Black Lace Quickies 2 Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Toys – Stella Black

  All I Have To Do – Nikki Magennis

  Gettysburg Undress – Amber Leigh

  Slow Burn – Sophie Mouette

  Sweet Charity – Monica Belle

  Missionary Impossible – Maya Hess

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Stella is a bad girl who likes to push her luck …

  For one girl Music is the food of love …

  Vivien’s loyalty is to pleasure …

  Karen scans the horizon, looking for a forest ranger in a tight summer uniform …

  When Lizi dresses as a leopard, the hunt for a mate begins …

  Nadia goes into space where nobody can hear you scream …

  Indulgent, sensual, taboo, outrageous and always, always erotic, Black Lace short stories are the best in modern sexy fiction. Fun, irreverent and deliciously decadent, this arousing little anthology of our erotica is a showcase of the diversity and imagination of modern women’s erotic desires. So pick me up and dip into the most entertaining erotic fiction around.

  Quickies – 2

  A Black Lace erotic short-story collection

  Toys

  Stella Black

  ‘STELLA. I TOLD you. One toy only.’

  ‘But I want the Ami Yumi doll and the Ami Yumi cat, what’s the point of having one and not the other?’

  ‘I told you. One toy only and if you argue with me I will take you into the car park, I will take your pants down and I will spank you. Do you understand me?’

  I considered lying down in the middle of the corridor marked ‘Action Toys’ and remaining supine until he bought me exactly what I wanted. I am five foot three, after all, and eight stone. Petite in one sense, but difficult to move in the other. Still, even I, immersed in lovely fantasy as I was, recognised that a 23-year-old woman having a tantrum in the middle of the Toy Palace might cause more problems with the security department than was necessary. He was a kind Daddy, a good Daddy, a cruel Daddy, a perfect lover and role-player, but he would not be able to explain himself to the outside world. The outside world would not understand. But the outside world, at this moment, was of no importance. We had our world. We were playing. He was hard and I was wet and it was bliss.

  ‘But!’

  I liked defying him but I knew it was risky. I knew that he meant it. I knew that if he became annoyed, if I overstepped the mark, he would tan my arse for me and it wouldn’t be easy. He had a hard hand, and if he didn’t feel like using that he used a Mason and Pearson hairbrush, or sometimes a paddle. It wasn’t easy. I had the bruises to prove it.

  But somehow, I never actually believed he would do it, he could do it, until he actually did it. And here in the Toy Palace, one of my favourite places by the way, here in the Toy Palace, amongst the Wheebles and Whoozits, he just looked like any other good-looking 32-year-old man in a dark coat.

  The discerning eye would know that the coat was Gaultier. He did have money, a lot of it as it happened, he had inherited a fortune when he was 28, and he was prone to indulge himself as a result. He was a hedonist, but without the self-destruction that that sometimes implies. And now, he was my big Daddy. He loved it. I loved it. I was his naughty girl. We were free.

  I gazed, lost in the biggest toy shop in the world. Well. That’s what the sign said. It was what the Toy Palace believed. THE BIGGEST TOY SHOP IN THE WORLD. This meant a fantastic kingdom of plastic and wood and primary colours. It meant that Barbie had a private jet and the Star Wars ‘Republic Senator’ had a snake-like tongue with which to threaten his enemies. There were Froggies and Doggies and Pony Rescue and Playmobil sniffer dogs all of which could be explored for hours on end.

  I never became tired of it, though the Daddy sometimes became a little impatient and would take me hard by the hand and march me to the till where I was allowed just the one thing. Only one. Though no price limit! Well, even with that restriction. You try it. One toy in the biggest store in the world?

  ‘I’ve spoiled you, Stella,’ he would say. ‘I’ve spoiled you, and I’ve created a bad girl.’

  Rules were made to be broken. He made them, I broke them.

  The rules said I was to be polite in the shop, not ask for things, not whine or sulk.

