Message-ID: <20384eli$9903080433@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Subject: "The Tiepolo Encounter"/MrSpraycan 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: <7bu2er$7ng@enews2.newsguy.com> Quite intense. An oldie, from October 1997. Tiepolo is real, Claudia is a composite, the Met coffee is terrible. THE TIEPOLO ENCOUNTER by MrSpraycan I love the Met. The New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, I mean, though the Opera is transcendental, too. You can't beat it for a dozen reasons, mostly genuine and cultural. But dirty-minded people also appreciate that it is the el numero uno place in the 'world capital' for people watching. If what you like to watch is arty young women, students, beautiful NY socialites, cool European tourists, hot-looking 'Asian babes,' all reacting unguardedly to nude pictures and sculpture, giggling and whispering among themselves. Oh for a better grasp of languages and a sonic enhancer! But to watch is good enough. This spring, if you were in the vicinity, I hope you took the chance to visit the Tiepolo exhibit. One of the best in years. Comprehensive, and very well selected. Giambattista Tiepolo (1696-1770) was a contemporary of Handel, Bach and other Baroque musicians. This era, to me, marked the summit in every sphere of art. Equaled at times, since, but never surpassed. He was prolific beyond measure, like Georg Friedrich and Johann Sebastian. Many of his works are huge ceiling asemblages, multiple sets of giant paintings for ducal palaces in Venice, Madrid and Wurzburg. And, you have to go there to see them, no choice. He worked in Italy, Germany, Russia and Spain over his long career. Tiepolo's technique is excellent, and he painted both religious and secular scenes, with a special twist of humor. A painter who 'got it' about perspective and composition. Oh, and he liked women with no clothes on. He was also very 'into' myths (pagan and Christian) and had a good eye for making scenes of unpleasantness come alive. And that's probably why I kept returning, week after week. Particularly wonderful at this show were his neurotic, tortured-looking female saints. There's Catherine of Siena, with a huge, vicious-looking crown of thorn branches; and Sta. Lucia, at her last communion. He has them with ashen complexions, tearful eyes, and they really look at though they're suffering. In a large painting of Lucia, she's just miserable; in a study for it, also on show, she has a huge dagger thrust through her neck, and it's just dangling there. A study for the Catherine picture features her with what seems a ten-pound thorn branch crown. You can almost feel it. The women are thin, for the time, and look like the types who'd wear barbed wire chastity belts, just to punish themselves for thinking bad thoughts. Yes, irreligious, but that's me. The humor appears in odd contexts. There are lots of putti, flying disembodied heads or cherubic infants, often with frankly leering faces. His 'peeking' boys are another feature. There is one quite clearly holding his cock and wanking, both hands under his cloak, his face alive with excitement during a 'Flagellation of Jesus' scene. I also liked the fat, masturbating naked nymph in the foreground of 'Diana and Actaeon.' The women in this small early painting are particularly funky, and cool in a baroque sense. It's amusing to watch the expressions on the faces of malnourished stick-figure women at the show, dimly realizing that their scrawny looks are just another fashion foisted on them by men who prefer boys. Or maybe they don't get it, poor things. With Tiepolo, it's all in the set-up. His 'Europa and The Bull,' from the same Ovid's Metamorphoses series, is another knockout. There's a rather insipid, nervous looking woman (the rather prongable Cecilia Guardi, was also Mrs. T, as it happens). She's half-undressed, sitting on the back of a huge white bull (Zeus, in metamorphosis). An unsubtle approach would have her being pronged by this big slab of beef, but the whole ambience is "guess what happens next? We know, she doesn't." And in the background, there's Cupid, pissing on Zeus's "arrows of love" (real arrows, not his dong) to cool them