A Kink in Her Tails (26 page)

Hell, they could probably cover the entire Kama Sutra.

His mind whirled off on its cosmic voyage while his body absorbed the aftershocks of a mammoth orgasm. Both his
and
hers.

She was still hanging from her restraints and he reached up to release her as he gingerly eased himself from her body while lowering her feet to the floor.

She sagged bonelessly into his arms as he freed her, not stirring as he lifted her and carried her over to his couch.

Gently, he tumbled them both onto the cushions, gathering her close and stroking her skin. Her body gleamed with their juices, they both smelled of hot sex and satisfaction, and she fit against him in all the right places.

My God. That had been one hell of an awesome fuck.

And he knew now that it had marked the beginning of a phase of his life that he would never be able to relegate to a distant memory. It had been too important, had shaped too many of his beliefs, his needs and his desires.

They had shared three years of pleasure, ecstasy, joy and savage pain. Sometimes all at once.

When it had ended, he had known that something very special was gone.

He hadn’t realized he’d never be able to find it again.

Had he really been that young? That naive? To think that the amazing time he’d spent with Francesca Dalton could be duplicated again in another place with another woman?

Jason snorted to himself in the darkness. It had been so many years ago, a different time, a different place. When the world itself had been different. Just discovering its own sexuality, to the accompaniment of flower power, psychedelic drugs, love beads and war.

When political discussions ranged from the polite to the militaristic, and everyone at college believed
they
had the answers. When free love meant just that, free love. The Pill had freed women from the risk of pregnancy, and allowed them to lead the sexual revolution. Nobody had heard of AIDS, and the worst that you could end up with was some nasty bug that would respond to a course of antibiotics and a lecture from the clinician.

Yeah, Jason shook his head, it was a different time. And he had been a different man.

And Francesca? Was she different now? She had been younger than him by several years, so she would have reached a not dissimilar point in her life, he supposed. She’d be in her late fifties. Had she married?

Had children? How could he have let her slip from his life so completely? Had he had a choice?

He finished the last of the scotch in his glass, letting the sliver of ice follow it into his mouth and crunching down on it.

He shivered as he remembered other ice cubes…other times…long ago…

“
I’ll never get enough of you, Jason Burke
.”

Francesca’s mouth was kissing his cock, sliding up and down, tasting him, teasing him, flicking at his most sensitive spots.

They were lying, daringly, in the sunshine, risking public exposure but not caring, just locked in their bodies’ need for each other.

This little spot on the roof of the apartment where Francesca lived had become “their” place, shielded as it was from prying eyes, and yet allowing the fresh air to blow in from the ocean, stirring up goosepimples across Francesca’s naked back. She’d slipped off her top, but left her long flowered skirt on, even though Jason knew she wore nothing beneath it.

The knowledge had made him hard as a rock as he followed her up the small stairs to the roof door. He had allowed her to dress him in her favorite outfit, a pseudo-maharishi sort of robe. She loved it because it required no underwear either and she adored the feel of his backside through the light cotton.

He sighed and sipped his drink, the scotch they both enjoyed.

Her hair brushed his belly and he eased the robe up away from his body even more so that he could expose more of himself to her touch. God, she felt wonderful.

Her breasts brushed against him, hard and needy, and he obeyed a wicked impulse.

As she bent to his cock, he slipped his fingers into the bag holding the ice cubes, letting the flesh cool until it was almost burning. Then he reached for her nipple.

She shrieked as his icy cold fingers caressed her, then thrust her breast into his hand with a moan, squeezing the base of his cock with her hand as he fondled her. “OhmiGod,” she sputtered. “You devil.

That’s so—so—good…”

Jason grinned. “Oh yeah? Come here…” He pushed her down onto her back on their blanket, tugging and pulling the skirt up around her waist. She looked wanton and decadent and like every man’s wet dream with her blonde hair tangled, her blue-green eyes flooding with desire and her pussy glistening with her arousal. And it was all just for him.

He picked up a slippery ice cube and ran it over one breast, loving her gasps and moans of pleasure/pain. He followed the ice with his mouth, suckling her into the warmth and feeling her squirm beneath him.

He slipped cold fingers to her clit and watched as she nearly levitated off the blanket.

“Jesus H.
Jason
…” She cursed and bucked as his fingers froze her clit and teased it, darting between her sensitive folds to play some more.

Grinning, he explored this game a little further. A larger ice cube found its way into his hand, and it took but a second to slip it into her cunt.

She made not a sound, just stared at him, eyes getting wider by the second.

“Hurt?” he asked, holding his hand tight to her pussy.

She shook her head, then nodded, then shook her head again. He chuckled.

He moved quickly between her legs and dipped, thrusting his hot tongue against the chilled flesh.

She moaned, writhing now as he teased her clit and used his cold fingers along with the melting ice cube to stir new sensations inside her. It was the work of a moment to slip an ice cube into his mouth, letting it chill his tongue and his lips, never letting his other hand cease its teasing play around her swollen and moist flesh.

He spat out the ice cube and quickly rose up, fastening his now-cold mouth around her breast.

She seemed unable to control her body as it suffered these unusual onslaughts. She moaned and tossed and bucked, and Jason realized she was so close to coming that her thighs were trembling.