  He took me by the hand and led me over to a large aisle entitled, ‘Dressing Up!’ Masks stared down at us. Fanged freaks, dragons, one-eyed zombies and scarred Nazis – a hideous gallery of imaginative prosthetics and sinister teeth. And on to the outfits. There was nothing you couldn’t get. Your baby could be a monkey, a duckie or a pumpkin. Your son could be a fireman, a Bob the Builder, or a Dementor. The teenager could be a cool ghoul, a night slasher or a high seas rogue.

  He dragged me past all this to the teenage girls section. If he makes me be a Tinkerbell I’ll never speak to him again, I thought, though Skeleton Bride was good, as was Dragon Geisha and Zombie Cheerleader. My spirits rose.

  ‘There are nuns,’ I informed him.

  ‘You’re not being a nun,’ he said. ‘It’s not Monty Python. Just stand there.’

  A young man appeared. His face was not his advantage. Indeed, his face could easily have taken its place amongst the Halloween masks. He was wearing a green nylon uniform with ‘Toy Palace’ and a castle logo embroidered in red on his chest.

  ‘I’m looking for a witch.’

  The assistant didn’t say, ‘Aren’t we all?’ as I would have done, but displayed an expression as wide and dry as the Gobi desert.

  ‘Over here, sir,’ he said in the voice of Shaggy from Scooby Doo.

  Daddy stroked the back of my neck and, overpowered by fatherliness and his smell and my compulsion to take him into me, I nearly cried.

  ‘I don’t want a bloody witch outfit,’ I said. ‘I want …’

  The shop assistant, walking ahead, did not hear.

  ‘Don’t be rude,’ he said calmly. ‘We’ve got to get something for Suzanne’s Halloween ball. I’m putting you in a black net skirt, thigh-high boots, seamed stockings and PVC pants. We’re getting the skirt here – the boots and knickers you’ll have to wait for and, I might add, I will be caning and buggering you when you are wearing them.’

  I stared at him innocently. I knew this costume would look good with purple lipstick, dark eyes … I knew I would flip myself over for him, let him push the net over my head and cane me, slashing onto the PVC until my flesh started to sweat inside it and I would grow wet into that pervy plastic fabric.

  ‘I don’t want the witch. I want the cat!’

  I put some gum in my mouth, chewed it, stared defiantly at him for a couple of seconds and then walked off in the opposite direction, past shelves piled high with farm animals, past plush badgers, past mighty Action Men with inmate muscles and criminal leers.

  I knew he would like the sight of my disappearing rear, little white Chanel shorts with a gold chain around the waist, Punky Fish jacket, Japanese teenager socks, Betty Page pumps, open toe, black velvet, high, with tiny polka dots and dear little bow on the back of the heel. They were the most adorable things you have ever seen, a mixture of pure pervert and adorable innocence that is very difficult to achieve in a shoe.

  He loved them. Well. He should do. He had bought them.

  The shoes were new. We had gone round the shops in his chauffeur-driven sedan, smoothing our way through Bond Street and Mayfair.

  The peculiar boutique, hidden away in a mews, seemed to be designed for people like us. I expect he found it in a ‘specialist’ magazine. I hadn’t realised there were so many of us around. I saw another Daddy with a naughty girl sitting on his lap, a beautiful Eurasian, mi
d-thirties, extending her foot to a kneeling assistant while her lover nuzzled her neck.

  She walked up and down, showing him the little white boots. They were laced up to the knee of her bare brown legs and teamed with a pair of white culottes and a striped Paul Smith blazer. I thought they were marvellous but her daddy shook his head and said, ‘No.’ I swear she cried. I thought he was going to slap her but he kissed her on the mouth and pointed to a lovely pair of dark-green faux crocodile stilettos with four-inch heels.

  We are around, naughty girls. We can do anything. And will.

  My Daddy – not my real Daddy of course, he died years ago – my pretend Daddy indulged me and fucked me and spanked the arse off me when I was rude to him, or didn’t present my cunt when he asked me to, and we had fun with our minds and mutual attraction. And his dick.

