tone of muscle that came from a daily regimen of running and swimming. Weights and aerobics were too disciplined for the chaos of my life. I'd always settled for a few blocks of well-paced running followed by a scattering of laps in the pool. It didn't give me the trendy, willowy sinews that the female cast of Ally McBeal boasted, but it kept me reasonably satisfied with the firm tone of my diminutive musculature.
I knew he could see the small dimple that puckered an inch of skin at the small of my back. Given time he would undoubtedly find the birthmark on my left hip that always reminded me of a Hershey's kiss. The long curtain of my brown hair would hide the freckles on my shoulders for a time yet. He had told me not to twist my tresses into a braid or any other fashion, but to keep them wild down around me. I could feel the sensual softness like a blanket now, providing me with a little shelter from his merciless scrutiny. But none of those nagging imperfections could force from my mind the greater culprit behind my shyness--the one order which had been the most difficult to comply with.
Since puberty my bust had taken on more ample curves than the rest of my tomboyish lank. Short and stacked. Snickering references to Dolly Parton. Top heavy. Those teasing descriptions had plagued me since junior high school, and despite constant reassurance that it was a desired shape, I still retained that irritating tremble of self doubt. My only consolation was the knowledge that my breasts still sat high in their nakedness, the orbs dipping only slightly from the burden of their own voluptuousness.
"You are lovely, pet," he extolled with sincere affection in his tone, and a shuddering sigh flowed from me. I had been holding my breath in anticipation of his approval.
"Thank you, Master," I cooed shyly, as the last trace of doubt deserted me. No longer tense, warm bliss flooded my abdomen; I felt the feverish rush on my skin, and knew my complexion must be radiating a pink glow.
Something cool and delicate slid up along my right arm and I was unable to hold in a giggle over the tickling sensation. He was behind me again, stroking a scrap of fabric along my shoulders and bare back.
"This is a blindfold, little one," he informed me gently as he brushed the supple silk over my closed eyes. "Hold up your lovely hair for me."