Extremes Page 5

  The proprietor was a woman whose nationality would remain unknown to me. Her beauty was exotic, full of electric heat. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun; it gleamed luxuriously as though she’d spent hours combing the tresses. Her brown skinned faced was without imperfection. And her eyes with a haunting soulful gaze perused me as if there were a hundred questions she might ask of me. Her lips were painted dark red, in a color that matched her long finger nails. I shivered as I watched her graceful movements that seemed to mimic some beautifully plumed bird.

  “She wants to be pierced,” my lover told her.

  The woman nodded silently, just the hint of a smile appeared on her lips.

  “Perhaps you could show yourself to her, so she knows that she’s not the only one.”

  Again, silently, the woman responded to my lover, stepping away from the counter where she’d sat demurely on a stool. Pushing away the folds of her flowing dress, she allowed her thighs and then her upper legs come into view. Finally, I was amazed to see her entire groin from the waist down. In a manner of exquisite beauty, she’d been pierced as I was to be, only many times more. There must have been a dozen rings through her flesh, starting with two at her belly button, and then another at top of her pubic mound, three more in a dainty line above her clitoris—which I was surprised to see boldly visible. With a thorough study of the woman’s crotch, I could see that her outer labia had been pierced as well with large rings attached to chains on either side. The chains were affixed to a belt at her waist—one not unlike the one I wore, though hers was made of pure gold. Those twin chains pulled her labia apart, and so her most private place was distinctly unveiled for the eye to see. Dangling from her inner labia there were other ornaments, all making this woman’s dark pubis an elegant, and most erotic statement.

  Appalling, isn’t it?” my lover whispered in my ear. He could tell by my reaction that I was aroused by this display. “Shall I decorate you?” he asked me.

  “My lord no!” I gasped, even when I could sense the desire beyond my fears. I saw the woman lower her eyes as if she was ashamed. “Please, don’t think I don’t appreciate your loveliness, but for me ….” I hesitated… “it’s just too soon.”

  The woman understood and with a smile she dropped her skirt back in its place.

  “Perhaps your breasts as well,” my sailor added.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she parted wide her garments once again, this time the bodice of the wrapped silk, so I could see her breasts and the three rings—concentric hoops of gold that hung from each dark brown nipple.

  My body roared so that I felt dizzy.

  “You’ll have to step behind the counter,” were her first words. They startled me. Closing her dress, she motioned me to the back of the shop.

  I recall the next hour as if I was in a dream. After the exotic proprietess offered me a drink—and I do imagine it was some magic potion—I seemed to relax and my mind allowed the colors, smells and tastes of the antique store to blend together in a strange montage. I saw the needles that she used, the bizarre looking implements, and though I shivered at the sight of them, I really felt quite at peace. With my lover attending me closely, I followed the sound of the woman’s instructions, and lay back on wooden table where she would do her work.

  Like a lover might, she carefully opened the silky blouse I’d worn, revealing my naked breasts. Her hands ever so gently caressed me there, as though that was necessary for her to understand them. She toyed with the nipples for some time, by her expression admiring them.

  “She rarely sees such pale skin,” my sailor suggested to me. Indeed, where my bikini top covered my chest was the creamy whiteness of my natural skin.

  She pinched one nipple hard and it drew up into a bud. And then without warning at all, I felt a sudden prick as a needle pierced the flesh. I gasped, and might have jerked had my lover not held me down. Then I gasped again when a second needle pierced the other nipple. There were tears in my eyes, relief, sadness and excitement all playing inside my emotions. I couldn’t look down at my breasts—not yet. I waited, in my hazy stupor, as the woman tugged and pulled at my nipples. I imagine she was adjusting the rings inside my flesh, but I was too much a coward to look. Only when she back off, finished, did I dare to see what had become as much a part of my physical body as my fingers and toes.