  So off I went, away from him and his witches outfits, disappearing around the Mermadia Sea Butterflies, past Simpsons Monopoly and something that the Furbys had bred. Past a ‘Winged Puffball’, past a knight fighting a dragon with jo lan ninja martial moves, until I was lost in every sense, subsumed by thoughts, surrounded by animatronics. Then. Oh my God, Daleks. There they were, in every shape, size and form. Dalek pens, Dalek lunch boxes, remote-controlled Daleks, Dalek T-shirts, Dalek tins. Annihilate. Exterminate. Destroy. I felt a rush of genuine pleasure. Daleks have always made me feel very very happy.

  You might ask, and it would be fair to do so, how the terrifying metal maniacs of Who lore infiltrated the psycho-sexuality of Ms Stella Black, unfettered tart of the perve parish? But there is a link between terror and safety and sex, my friends.

  Deep in the memory cells of the parasympathetic nerve system there lurked old stories of omnipotent robots whose mission it was to destroy all; and somewhere out there there was a male person destined to protect me from them. At an age when Dr Who was God, and God was the Father I had no real Father, only a distant grave and a strange disappearing act and no explanations. There was a deep longing for a protector; a man who was easy to admire and before whom all enemies fell. A man whose style reflected self-confidence and insouciance and a mighty intelligence gathered from many planets over centuries of time travel.

  My childhood, if it could be called that, was an odd one. The early years were full of Cybermen and Ice-Warriors and Yeti, all scaly and furry and whispering and scary. Somebody whom I could not remember put me to bed during those years. He was nice and he loved me and then he went. I searched and looked and prayed to the God the Father invented by somebody at school but he never came back and I faced the world alone. Now he was here in a different form. A form that understood me. And loved me. And played and played.

  Of course I wondered whether I would marry my role Daddy, whether we would end up together, though I didn’t fancy having to talk to his boring friends or explain myself. I didn’t fancy silent breakfasts and the mundane detail of morbid domesticity. I mean I would have liked to have been engaged in a camp 1950s way. But, in the end, the sex was spectacular and absorbing and enough. We were distant but close. Our world was safe and sexual and imbued with complete trust and perfect understanding.

  The best moments were lying slumped against each other in the back of a limo, smelling of the night’s scents, some bar cigarettes, me Paloma Picasso, him Givenchy, warm, his hand playing me, making me wait for it, winding me up.

  Men had bought me jewellery in the past; they didn’t understand the toy fetish. I didn’t really want jewellery, I always lost it anyway, I wanted love, as we all do, and I am cursed with wisdom. I know that love is more than a bling thing from Tiffany. I know it is about time and trust.

  Daddy arrived in November, at a dance in an earl’s mansion in Belgravia. I think I had fucked the earl once or twice in the past, in the Cap d’Antibes or somewhere. I was Roxy Music in vintage Anthony Price. Most of the men had dismissed me because I was cleverer than them. I got incredibly bored and went to explore the magnificent residence which was one of those places with an indoor pool, Ionic pillars and several original Chagals. Around the third floor I found a bathroom the size of an apartment with two marble sinks, gold mirrors and a free-standing bath adorned with a parade of Floris and Jo Malone.

  Nobody would have been able to resist that and I did not. Off came the moire dress.

  I was relaxing in delicious hot waves of geranium scent when he walked in. I was, of course, completely naked, though my modesty, such as it is, was protected, to an extent, by the high white walls of the Victorian bath.

  He didn’t say sorry. He hardly looked at me. He simply padded across the soft white carpet, pulled out his dick and went to the loo. I did not provide him with the gratification of staring at his organ, curious though I was, as one always is. Instinct told me that he was fine in that department. It’s a talent I have. Assessing dick size by the reading of the personality. I am rarely wrong. I’ll tell you how to do it sometime. It’s quite useful.

  He sat on the edge of the bath, lit up a cigarette and smiled at me through the smoke.

  I soaped myself, particularly my breasts, which weren’t particularly dirty, in the usual sense of the word. I looked at him straight in the eye and lathered between my legs. Then I stood up and rinsed myself with the shower, ensuring that he was allowed the full advantage of a rear view that, with thoughtful presentation, could cause a bus to crash into the back of a police car.