down, his tiny little pee-pee whizzing away and smiles all round...It's very 1740s, very Italian, wonderfully vulgar. Lots of beautiful women show up in later paintings. They're mostly young, some on the tubby end of the weight spectrum. But they have a common feature: amazingly well rendered freshly fucked, or sloppy drunk, looks. They really seem to be having a fine day, hanging out with pot-bellied grizzled, balding bearded old geezers epitomizing 'time' or suchlike. I think Mr.T was telling us something about himself here. She's scarcely my favorite actress, but 'Venice' in a picture of her being given gifts by Neptune is without a doubt, Ms. Glenn Close, in an earlier incarnation. I stop and stared several times at "Susanna And The Elders." A rape or coercion scene. Theme of a Handel oratorio, too. Susanna here is stunning, dressed in about a snatch-covering's worth of white sheet, being haggled with by two randy old goats. Then there's a rather chubby, sleepy Danae, being showered with gold coins by Zeus. Half-naked, sprawled on a couch, looking recently fucked. A smirking little Cupid is pulling at the sheet over her, looking lustfully at her big ass. Perhaps the most startling picture is in a long gallery of religious paintings: Santa Agatha, ashen, hysterical, wrapped in a bloody sheet, praying. Her severed breasts are being presented to her on a platter, nipples upward, like an entree. The thuggish torturers and the onlookers are quite unmoved by her plight. To her right, a scowling mustachioed gothic thug is gesturing with an unmistakable "Now, drag the bitch over here, and let's cut off her . . ." It's interesting to watch peoples' reactions throughout the exhibit. But the Agatha in particular sends female visitors into instant shock, tongue-tied incoherence! It takes a second or two before most people notice what's being held up on the platter. (Is that ...? Looks like? Surely not!? Oooh!!!) I watched several women turn deathly white, walk away, come back, shake their heads, mill around, check the description on the wall, leave, sneak back again, and again ... My guess is, how they react depends on how recently they've been scared by the witchdoctors, and the mammogram industry fraudsters. All in all, I bet the exhibit prompts a lot of hot whispering in bedrooms. One Sunday morning there, around 10:15, I run into Claudia DeFelice. She's a friend of a former friend, and I recognize her after a second or two. She's looking intently at the Sta. Catherine of Siena study, at the ashen skin, the heavy thorn crown. Claudia licks her lips, makes a note on the program. She cranes her long neck, scribbles quickly with a Mont Blanc, held in her immaculately manicured long fingers. Left-handed, always a good sign. I wander along behind her. I'll introduce myself in a moment, I decide. To not intrude is good manners. She's in her thirties, tall and patrician. An Italian beauty, a store manager for one of the boutiques on Madison Avenue. Long black hair in a 'ponytail and straggles' combo that probably took 20 minutes to get right. Black silk trouser suit, white silk blouse, walking shoes, a scarf, lots of gold jewelry. Bifocals with big blue plastic frames. I watch with interest as she gets to Sta. Agatha. She stares open-mouthed. I move to one side to get more perspective. She's pale, and now her color is rising. She hugs her program and pocket book closer, reassuring herself her breasts are intact. Turns away, then returns and stares some more. Scribbles a lot of notes. In the next gallery, while she's looking at some more Glenn Close lookalikes - satyresses canoodling - I step close and say: "Claudia, hi!" Her eyes flash hostility, then she recognizes me. "Andy! What are you doing here?" "Regular gig for me. It's where I get a lot of design ideas. Classicism is on its way back." "For the hundredth time," she agrees. She looks a lot like the young Claudia Cardinale, if that doesn't date me too much. "If it ever went away, that is." We wander along together, a loose partnership. We're impressed by many of the same works. At the exit to the exhibit, she buys the fat book, in hardback. I already have it. Will she be masturbating over hers, too, I