  “She could take many more on this flesh, she pierces well,” the woman commented to sailor. And before I could even reason what she had said, I discovered her hands at my pubis, already having parted my skirt. “Would you like to tie her down?” I heard her say. The more time passed, the more her potion seemed to affect my ability to comprehend. Just seconds later—or it could have been hours—I felt a strap go around my waist to pin me into place. Two other straps were affixed about my uppers thighs, the intent to keep my groin immobile. Never in my life had I felt so subdued and meek, but never so at peace.

  My sailor stroked my face, his smile reaching down to comfort me.

  When I saw him nod to the woman, I expected that I would again feel a needle pierce me, but to my surprise, I felt the woman’s fingers begin to play with me. I was on an orgasmic peak almost instantly, unaware that my bodily desire had zoomed so wildly. All my senses had been focused on this erotic ceremony. I could almost hear the tribal dances in the background, smell the flames and taste the smoke, as if I was part of a ritual before a fire. As each thought became more real in me, it drew me closer to an unplanned climax and then, without any forewarning, my body surged over the edge.

  An instant later something sharp stung me, then again and again. I felt as if each pore of my body had been pierced. For a second it was excruciating and then, without warning, the pain went away. What remained in me were the last vibrations of my orgasm and a collage of color in my mind.

  When I opened my eyes, I stared up at the sailor who was gazing down on me. He held a pink rose in his hand, his nostrils taking in the fragrance before he held it down for me to smell.

  “Am I finished?” I asked.

  “And duly adorned,” he added.

  I could tell for myself. Even lying down I could feel a heaviness at my breasts and between my legs that I’d not felt before.

  I didn’t see the woman again; but I did see the rings before I left her shop. My lover insisted that I view them in the mirror. My whole woozy body quaked at the first glance of the shiny jewelry that had been fixed to my breasts and the hood of my clitoris. I could see now that this was the finale of my initiation into my lover’s erotic domain. And such a stunning one. At once, I felt liberated and subdued. Such contrary thoughts abiding in me I didn’t despair, but simply accepted that was the nature of my life.

  For the remaining two days of our time together, my sailor and I remained in bed. I was horribly sore at times. My flesh where the rings had punctured it were so tender that even my lover’s gentleness could not soothe it. And yet, at other times I welcomed the sudden shots of tingling sensation. Regardless of what curious feelings I might enjoy or hate, I loved my new jewelry and could not imagine my life without it, any more than I could imagine my life without my dear man of the sea.

  He was gone three days after we’d anchored. His ship was bound for another several weeks with another ship full of travelers while I, and my companions, were on a plane back to San Francisco where our trip began. I thought of him constantly, having realized what a devious man he truly was, making certain that there was little way I could forget about him. And when he at last sailed back into my life, some two months and dozens of letters later, I met him where his vessel docked, waving my hand for him to see.

  Hours later, after we’d checked into a motel not far away, I was practically cumming in my underwear, I was so excited to be with him again. I know he couldn’t wait to see me, all of me, including my well-healed rings. I knew from his letters, how he longed to play and pull and tug at the trinkets. But before I allowed him even the slightest glimpse of my hidden treasures, I handed him a t
iny key, with the instructions that it was his and his alone, just as I was his alone.

  He looked puzzled, not sure what I meant, until at last I let him undress me so he could see first hand the purpose for the key.

  After inspecting my nipples and giving both rings a good tug, he undid my skirt and did the same with the ring at the hood of my clit. And then, just a bit awed by what he saw, my handsome sailor dropped to his knees and peered closer at my private place. I accommodated him parting my thighs wide. For there he found a place for the tiny key to fit into a tiny lock—one that held together a pair of rings I’d boldly pierced into the labia on either side of my vagina. Locked fast as it was, the only way to penetrate my womanly home was to unlock the lock and let loose the rings—an act my excited lover accomplished in seconds.

  His lust was afire, as was my own, gone into places we’d been dreaming of for the weeks we’d been apart. And he knew, as did I, that it didn’t matter how far he sailed and to what shores, I’d remain his, and only the key that hung about his neck could bring out the woman of passion he’d unleashed.

