From: nogarder@ix.netcom.com(*** )
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Crazy Little Kinks (MF, femdom)
Date: 10 May 1996 02:11:37 GMT

			  Crazy Little Kinks

	Look, I'm a product of my time, okay? I got my education
behind a math primer in study hall - Forum, Hustler, like that. So,
y'know, if you show me a woman called Cheryl with co-ed looks and
pedal-pushers, I'm just programmed to react, yeah? Or, if I come
across a raven-haired beauty (I'm practically quoting here) who goes
by `Sadie' and is wearing, I dunno, five-inch heels and her hair in a
bun... well, all that stapled sexuality's just gonna kick in, right?

	My personal thing is stockings and garter belts - I'm thirty-
five friggin' years old and I'm still looking for crooked seams. I
mean, arrested development or what? Then again, I figure this is cool.
I mean, everyone's got to get their hang-ups somewhere and I guess I'm
just lucky I got dealt the standard cards. At the very least, it makes
MTV bearable.

	So. I'm in the Plough and Stars on Mass Ave. I've wandered in
after three hours at Ken's watching the Sox. (They were playing like a
bunch of co-eds in pedal-pushers, if you're interested.) I get a beer.
I'm looking for someone to grouse with - I mean, but for the lousy
transmission on a Greyhound Bus in December 1958, I'd a been born a
Mets man, and life would've been a deal more fulfilling.

	Anyways, there's a whole lot of people hanging out in the
Plough - Harvard spectacles, some regular neighbourhood types, many
Irish - one or two of them even know where Ireland is. And - yeah,
you're ahead of me - this woman.

	I swear, you couldn't make her up. She's nearly six feet in
her patent boots. She's got a mane of hair as black as scandal, and
skin so clear and white you could show a movie on it. She's wearing,
what d'you call them, those pants for horse-riding, and a man's tweed
jacket over a ruffled cream shirt. Probably. I mean, I'm trying to
give you the picture here, and I'm coming over like a Jackie Collins
buy-it-and-bang-it novel, but, no word of a lie, in retrospect it's
tough to picture her with her clothes on.

	Well, I'd love to tell you that I went over and bought her a
drink - but it didn't happen that way. In fact, a whole bunch of us
got talking round the bar, and she kinda joined in. You know how it
goes. It got so my contributions were covertly aimed at getting a
raise outta her - and hers were more directed at me than the rest of
the group. I went to the john - and took the stool next her when I
came back. 

	She ordered me a beer. I ordered her a beer. Next thing you
know, we might as well have been on our own for all the attention we
were paying to the debate raging over the talent or lack of it of Mr.
Strawberry. (Tell the truth, there were moments there where I nearly
blew the whole thing, by cutting back to the general chit-chat. I have
strongly-held views on Strawberry.)

	Okay, okay - I know what you're saying. `Cut to the chase,
Jack! When does she get her tits out?' Bear with me here.

	She's got this real class accent, so I say, "You're British,
right?"

	"English," she comes back, kinda sharp, but smiling.

	Well - I think, What diff? But I don't want to get on her
wrong side, so I nod. "Right, English. I really like that accent. I
mean, I really like that."

	"I know you do," she says, still with that smile. "I know what
boys like."

	Damnedest reply - am I right?

	I grin. "Sorry - I don't get it. What you saying?"

	"Just that I know what you boys like - probably better than
you do yourselves. Would you mind going to the cigarette machine for
me?"

	Like she hasn't got legs or something! Which she has - real
slim long ones, crossed at the knee, with one booted ankle curled
around the hoop of the barstool. Still, these Brits - they're kind of
old- fashioned; maybe she figures that I'm a gentleman and I'll go and
get her smokes. I get the smokes, but the jury's still out on whether
I'm a gentleman.

	Turns out her name's Clara Bond. Yeah, yeah - if I'd a been a
little less drunk I'd a seen it coming. She's an oil trader and she's
in town for some convention. She has friend in Cambridge - "a very
dear old chum" - and she called in on the QT, but no dice. So she just
picked the first bar she saw and came in off the street. She's staying
at the Metropole across the river. She taps my beer glass with a long
red nail. "Would I like to come back for something stronger?"

	Maybe I'm a little over-eager. "Is the Pope a Catholic?" I
josh.

	"I very much doubt it," she shrugs, oozing off the barstool.
"Come on."

	The car is low and curved and blue - no more than a bruise on
the asphalt. "Whoo," I whistle. "Some wheels."

	"You drive," she says, tossing me the keys.

	"Hey, I dunno. I'm way off designated."

	"I said, you drive," she comes back - with that snap again. So
what am I gonna do? It's her premium.

	I push it hard up toward the bridge - it rolls across the
river like a storm front, all growl and purpose.

	"Feel the power of this baby," I say, as we turn up toward
Nob's Hill.

	"You haven't even opened it up yet," Clara murmurs, looking
straight ahead. "That's when you feel the real power." She lifts one
foot and puts it on the dash, right by the steering wheel. I've only
ever seen guys do that. She rocks her toe back and forth a coupla
times. "These shoes need cleaning," she says.

	I practically have to trot to keep up with her as she strides
through lobby of the hotel. We get up to her room. Me, I haven't
stayed in many hotels, but I reckon a classy room is one where you can't
see the bed when you walk through the door. In this one, you couldn't
even see the room - there was this kinda inner lobby bigger than my
whole apartment.

	We go on through.

	"What would you like?" she asks, opening a drinks cabinet. No
dollar-slot, I notice.

	"Well, I dunno... "

	"Of course you don't. But I do."

	I sit down on this low chair. She takes off her jacket and
throws it on the ottoman. Stands there against the window with her hands
on her hips, the whole of Boston twinkling between her thighs.