wonder? She seems a little too controlled, but maybe not. Yes, I think she may. "Buy you a coffee?" I suggest. "It's the world's worst, here. But a tea, yes." So, out past poor doomed Lavoisier and Mrs. Lavoisier in her big hair outfit, back past the giant Tiepolo wall panels of imaginary Roman history, and down the long stone stairs. Right, through the bustling entrance hallway, down the Greek and Roman statuary corridor to the restaurant. All the way, she's chattering about Tiepolo and his grasp of character, how his figures seemed real, substantial. Tea consists of hot water and a teabag, but believe me, the coffee is horrid. We find a quiet table. She's very pretty, I tell myself for the tenth time. And single (divorced, I believe). I decide to turn our chat towards the practical. "With few exceptions, they might find it hard to find their dress sizes at Panicissimo, eh?" That's her store. An over-priced clip joint, but good designs, nonetheless. "Oh, not all. Cecilia, his wife? She was about a size 12, I'd say!" "Venus here was headed for a 16, I'd say." "Right, and there were larger. But, I know what you're saying. Body image was different then. To be thin, was to be ill. Or poor. Well, it's different now . . ." she sighs. A sip of tea. "Sure is. They'd have to go nude, eh? And his female saints?" "Oh, definitely my customers! Catherine, Lucia, definitely." She smiles. "What was that phrase in Bonfire of the Vanities? Ah, 'social X-rays,' right." "And poor Agatha, too." I prompt. "Oh, that painting is so shocking," she says, grasping my wrist. "I don't, well," she pauses for a moment, her eyes shining. "I don't know how they could show it. It's, it's pathological!" "But beautifully done. She does look as though she's suffering." "No doubt at all." "And the men are well characterized." "Yes, total assholes," she snaps. "The one with the plate, smirking like the maitre d' at the Quilted Giraffe. 'ave you seen ze special desserts?' And that thug with the sword? Wanting more?" "The biker type? Looked like an Allman Brothers fan to me." "Reminded me of my ex-husband, frankly," she scowls. "Bastard. He'd have liked it a lot. Would have wanted a poster." "Strange guy?" I ask. "Crazy. Well, he's gone now." "Still in Italy?" "Italy, no, ha ha, he's in the slammer here, Soledad, maximum security. Don't you know this story? I thought you did." So, I hear it. The husband, Lester, was a jazz drummer of amazingly high-strung temperament. Always in and out of rock bands, wasted on reds and snorting anything he was sold. A big boozer too, and violent. They'd met at some Zappa gig. Loony Lester ended up in the jug, keys thrown away, for going berserk in a biker bar in Oakland, California one day, with a meat cleaver. Several dead, a few more disemboweled or amputated (but who lived), much gore. He was felled by a shotgun blast, but didn't die. And now, he's jerking off in rage in jail, forever. One hopes. "Poor Agatha," I reinject. "Yes, what happened after? I don't remember from Lives of the Saints. Something nasty." She shakes her head. "Nor me. Something involving more chopping, I'm sure. Giambattista told a good story, and that was the implication I got." "Yes," she sighs. "Back? What else are you looking at today?" "Uh, I try not to overindulge. I was going to just go get something to eat. Early brunch. I'm a member, so, y'know, I don't feel like I have to get my eight bucks' worth every time. . ." "Me, too," she says, moving her glasses on top of her head. "Yes, that was rather intense, too." "If you have no particular plans, Claudia, and you're not offended at being seen by an old guy in rather unfashionable clothes, may I buy you brunch?" She smiles warmly, hesitates. "I'm not offended. And, no, I don't have any plans. But, Suzanne?" "We, uh, aren't seeing each other. For a while, now. Oh, nothing formal. I expect we'll be friends, but . . ." Her guilt is assuaged, and I see that 'oh, I see. I wonder what he's really about' expression forming, around her eyes and mouth. That appraising, 'taste the other girl's candy' look. "So, anywhere in mind?" she says. "You're on the west side, right?" She nods. "I know lots of places. Veggie? Indian? Pizza?" "It's