  Finally, I lay back into the water, legs spread, toes on the edges, little crimson nails winking at him, little crimson lips slightly parted to reveal my clit.

  He took his time but we both knew it was up to him to lead. The water nearly went cold. I’m not a patient person and neither do I sit in cold water for any man, even if he is one of the darkest and best looking I have ever seen. At last he stood up and gathered a vast white towel from the silver rails.

  ‘Come to Daddy,’ he said. ‘It’s time for bed.’

  I was home.

  We fucked for a fortnight before we found our mutual core. It was after a night of anal sex. It’s a strange thing, anal sex. It always makes me feel violated and small and submissive. I have to be taken to it very slowly, and with some dominance. He quickly discovered that.

  I was lying on my stomach on his bed, wearing a pair of pink cotton pants and matching socks and very little else. I was reading the Beano and eating sweets and being very Nabokov. I got some chocolate on his counterpane and he was furious.

  ‘For God’s sake, Stella,’ he said. ‘It’s eighteenth-century silk. You can’t dry clean it, it will destroy it.’

  ‘Well, it’s very stupid to have it on the bed then,’ I responded, popping another candy into my mouth. ‘Give it to the V and A or something.’

  I turned the page to Dennis the Menace and Gnasher.

  He didn’t say anything. He simply took the Beano and the packet of sweets and placed them on the bedside table. Then he ambled over to the dressing table where, amongst a line of antique clothes brushes, there was a silver-backed hair-brush that had once belonged to an aged aunt.

  He grabbed me, spread me over his knee, ripped down the Lolita knickers and beat me with that silver-backed brush.

  The sound rang out as a slap into the room. God knows men have spanked me before. I seem to bring it out in them for some reason. But this took me by surprise as we had not discussed it. The stings became harder and my flesh hotter. I yelped. Then the erotic flush turned into red pain. He slapped my thighs and then returned to my arse, again and again, for about twenty minutes, until the arousal and discomfort melded and I eased smoothly into the true transcendence of total submission.

  He went all the way, spanking me, fingering me, spanking me again until I wept and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’

  My pants were then removed completely and his fingers, lubed with Vaseline, eased into my back passage.

  ‘Play with yourself, Stella. I want you to relax.’

  So I brought myself to orgasm as he fingered me slowly and
did as I was told. For once.

  He kissed me on the lips, and pushed me face down over the edge of the bed. I was kneeling on the floor, but my forehead was pressed into the aforementioned eighteenth-century silk.

  He left me there for a minute or two, knowing that I love to wait for it. My smacked bottom was presented red and animal-like to him. My cunt was wet. And slowly, his dick wrapped in rubber, he eased himself into me. Very gently. In and further in. I was naked now, except for the knee socks, snivelling and moaning but turned on, allowing him through.

  There was only me and him and his dick and my anus. Somewhere there were our smells and the smell of chocolate. I went somewhere, returned, went away again. He started to thrust harder, letting himself go and surrendering to his ejaculation.

  Later, after smoked salmon sandwiches eaten naked, he tucked me underneath the white duvet. We were naked and together and close.

  After that he took charge.

  Once he made me stand outside the gates of a school yard wearing a St Mary’s public school uniform. My dark hair was in bunches tied with pink plastic baubles. God. I even had a tight white shirt and a green and yellow striped tie. Very St Trinian’s. Very me. I looked as if I had a whisky still in the science lab and a racehorse in the dormitory.

  I was chewing gum and swaggering about with my satchel when he pulled up in the BMW.

  Seeing him, I dropped the lipstick which I had been applying into a Hello Kitty compact mirror, bent down, and gave him the full vision of a round butt framed by a grey pleated skirt and barely covered with white cotton panties.

  He wound down the window.

  ‘Get in, Stella, and stop showing off.’

  He drove to his flat in Knightsbridge. There was a grand drawing room with huge portraits of relations and a lot of tassels and upholstery. There was a statue of a horse and a bust of John Donne and several seriously valuable eighteenth-century banquettes. There was a woman painted by Reynolds and a grand piano made in 1820. It was like the John Soane Museum without the entrance fee.