  Now, two years since I made my illustrious journey into the South Pacific seas, I wait again for his return. There have been many journeys and many homecomings. Though I’ve found that he sails less now, and remains in port more often. Not every time he leaves does he return to discover some new trinket adorning my body; but this time, as he looks out from the deck of his ship and sees my smiling face in the throng, he’ll know just by the sparkle in my eyes what I have waiting. Hardly before I can kiss his lips, he’ll be racing to take me home for yet another wild unveiling of my body’s lusty treasures.

  Garden Party

  A tiny tendril of ivy wound its way up the thigh of the naked stone as if to make this bold woman of granite shy, the way it covered that place between her legs where—if she were alive—she’d accept the offerings of men. She held her head high, though her eyes were softly downcast; and her mouth was turned up as if she was keeping a secret.

  It was lush in the garden in the afternoon at tea time. Long seductive shadows cast against the entangled foliage made leaves and flowers glow, as though there was a mellow fire dancing in their midst. Gentle folks meandered like the vines, almost in slow motion, their speech hushed. Prim suits and polished silk sportcoats attired the well-heeled gentlemen, while the ladies in demure skirts and fine jackets cast from their manicured faces half-smiles to the others at Bozart’s tea. Cups clinked. The china rattled. A fly or two buzzed in the thick sultry air, one landing on Mrs. Peacock’s lace-covered arm, her husband flicking it off. It was the kind of day that even gentle women wore no underwear, their skin feeling skin between their thighs where it was damp with perspiration and female dew. There was not one in the garden that wouldn’t have liked to remove a layer of clothes, shed the confinement in favor of the humid air clothing them with its natural garments.

  “Oooo!”

  “Ahh!”

  The gasps were muted but plentiful. Bozart having entered with a woman at his side, everyone stopped to stare at her beauty.

  “She will satisfy you, I’m sure,” he said lovingly, seeing, as he gazed on the woman, how her straw colored hair looked like a field of gold as one shard of sun caught her upper torso and her head. “Please don’t hold back your pleasure.” Bozart smiled broadly. His own dark clothes made an elegant statement about his fortunes. The summer tan, the salt and pepper hair, the look of complete but subtle control made this unexpected moment appear sane in a venue where the undercurrent of insanity is only thinly disguised with a touch of wealthy grace.

  Bozart was a man of superb taste and in this statement of his flare for perfection, he’d found a rare one indeed. Her lips were only faintly red, there was just a light blush on her cheeks, and hers eyes, quite like the statue of the goddess in the center of the garden, looked down demurely. The same succulent smile appeared on her lips, as if she held the same secret.

  The only thing shocking about her presence—for Bozart regularly paraded his latest trinket at a gathering of friends—was her nakedness. No filmy shirt, no short saucy skirt, no leather, no lace, no covering at all. She was naked in the midst of them, walking cautiously into the center of the dozen or so guests, on a tether that ran from the chain about her neck to Bozart’s hand.

  “Who is she?” Mrs. Peacock asked. The starched brunette was already unbuttoning her blouse to catch a breath of air in the stifling heat.

  “Diandra,” Bozart replied.

  “And she’s your slave, I presume?” a presumptuous guest inquired. With his nose in the air, he could hardly see Diandra’s complete treasures.

  … Though Mrs. Peacock did. The woman couldn’t keep from staring at the muff of curls about the beauty’s blonde crotch. “You might have shaved her,” she commented. “We’re used to a little more refinement from our slaves.”

  “I like her au natural,” Bozart answered back right away. He was too proud of this one to take criticism. Diandra’s thighs were quite ample, ending at her ass with a reasonable flare. The two orbs behind were as smooth as a forest pond on a still summer’s day. Her breasts, large as they were, hung from her chest, quivering as she walked. The nipples at the center were quite pink.

  “She wears the chain nicely,” one guest suggested, “though I’d like to see it cut up through her crotch.”

  Bozart smiled, as if he’d been waiting for that proposal. He drew the tether down Diandra’s back between her proud rear globes, then up between her legs where it had to catch one side of her clit. Tugging it taut, he lifted the end—a clasp—and attached it to the chain at her neck.

  “My, now that is stunning,” one amply-fleshed woman gasped. She was fanning herself with a rice paper fan. “So did you purchase her, or did she come to you on her own?”