Sunday. No guilt. Let's do pizza." "Manicotti's? Brick oven, all that kind of stuff?" "Right, and great Columbus Avenue people watching." "I know the place, 73rd or so. Yes, let's." "Walking?" "The only way." We chatter as we go. Tiepolo, a bit more. The recently departed Corot and Homer exhibits. Some things she'd seen at MoMA, an opera last night at the Met. The book she's reading, A.S. Byatt's Babel Tower. I'm impressed, but the Byatt flicks a switch. It's about London in the sixties, full of S&M. There are so many references in her conversation, I'm beginning to think that ... Well, you know already. Pizza by the square foot. And we indulge, and have a couple of glasses of wine. She's not firmly hooked, but she is showing 'try me' signs. Around 2 PM, I look at my watch and say, "Matinee today? Or what?" "I was just going to have a lazy afternoon, and read the papers," she says stretching languorously. "And you?" I order another couple of glasses of wine, and the check, and smile. Her apartment is tiny, a third floor walk-up a couple of blocks from the restaurant. It's her idea to invite me back, the pretext, totally transparent to both of us, is to see some art books of hers. She has a couple of Met posters. My apartment is a warren of books. Hers, too, but her additional problem is clothes. Closets full to bursting, rolling hangers shoved into odd corners. "Drink?" she says, lighting up a cigarette. I shake my head. We look over a couple of fat tomes, from European museums. I dwell on the nudes, and she sees this. The Salem Lite 100 is soon over. I reach for her as she stubs it out, pull her to me. We kiss, for a long while. She's gentle and yielding, but you can feel that Mediterranean fire. She pulls my hand to her breast. Soon, I have her undressed. She doesn't care if I pull the blinds or not. I decide to, as she starts unzipping me. Female nudity, okay. Male nudity, bad. She's very oral, and groans with desire as she gets my cock in her hands. She can't wait to get it in her mouth. Soon, I'm returning the favor. I'm on my back on her bed, with her sucking me. Her damp, freshly waxed pussy is on my face. I love to eat pussy, and hers is delightful. I'm surprised she is waxed, I expect European women to be hairy, and have even come to like armpit hair. Just as well in New York. But it is a major contributor to her runniness. She seems concerned: "Am I too messy?" she whispers. My reply is incoherent, but she gets the meaning as I push my tongue deep into her vagina. Not at all! She comes, and I get deluged. She wants to fuck. I lay her on her front, start stroking her backside, feeling her quim from behind. She raises her buttocks, spreads nicely. A spanky girl pose, I'm sure. I'll ask, in due course. But for now, I climb on. I have both her tits in my hands as I ride. Tweaking and rolling her nipples. She's moaning, the usual 'oh baby' stuff. "Claudia?" "Baby, carissimo, yes." "Are you are yielding kind of girl?" "Do I obey, you mean? Oh yes, yes..." "That's what I mean, yes. Did Suzanne . . .?" "Tell me? No." "I didn't mean that. Did, she like that kind of thing?" "Not enough for me." "What do you like, Andy?" "Women who want to be controlled. Who enjoy being beaten." "Oh god! Really?" "Yes, really. Well?" "Yes, that's ... I like the idea ..." "So?" "It's just, I need to think about it." "Why?" "Because of my ex. Bad memories." "He beat you, but not in a fun way. That it?" A strangled gasp. She's coming again. "Yes." "But I'd be very loving and gentle, Claudia, dear..." "I know, I know. Don't stop." "I'd spank your bottom very well, but very kindly." "Oh! Tell me, yes, go on." "Over my lap, with my bare hand." "Oh, Jesus!" "Until you are a very sorry girl. Very sore." "Please!" "Spank you like a naughty schoolgirl." She's wriggling in pleasure. "Yes," she sighs. "And will you beat my back, too? With a whip?" "Happy to. If you have one handy, yes." "I do." "Then, just say when you're ready." "Not just my back..." "Whatever you say, Claudia. Just tell me, okay?" "My thighs . . ." "A pleasure. Just the backs, or do you want the insides of them done too?" "Insides? Yes! Oh god . . ." "Right up to the top?" "Aaarggkkkk!" "Was that a 'yes'?" "Yes, yes!" "It'll hurt." "I want it to!" "And?" I can feel her getting close to another orgasm. Her voice is strangled. "My ... ah ah ah ... my breasts ... please!" "Another pleasure, Claudia." She's arching her back, and I have a firm grip on her nipples. "Been thinking about Agatha, have we, sweet Claudia? About the patron saint of tit torment?" She comes, her body shaking. I wait for her to subside, then resume my steady thrusts. "Thank you, oh that's so good, so good," she's babbling. I lick her ear, say softly: "I'll hold you to it unless you withdraw now, Claudia." "No, no, I meant it," she groans. "I want you to come, then I'm going to give you the whip." "Won't your neighbors get suspicious?" I tease, as if I give a shit what her nosy fucking neighbors think. I'm so horny I'd plank her on the landing outside, with an ornamental rose in my asshole. "We'll put on some opera," she sighs. "And to hell with them, anyway." The bed is creaking rhythmically, like a yacht in a gale. On we sail. I'm soon positioned for my end of the bargain, but I want her with me. Why not? I murmur: "Am I going to tie you up to whip you, Claudia, or are you one who can lay still and submit, without complaining?" "Tie me down, I love that," she grunts. "Here, on the bed? Or on your dining room table?" "Here," she gasps. "And how many strokes with the whip?" "Lots." "Say a number." "Fifty." "Don't be ridiculous." "More?" "Of course." Timidly: "A hundred?" "That's better, much better." And with perfect synchronization I come, taking her with me. We lay panting for a while before she disentangles herself, dashes to the bathroom to pee, then returns, wiping herself with tissue. I point with imperial hauteur at my softening cock, gluey with my semen and her juices. She kneels by the bed, and offers a tissue. I grab her shoulder, push her to me, and she proceeds to lick me clean. Then reaches in a nearby drawer, and pulls out a neatly wound-up cat 'o' nine tails, with long wooden beaded flails. Presents it to me with trembling hands, and says softly: "Master?" I take it, examine it. Handmade, old, Asian. The leather tails are well-oiled, the braided handle freshly polished. "Yours, Claudia? Or did you have a Master once, who left you this?" She sighs deeply. "I wish I had. No, it's mine. I bought it in the souk in Zanzibar, on a photo shoot a couple of years ago. It's beautiful." "Yes, it is. And you've been waiting all this time to have it used on you, is that what I'm hearing?" "Yes, sir." "You haven't used it on yourself, even?" "Once or twice," she admits, blushing faintly. "But it's not the same." "No, it's not," I say. "Not at all. Claudia, this is very cruel, you realize?" She nods wordlessly, tears sparkling in her eyes. "But you want it?" "Yes." "You won't be wearing any low-back dresses, short skirts, or low necklines for a while if I do, Claudia. You'll have red marks for weeks. In fact, it'll probably cut you. Understand? Are you ready for that?" "Yes, sir. That's what I want. Please? Beat me so it hurts." "Then let's start with that spanking, and see how you feel after that." I sit on the edge of the bed, put down the cat, within easy reach. I beckon her to my side. "Here, lay across my lap. That's right, get comfortable. You're going to be here for a while." She wriggles and settles into position. Her long legs are to my left, and she cradles her head on her folded arms. She sighs: "Spank me hard, sir." And I do. Her white shapely buttocks are soon glowing pink, with handprints all over. I carry on. She lets out the occasional sigh, a few soft cries. Not until I have made her nearly crimson does she begin to wriggle and struggle. I press my spare hand firmly in the small of her back to keep her still. Then, when this isn't quite enough, I grab one of her arms and roughly twist it up behind her. The spanking continues until she's gasping with each fresh stroke to her glowing ass, and she's pleading desperately for a respite. I let her sprawl on the bed for a while, gently touching herself, testing the soreness of her backside, before ordering her up, and into the main room. "Stand in the corner, hands on your head, Claudia, while I get some things ready." I take my time. When I'm ready, I go and stand behind her, stroke her shoulders gently, run my fingers slowly down her back, kiss her neck. She is breathing deeply. I guide her to the window, have her stand there, hands still on her head. I open the curtains, an inch or two, tilt the blinds a little. She's shaking now. "No," she shudders. "Hands on your cunt, and pull your lips open. Come on," I tease. She obeys, her hands shaking. Anyone in the street looking up might be able to see her. But, there's no one there to accept the dare. I relent and tilt the blinds closed again. She sighs in relief, but also, I think, savoring the tension. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Claudia? To stand here and masturbate for the whole West side while I beat your ass black and blue?" A deep sigh. "Oh, yes. But, we can't, can we?" "We could. There'll be a time, Claudia. If you are going to be mine, you'll learn to do very daring things, I promise. I like to test limits." "I want to!" she pants. "Be yours, yes." "We may stand there and fuck one afternoon, give everyone something to talk about. And yes, I guess your are going to be mine, then..." I drag her by the arm, back into the bedroom. She's sniffling; her hair is a mess and her eye make-up all over her cheeks. She gasps again when she sees that I've stripped the bed to the mattress, and improvised ropes at each corner with stockings from her laundry basket. I also have a pair of her discarded panties, not at all clean. I cram those into her mouth, and fix them in place with a scarf. She gazes wide-eyed as I point to the bed. "On your belly, and stretch out, wide." A few minutes later, she is well secured. I test each connection carefully. Then, I lay the whip in full view. Next to it, a thin cane I have found behind a closet door. She looks at this in horror, as though she'd forgotten she had it. And next to those, my trouser belt, doubled into a loop. "Ready?" She gulps, testing the bindings on her wrists. Her legs are spread to the full width of the queen-sized bed, affording me a great view of her labia, which are swollen and sticky. I show her the belt, let her sniff the leather. "Know what this is for, Claudia?" I loosen the gag. Playing with her will be so much fun, now. "No," she sobs. "Oh, please, beat me. Please." "I'll tell you, so you can look forward to it." I let it trail across her ass, tickle her asshole, pick up some drool from her cunt. "How's this?" "There!? You're going to whip me there?" she gasps, excitedly. "It meets with your approval then, dear lady?" "Yes, oh God, yes." "Then it will be. First, though, I think the cane. On your ass. Nice and sore, sweetheart? Well, you're going to know what sore is, before long." "Oh, Jesus." "No use praying, Claudia. Wasted on me. I'm going to be very cruel, too." "How many?" she gasps. "Unfair if it's less than fifty..." I murmur. I stuff the dirty panties back in her mouth, knowing she will have a lot to say. What will the neighbors enjoy? Bellini's I Puritani sounds perfect to me. And to a chorus of bumptious Roundhead soldiers, sweet Claudia's ordeal begins. By the time we're ready for the second CD, her backside and back are well striped. The cane, the cat, both used with venom from her lower thighs to her shoulders. She's sobbing softly, but I've seen her come at least three times. And rewarded this lust with a few carefully placed blows of the strap between her thighs. I loosen her gag, and she coughs weakly. "Oh, Master! Please, just a minute's rest. I beg you." "Are you hurt, slave?" "No, sir. I want you to continue, but ... let me pee, please." "I could just leave you there and let you wallow in it, but, actually I need you to move into another position. So, up with you." I undo the stockings, and help her to her feet. Escort her, walking stiffly, to the bathroom. Stand and watch as she pisses. Lowering her crimson, welted buttocks and thighs to the cold plastic seat, she finds she can't sit. She dabs herself, flinching at the acid touch of urine on her raw vulva. I help her up, hug her close. "Claudia? Are you alright?" "Yes, Master. Please? You must remember to beat my breasts. Promise?" I