Message-ID: <5330eli$9710312239@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Mark Bastable" Subject: Alphabet Stories: D - Requested Repost Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <878342727.27940.2.nnrp-05.9e982592@news.demon.co.uk> Disclaimer: I am the possessor of undreamt powers and I promise you that if you're under eighteen when you read this work of fiction your private parts will turn into a field-mouse. Copyright: Touch my work and you'll wish you'd been under eighteen when you read it. Dutch Treat ----------- Amsterdammers call it the Walletjes - the Little Walls - but to the rest of the world it's the Red Light District. I know it well now, its rhythms and its tones - but three years ago I was just another weekender in the February drizzle. It was nine-thirty, ten o'clock maybe, and I had wandered up one of the two canals that borders the District, and then wandered down the other. Even dawdling, you can cover the whole area in less than half-an-hour. I'd slid embarrassedly into a video booth and, for five guilders, zapped through all sixty-two featured movies. As you press the button that rolls through the channels, you begin to realise that pornography relies for its effect on context. A visual overload of random sexual imagery, though arresting, is not particularly erotic. To get the required effect one has to pick a channel and stick with it - which, at a guilder per minute, is scarcely an economic way of scaling the heights or auto-eroticism. 'And anyway', I thought as I ambled back out to the street, 'you don't come to Amsterdam to watch movies. You can get that stuff back home.' Here, the attraction is the Live Sex Shows. Or, as the neon outside The Banana Bar so artlessly puts it 'Real Fucking On Stage!!!!'. After a series of furtive dummy-runs at various box-offices, I had ascertained that the going rate for admission to a show was around sixty-guilders. This struck me as a bit steep. However, I overheard a doorman negotiating a group-rate with one of a large group of German tourists so, adopting a Teutonic mien, I tagged myself onto the end of the line and got in for forty. I may even have chanced a 'Danke' to the woman who gave me my ticket. Once inside, I detached myself from the Hamburgers and made for the bar. The room was small, and the seats were arranged in concentric semi-circles around a low stage. As I paid for my beer (regular cafe prices, I noticed), three seats were vacated in the front row. With a very un-English firmness of purpose, I jostled through the throng and took my place at the very lip of the stage. The first act was a blonde with a run-of-the-mill act that involved baby-oil. However, my proximity to her glistening gash more than compensated for any shortcomings in her unimaginative presentation. It had been a while since I'd been this close to a wide-open snatch - or, indeed, a padlocked one - and the mere novelty of the situation proved enough to test Messrs Levis claims for the resilience of their celebrated zip-fasteners. The next act was a black gentleman, whose appearance did much to re-awaken the flagging interest of the large minority of women in the audience. He did little for me in terms of prurient curiosity, but as he span on the spot, my fascination with the practical demonstration of centrifugal force acting upon his impressive penis meant that I failed to notice that the empty seat beside me had been taken. However, when he adopted a press-up pose, his feet practically on my shoulders, I averted my gaze and saw that the place to my left was now occupied by a statuesque woman with raven hair. She was wearing thigh-high patent boots, net stockings and a leather basque. Her eyes were lined with thick, jet mascara and in her hand she held a small but effective-looking whip. Even in Amsterdam, this was an unusual get-up for a night on the town. THe black gentleman was spinning again. Suddenly, he appeared to lose control and, like a top, he careered towards the edge of the stage and toppled over, landing across the laps of myself and the dark-haired woman next to me. My beer went flying, and I found myself with a handful of ebony buttock. There was general hilarity as we pushed the embarrassed performer back onto the stage. As an ice-breaker though, the accident was a absolute winner. The dominatrix's name was Frijda. She was the next act on. She asked me what I thought of Amsterdam. I asked her how many shows she did a night, and whether she had to pay for her own costumes. We bantered - even laughed a little. The black gentleman's act was coming to a close, 'I must go on now,' Frijda told me in her near-perfect, husky English. 'I have a volunteer from the audience. Do you like it if it is you?' I've never been a good volunteerer. I live in dread that some magician or stand-up comedian is going to drag me on-stage and humiliate me for the amusement of my fellow-punters. God alone knew what kind of debasing charade might await on the stage of an Amsterdam Sex Show. I stammeringly declined. 