	"Take your clothes off," she says. She's still wearing that
superior fucking smile. Seems to me it's time I gave her something to
smile about. I strip and stand there with this no-shit face on. I
also have on an erection that surprises even me, what with six pints
of Miller and two Guinnesses I drank on the barman's tab.

	"Going good-to-firm," she says, running her eyes up and down.
"But I don't recall saying you could get stiff. I don't believe I gave
that permission. That's very naughty of you, lad."

	"Yeah, that's me all over," I tell her. "How `bout me all over
you?"

	She unbuttons a couple of button on the blouse. "Oh, aren't we
forward? We don't like our boys to be forward. I suspect a spanking
might be in order."

	Now, listen, I've read about this stuff. I mentioned my
literary interests, right? And I figure I have that All-American
live-your-dream attitude that made this country great. But - excuse me
- no fucking way.

	I make this clear to Clara, using more or less those words.
She seems unfazed. "Oh, now - I thought you were going to be an
imaginative and adventurous chap," she frowns (but still smiling). She
pulls the blouse out of the waistband of the horse-riding pants, shrugs
it off her shoulders and tosses it at me. I catch it without looking -
my eyes are glued to her tits.

	To me, it's amazing that there could be one such perfect
breast in the world, let alone two. Up to that point, I'd assumed she
was wearing a brassiere. We're talking firm; we're talking round;
we're talking arrogant uplift; most of all, we're talking no more than
eight feet away from my sticky fingers.

	She runs her thumbs up around her nipples. "What are you
prepared to do, Jack, to get your hands on these, hm? Surely they're
worth a little pain?"

	No, sorry, it's just not me. "Listen, lady... " I begin.

	"You may call me `Mistress'," she interrupts.

	"... Listen, lady, I'm just your regular Irish bar pick-up. A
jar of mayo and something that goes `buzz' is about as weird as I get.
So how about some... "

	She's peeled the pants down. They're rumpled over her boots.
I'm trying to look unimpressed but I've got six-and-seven-eighths of
gristle calling me a liar. She leans back against the cold window, and
spreads her knees.

	"What's it worth, Jack?"

	Well, I met a guy once who was wondering how to invest a spare
half-a- million dollars. He could have done worse than invest it
between Clara's legs. Thick black hair threw the pink into sharp
contrast. The lips unfolded as her fingers pushed the button - they
rolled apart like the doors to a departure lounge. She ran a finger
along the crease, never taking her eyes off me. Her voice was down to
a whisper.

	"Look at my cunt, Jack. Look at my wet, tight, wanting cunt.
And you have to do so little to get it. You have to suffer so little.
You're already suffering, Jack, aren't you?"

	You could have held Olympic diving trials off the end of my
dick by this point. But when I thought about lying down and having my
butt beaten - well, you've got to follow your gut instinct, however
hard your cock hollers.

	On the other hand, said my throbbing shaft, don't knock it
till you've tried it.

	"How about I paddle you?" I asked, always the man with the
compromise.

	She didn't even acknowledge the suggestion. She just turned
and put her hands flat against the window, bending over and looking
back at me across that marble English shoulder. Her butt was pushed
out as she crab-walked her feet apart. "Do you like my arse, Jack?"
(`Arse'! Not `ass', but `arse'! Oh, that nearly sold me, right there.)
"Can you see my lovely little hole?"

	Yeah, I could see it. Above the flowering lips, as they
blossomed amongst those jet black curls - a little bud of pink.

	"You can take me up the back way. You can slide your throbbing
cock right into my willing arse, Jack. I'll let you do it. But... "

	"But me no butts," I said, which I thought was pretty funny.
She didn't laugh - I guess I'm no Bob Hope.

	"All you have to do, is lie down on the bed, and I'll spank
you. Not too hard. Just a few with my hand and a few with the belt.
That's not so bad, is it?"

	She could see she was getting through. I had my hand on my
dick, and I was stroking slow. Her eyes were twinkling. "Yes, that's
it, Jack. You think about it."

	"And then... ?" I asked, my voice cracking.

	She ran the side of her hand up between her cheeks. "Then I
sit on your face for a few minutes, and suffocate you with my dripping
cunt. It'd be a pleasure, wouldn't it, Jack?" She turned and kicked
off her boots and pants. Sat down opposite me, resting a knee over one
arm of the chair, so that her pussy was wide open, glistening, alive.

	"Well," I croaked. "I dunno... "

	My dick was all for it though. It was leaping about in my hand
like a puppy at the park.

	"You see, Jack - I need to be cruel to get my juices flowing
properly. I have to punish you for being a dirty boy, and lusting
after my creamy little twat. We all have our little kinks, don't we?"

	"Uh, I guess," I admitted. "But when you've done with the
dominance bit... "

	"Oh, then you can have whatever you want, Jack. I'll suck your
cock. You can fuck my tits, my arse, my cunt. You can have me over
the coffee table, or in the shower. You can screw me from behind right
out there on the balcony, if you want... "

	That did it. She realised, of course - but she was too late.
WHOOSH! I came like a Comanche raiding party. Cum splattered all over
my chest, pump after pump of it. It was definitely one of my best. In
twenty years of beating it, I don't believe I've had such a satisfying
jerk-off.

	She was screaming fit to bust, calling me every color of
selfish sonofabitch, but you can't argue with a wet stomach. I picked
up her blouse from the floor beside me, and mopped up the pool of jizm
that was collecting in the hollow of my breastbone, grinning the
while.

	"Like you say," I shouted after her, as she stormed off to the
bathroom and slammed the door, "we all have our little kinks... "