  “Purchased. Though mind you, she’s quite willing,” Bozart replied. “Paid top dollar for her on the covert market. Virginal blondes are not readily available anymore.”

  “She’s a virgin?” Someone was duly shocked.

  Bozart nodded.

  “Then she cost a fortune!”

  There was an appreciative murmur between guests, sighs of wonder and admiration.

  “And will you deflower her?” Mrs. Peacock asked.

  “That all depends on whether the desire to make a profit on her, or the pleasure of deflowering her becomes the greater need. It’s all quite a dilemma, though it’s one I relish considering. Perhaps how she performs today will help me make my decision.”

  “So how does she give pleasure?” Mrs. Peacock further inquired.

  “Her mouth is quite heavenly,” Bozart answered, “and she’s become very accomplished.”

  “Not her ass?”

  Bozart smiled, and turned Diandra about. Parting her bottom cheeks with his hands, he pulled them wide with firm fingers digging into the flesh. Grabbing the chain, he jerked it to one side to show off her anus. “Fine one isn’t it?” he said proudly. “But it’s unavailable.” The puckering hole was quite closed, though the collective imagination of Bozart’s guests could imagine it otherwise, opening like the bud of a tulip.

  “So how long has she been a slave, if she hasn’t been deflowered or sodomized?”

  “You can see for yourself,” Bozart answered. Returning his maiden to her upright position, he motioned to the mark at her left heel.

  “Twenty-three, five years a slave,” the guest read the branded inscription.

  “There was never any question about what she was bred for,” Bozart said. “Trained from her innocence. Show them, my love.” He only had to give Diandra a tiny shove. She was as willing as Bozart claimed. On her knees, she crawled to the first waiting crotch, Mrs. Peacock’s, one of the women who was too hot to wear panties. Lifting her skirt, Diandra’s barely red lips found the soft pink ones between Mrs. Peacock’s thighs. Her tongue found dew and the smell of musk, like an autumn with dust and heat, though it was still summer, still the middle of July, and there wasn’t
even a trace of autumn in the heated breeze.

  Mrs. Peacock gasped as her hands went for her own breasts, as a man in the crowd helped her undo the pearl buttons of her blouse until the lace atop her teddy showed above her full bosom. The flesh there jiggled. Mrs. Peacock let out just a little cry, then she shivered and fell back into the man’s arms as her body fairly flew over the orgasmic edge. It had taken so little time for satisfaction.

  Diandra sat back on her haunches for just a moment to gather fresh air into her lungs; then she crawled to her next lover arriving at the legs of a man reclining on a lounge. Her hands moved up his thighs, her fingers like cat paws with a little scratch to them. Not taking his eyes off Diandra’s green ones, the connection between them began instantly. All through his pants to start, the blonde slave girl worked this lover more slowly. Mrs. Peacock had been far too easy, even though the woman now lay in a faint on a lawn chair basking in the ripples of feeling that had not yet died away. No, the man was looking for something more lingering. And knowing that, Diandra’s hands, her eyes, her tongue and her mouth were riveted on him as if he were the only one that she had to please this afternoon.

  Such graciousness. And accommodating. Her mouth was like warm satin, her tongue embellishing the act of cock-sucking with its languorous meanderings around the engorged male flesh. Her hands clawed at his flesh almost as if she weren’t getting enough for herself. The way her hips behind her gyrated as if they were begging a man to take her, it was a wonder that she’d kept her body pure all these years, yes years. How unusual for any slave to keep her purity beyond a few months. That was considered an interminable time. But then, few were like Diandra.

  There were a host of languishing bodies after she’d been through them all, taking each cunt and each cock in turn and loving them with her eager mouth. And yet, it was a pleasant exhaustion. It was much too hot an afternoon to do anything but drip sweat and lounge about the summer garden half-naked, fanning away flies and letting the last remaining traces of orgasm ripple through limbs and loins. Diandra did not disappoint, not one. She lived up to her reputation as a first class sexual possession. Bozart had made quite a purchase.