'No...I...I mean, thank you but... Not really my thing....um...' She gave a good-natured shrug and stepped up the small stairs to the stage. She was, it turned out, very good. She prowled, feline, a look of fierce disdain on her face. She fellated the end of the whip, cracked it in time with the music. She bent over, her back to the audience, and trailed the cord between her buttocks. She slid her legs apart, and put her hands on the floor so that, as she rotated her hips, the thin gusset of her black lace panties was pulled taut between the lips of her cunt. I stared, tongue lolling - but I must admit to a slight unease. I felt as if I knew the woman personally. Then she descended from the stage and selected a shy-seeming young man from an aisle seat. She led him onto the stage by his neck-tie, and, as he stood there grinning sheepishly, she wrapped and slid and curled herself around him, like a panther with an itch. She produced a pair of handcuffs and secured his arms behind his back, and then laid him down. She made as if to stand on him in her spiked heels. She straddled his chest and hung her superb tits above his mouth, shaking them from the basque with a fluid, practised shimmy of her shoulders. At her prompting, the patsy lifted his head to lick the small, tight nipples - but, of course, she whisked them away, laughing cruelly. Then she blindfolded him. He was helpless, cuffed and sightless. The rest of us thought this terribly amusing. She unbuckled his belt, and unzipped his trousers, pulling then down to his knees, leaving his (sadly grubby) shorts in place. We all craned to see whether he had a... no, he didn't. Difficult to tell which possibility was the most embarrassing, I thought, As the poor sap lay there, blindfolded and immobile, Frijda went into the main part of her strip. She removed the basque and fingered her firm breasts. The nipples were hard now - a neat trick, I imagine, to do that to order. She ran her hands down to her thighs and hooked the thumbs into the sides of the panties, teasing them down an inch, so that a few dark curls were visible, I caught her eye and she grinned at me. Then she turned and, looking over her shoulder directly at my face, she peeled the underwear over her round buttocks, stopping as they reached the top of her slit - obscuring it. I had to make a conscious effort to drag my gaze away from hers, in order to take in the equally transfixing sight of her smooth round arse, the black line of the panties blocking out her snatch like a censor's overlay. Again, there were the peeping curls, nestling beween her cheeks, the promise of a bumper crop to come. And, as she swayed her butt from side to side, there was the intermittent blink of her arsehole, on-off, on-off, like some wonderfully obscene beacon guiding the weary traveller home. Attempting to cover the manuever by leaning forward as if to scratch my knee, I pressed my elbow into my crotch and rubbed the length of my cock. Frijda had seen this one before. She winked at me. She straightened up and turned, dropping the panties to the floor, and then lowering herself so that, from my vantage point, the view of her cunt was framed by her parted legs in their stockings and thigh-length boots. She was a mass of black hair; it was luxuriant, tropical. Frustratingly, infuriatingly, it prevented a clear view of her cunt-lips. I willed her to spread her legs wider, to pull the folds apart, but she merely twisted to one side, reaching for the whip. Slowly, she teased the handle into her hole, coaxing it in, inch by inch. It glistened as she pulled it out again - she was getting turned on! - and then forced it back inside. This was, of course, electrifying. My cock was pulsing dangerously and I had to move my elbow away for fear of setting it off. But I was still profoundly disappointed that I hadn't seen the flaps, the open gash. What with hand and hair and handle, all I'd glimpsed were flashes, intimations, hints of that longed-for pink. The poor young man in the cuffs and blindfold was beginning to look distressed. His head was twisting from side-to-side as he tried to fathom what was going on. The music was reaching its obvious conclusion as Frijda put one finger to her mouth, warning the audience not to give the game away. She took a step back from the edge of the stage and then delicately, silently, placed one stilettoed foot on either side of the patsy's head. Her upstage boot was no more than two feet from me as she bent her knees and squatted. Although she was side-on to me, I could tell that her ripe, wet twat was at last open, spread like a roadkill between her thighs. I leaned to one side, but her bent knee was in the way. I couldn't see it. Carefully she reached for the young man's blindfold, and snatched it off. He blinked, shocked, to find himself staring up into Frijda's gash, less than a hand's-breadth from his nose. And then she did something that has caused me countless nights' fevered speculation. I have rued my lack of courage, my Anglo-Saxon fear of being noticed, of making a scene. God knows, I've cursed myself - and yet, I couldn't have said 'Yes' to her original question. As she squatted there, her magnificent, secret cunt hovering above the pale tourist's face, she leaned towards me and, grinning, said, 'You don't know what you're missing...' And then she lowered herself onto his mouth and rocked to-and-fro, to-and-fro, to-and-fro.... -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /