The Siren

Carter waggled her head then forced her against Sol’s body, her lips wrapped around his root. “Go on, take it,” he jeered.

Karen couldn’t hold Sol for more than a few seconds. She sprang back, gasping for air. Her heart flared at the sight of two cocks in front of her, both eager for attention. Good cock, bad cock, she thought as she bobbed from Carter’s length to Sol’s then back again. But no, it was all bad—bad, nasty and rough—and it was all good, so wonderfully good.

It got better and badder when Sol decided he needed to check if Karen’s cunt was as greedy as her mouth. Sergeant Carter hooked his hands under her armpits, maneuvering Karen so they were both seated on the ground, Carter behind Karen, Karen in the gap of his thighs. Karen kicked and squealed as Sol reached beneath her skirt for her knickers. She squirmed as he tugged them down her legs, all three participants getting off on the fight.

“Tiger, ain’t she?” chuckled Carter. Behind her, Carter’s protective vest was as solid as a superhero’s chest, and his naked cock nosed insistently against her trapped hands. He tucked his ankles under her legs, and with a shift and a twist he spread her wide, her shins trapped under his big, shiny boots. Spots of halogen gleamed in the leather toes, each black boot holding a miniature moonlit night.

Sol withdrew his baton from his holster. “Perfect, Sarge,” he said. His baton was long, black and menacing, a short handle jutted at a right angle to the shaft. Karen’s groin throbbed in anticipation, moisture sliding inside her. Sol crouched between her splayed legs, giving the snout of his baton a spit and cursory rub. He pressed the tip to her folds, wiggled the baton past her lips then slid its hard length inside her. He drove as deep as the handle would allow then left the shaft lodged high. Karen gibbered and wailed as he began levering the baton up and down, rocking it against her G-spot and ensuring her clit got a nice, regular bumping.

“She like that?” asked Carter.

“I’ll say,” said Sol.

Karen was beyond words although she was far from silent. Sol kept pumping the baton, and in no time at all, she was coming in enormous, grateful waves. “More,” she cried. “More. I have a whole year to catch up on.”

Sol and Carter rose to the occasion, and then some. They fucked her in turn before fucking her at either end, and Karen, still in restraints, could do nothing but take it, which was all she wanted anyway.

They were interrupted when the copper copper, Bryn, burst into the room. “The color’s back,” he cried before pulling up short. He gawped at the three figures half-naked on the cobbles. His fluorescent-green jacket lit up the room, his reflector stripes gleaming like pearl.

“Help yourself, there’s plenty,” said Sergeant Carter.

Bryn removed his helmet. “I’m married, guv,” he said. “You mind if I just watch?”

Nobody minded at all, and fifteen minutes later, when the four of them were finished, they dusted themselves down and exchanged thanks. Upstairs, the people from forensics were rustling softly, packing away their gear in bafflement. The gallery was ablaze with all the suns of the world. From picture frames poured the blues and gingers of Persia, Moroccan afternoons in hot pink and cinnamon, Mexican slums in terracotta and turquoise, the warm, earthy golds of African safaris, every fiery spice in every Asian market and every silk and sequin in every Indian sari. And in the darker corners, for those who cared to look, were tones of cobalt, violet, emerald green and crimson, because there’s color in the shadows, too.

Karen went from room to room, swimming through rainbows, her cheeks flushed with the glorious pigments of sexual bliss.

Come at Six

By Portia Da Costa

“I knew it’d be you,” he says, eyeing the evidence.

That bloody magazine. I knew I shouldn’t have taken it when I snuck into his office to borrow his ruler. But I’d never seen one in anyone else’s possession before. I thought I was the only person I knew who got turned on by spanking magazines. But clearly my hot new boss, Nick, reads them, too.

“Mine, I believe?” He slides the incriminating item from my partly open drawer.

I hang my head, hiding my blushing face and my excitement.

I’ve been at Bray Associates for a month. It’s just a basic office job, but I’m glad of it—and even more so when Nick, the owner’s handsome son, is around. I’m just another face in the admin department, but somehow, when he passes by, his wicked sexy smile seems just for me.

Trembling, I watch him flip the pages, his fingers long and sensitive, his gray eyes twinkling in a narrow, unsettling way.

“So, what’re we going to do about this?” His voice is arch and deliciously knowing. “We can’t have people stealing things, can we? That’ll never do.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t help it. It looked, um, interesting.”

“Interesting, eh?” He eyes me up, like a blond angel-devil, all challenging and provocative in his sober business suit. He was on his way out, but I sense that he wishes he weren’t. Checking his watch, he gnaws his plush lower lip,and then slides the magazine into his briefcase. Next he takes out a business card,and scribbles on the back of it.

“This is my address, Emma.” He’s giving me his home address? “Come at six, tomorrow night. And we’ll discuss the repercussions of office theft.”

As he walks away, I could swear that he’s whistling in happy anticipation.

* * *

At six the following evening I’m shaking in my stilettos outside Nick’s front door, more aroused than I’ve ever been in my life. His flat is in a large old house, and when I ring for entry, he buzzes me in. I’m almost dizzy by the time he opens his door.

Oh hell, he looks…edible.

Soft, worn jeans cling to his lean thighs, and a white shirt makes his summer tan gleam. His flaxen hair is shower-wet and slicked back, vaguely severe looking.

Me, I’m dressed in a simple black dress, suggesting penitence, I hope.

Smiling slightly, he escorts me into a cozy, masculine study smelling of lavender polish and leather upholstery. There’s a large wing chair by the fireplace and a cluttered antique desk against the window.

“Please sit down, Emma.” Nick sinks into his imposing, high-backed throne and gestures to a plain wooden chair a little way distant. Linking his fingers in his lap, he observes me as I perch on the hard surface and arrange my knees as gracefully as I can.

“Well, Emma, we’ve got ourselves a situation, haven’t we?”

“You’re going to sack me, aren’t you?”

“No, nothing like that.” His voice is quiet, but his fingers twist a little as if he’s edgy beneath the calm veneer. He reaches for a glass of red wine from the small table beside his chair and takes a measured sip, all the time studying me, his eyes dark and assessing. “You’re an asset to Bray, Emma. We don’t want to lose you.” He set his glass aside, “But on the other hand—” He pauses again, his fingers fisted against his chin in a pensive attitude. “We can’t let this incident go unmarked, can we? You need to understand that you can’t get away with pilfering.”

I suspect this is almost a royal “we” rather than company-speak.

“And h…how can we do that?”

I’ve known since yesterday where this might be going, but it still makes me shake and stammer.

“A misdemeanor deserves discipline, Emma. Don’t you think so?”

“Er…yes.”

“Good, then we understand each other?” His blond eyebrows quirk in amusement, even though his face is otherwise solemn.

I nod. Indeed we do.

“Very well then, Emma, I’d like you to stand up, take off your panties and give them to me.”

My mouth opens but emits no sound. I feel myself blushing again.

“Emma?”

My juddering knees make me awkward and clumsy as I struggle to obey, and somehow my simple white knickers hook themselves around my ankles like a lasso. But just as I stumble, Nick’s there, supporting me, strong hand beneath my elbow. He steadies me and then resumes his position in the wing chair, gesturing with his long fingers for my panties.

My naked bottom trembling beneath my skirt, I watch him peruse my knickers with disturbing intensity. Turning them this way and that, he assesses my response to him from their state. Then, apparently satisfied, he folds them and places them on the smooth leather arm of his chair, an accusing talisman.

Reaching for his glass, he sips again, making me wait. “Now raise your skirt and turn around, very slowly.”