lead her into the main room. Overhead, she has a light fixture hook. It's been replaced by track lighting, but left in place. I find a chair to stand on. Strap her wrists together with my belt, making a loop with the tag end. Force her up to raise her hands above her head, attach it to the hook with a tightly twisted skein of nylons. Tighten and shorten everything so she remains on tiptoes, terribly stretched. I plump her breasts. In a drawer, I find two powerful metal bulldog clips. She clenches her teeth and groans as I attach these to her nipples. Tears fill her eyes. I walk round her, enjoying her vulnerability. "Yes, Claudia? Happy? Do you want to be whipped some more?" She nods, "Yes, sir." I stroke her belly and thighs. "Here first." She pushes her hips forward and grunts with pleasure. This looks like an Aida whipping to me. Knees to navel, back and forth, concentrating my most forceful blows on her mons. Oh, she's feeling this. Ungagged now. Thick, angry welts appear on her pale skin, and a river of goo drools down her thighs. I take the cane and apply it to her, too. She gasps with satisfaction. And then, to sobs of gratitude, the cat is applied to her breasts. The final stripes of an afternoon of frenzied beating. Until, to her gratitude, little flecks of blood are forming on her nipples, and the delicate skin of her breasts is welted. Then I take her, still standing, with my prick in her ass. Oh, she wriggles prettily. She's very sore and doesn't yield her anus easily: Lack of practice rather than anything else, because I grease her with virgin olive oil first. Only the best! When I release her wrists, she falls to the floor. She kisses my feet, making little submissive sounds. Her back is cruelly striped. Did I do that? Ah, so rough. And then, I tenderly lead her to the bathroom for a warm shower. Delicately massage her ass with crème, dress some of her cuts with little dabs of disinfectant. And then, with her murmuring incoherent thanks, take her to bed and cuddle up for an hour or two. I'm dressing quietly, in the darkened bedroom, when she wakes, her voice anxious. "Andy? Andy!?" "I'm here, Claudia." "Are you leaving? What time is it?" "About nine. I have to do a few things." "No, stay." "Back in a while, alright?" "Will you come back? Please?" "I can be back at 11.30, maybe. No later than midnight." "Yes. Kiss me." I do. "Fix some food, maybe? And be naked when I get here." In the dark, she's nodding. And touching herself. "Yes, sir. Of course. Anything else?" "Leave all these toys out. And you could tie your wrists." "Yes. I will." A pause. "In front or behind?" "In front, so you can masturbate, of course. You will, won't you?" "I won't be able to stop." "I'm going to bring a dog collar for you to wear, Claudia. So you know what you are." She gives a little moan of desire. "Your slave." "Exactly. Oh, just smell yourself." We both sniff deeply. Her scent is quite overpowering. "You need another good fucking." "Please. Are you going to beat me again?" "Maybe, tomorrow morning for sure. Is Monday a day off for you?" "Yes," she breathes. "So, will you be staying?" "Why not? Then there's no rush to whip you, is there?" "Yes!! Please, Andy? Don't be mean. I need it so badly." "Ha ha. Then you'll get it. Aren't you sore?" "Raw," she sighs. "Aching. I'm bleeding, all over. You were a complete bastard, you know that? A complete fucking bastard. Just the way I wanted. Where have you been for so long, Andy? I need you, so badly ..." Ah, the same old story, my friends. And we retold it many times that spring, my security greatly increased by the knowledge that, no matter how beautiful she was, she'd not easily replace me if her tastes remain this perverse. Lucky Andy, and, yes, lucky Claudia, too. Copyright (c) 1997, 1999 by MrSpraycan. All Rights Reserved. Read erotica by MrSpraycan and other fine authors on the *free* Erotica_2000 listserv. Daily deliveries! New authors welcome. Just send e-mail to: Erotica_2000-subscribe@onelist.com - and say "Subscribe" in the subject line. OR: if you're webby in nature, go to: http://www.onelist.com/subscribe.cgi/Erotica_2000 and sign up. 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