What could he do? It was his fault she was so aroused. Jason prided himself on being a gentleman. So he did the gentlemanly thing.

He slid his cock into her cunt, gasping a little himself as the chilled skin brushed his hardness. The ice cube had all but melted, just leaving the tiniest spots of cold to tantalize the head of his cock.

It was wild, unexpected, amazingly pleasurable and unforgettable.

The sun burned hotly on his bare backside as he plunged himself into Francesca, time and again. She met every thrust with her hips, sobbing her pleasure, calling his name, begging him to fuck her harder, longer, to ram himself deep into her body.

He responded as he always did, silently and forcefully, slipping a hand beneath her and raising her so that he could angle his driving thrusts as deeply as humanly possible.

He lowered his head to her breasts and sucked them hard, pulling the nipples with his tongue and biting them gently, the pain from his teeth adding to her mad rush to orgasm.

They’d come together, exploding on the rooftop, high above the rest of the world. Their bodies might have been several stories up, but their minds and their souls were at a different level, one measured in astronomical units.

Jason had always believed that sex with Francesca became a galactic experience, and perhaps even resulted in the creation of life on small planets elsewhere in the cosmos.

Of course, that theory sounded better when they were sharing a couple of Luke’s funny-smelling cigarettes.

Whatever the result, Jason could look back on that time with joy, fondness and pleasure. As long as he could forget the pain.

* * * * *

God knew that Jason was grateful. Having his latest book top the New York Times bestseller lists for six weeks was a pleasure, and he rightfully credited Rick Jackson with the achievement.

He left the chair and wandered to his desk, his eyes registering the assortment of books that were ranged neatly to one side.

As always, a tingle of pride flittered up his spine as he read the titles and the author—JB Sims. His pseudonym. No punctuation. He did capitalize, however, not having the daring or the ability of an e e cummings to completely ignore the rules of good grammar.

His current series of six novels had pride of place on the shelf, and when “Seven Scenes, Seven Sins.

Book I” had been released, the furor that had erupted over its controversial subject matter had sent sales skyrocketing.

Jason wondered if Francesca had read it. Because she was in it. She was in all his books. If it hadn’t been for her, the first one might never have been written.

Oh it was fiction. Pure and utter fiction. But the story of a whore who found passion through becoming a dominatrix only to throw it all away for a chance at a straight marriage had touched chords with readers.

Especially because Jason had refused his editor’s suggestion to compromise and had allowed his frustrated and unhappy heroine to commit suicide at the end.

Each book had begun with a detailed scene. A scene that Jason and Francesca had either played, or discussed, or tossed around in lively conversation.

Looking back, Jason realized that their relationship defied description. Neither was submissive,
and neither really dominant. They both enjoyed the roles they assigned themselves, switching from
top to bottom as their games demanded, and sometimes just going straight vanilla all the way.

If
fucking your girlfriend underwater at midnight in your local swimming pool, which you had quite illegally broken into, could be considered vanilla.

Jason grinned at the memory of that one. Too much chlorine had given Francesca’s hair a slightly greenish tinge for a while. She’d been royally pissed even though it had been her suggestion in the first place.

He clicked his email icon.

“
JB, got the deal with the pub. SOB’s didn’t want to up the promo budget but I persuaded them.

Book 7 is awaited with avarice and glee by all concerned. Including yours truly. Any word on
when? Not that I’m nagging of course…
”

Jason filed the message
.

When. That was the big question. This was the final book in his series. The one that would end the adventures of Darius Malcolm through the underworld of sexual exploration. Would it bring him to the light or end his existence?

The sad thing was that Jason just didn’t know.

Should he allow Darius the blessing of a quiet and fulfilling relationship which would satisfy his romantically-minded readers?

Or should he, as others insisted, have Darius pay for the hearts he’d broken and the asses he’d flogged, by sending him to some kind of literary purgatory for infinity or the run of the novel through the paperback rights, whichever came first?

Or was there a third possibility? Redemption?

His agent didn’t care. It was his job to make sure Jason finished it, got it edited and then turned it over to the “machine” for presentation to a greedy public.

His readers would care, of course, bless their hearts.

They were vocal, literate, kept him on his toes and had sent him mail that would have made an interesting book all on its own.

His publishers would go for the happily-ever-after, he knew. There was safety in predictability. And also cash. Lots of it.

But could
he
live with it?

Could he write about something he wasn’t sure existed? He’d created a fictional world for Darius, where women and men interacted sexually in wild and often savage ways. Darius had marched through this world, using and discarding a number of women, none of whom had managed to capture his heart.

Until now. Until Cameron McKay had crossed his path, lashed him to a St. Andrew’s Cross, and beaten the crap out of him. Then fucked him.

His readers would certainly never know that he’d come close to being in Darius’ position.

He could still feel the cold hardness of the wooden X as Francesca had tied his wrists to the upper supports and spread his ankles wide to lash them to the feet of the cross.

It was one hell of a party
. Francesca had giggled as she’d told him that they’d been invited to a Dungeon. A real, honest-to-God Dungeon.

Visions of bikers and needles had flashed through Jason’s mind, then he’d yanked himself out of that fifties mentality and remembered that life had changed. It was the sixties. If Francesca said it was a dungeon, then a dungeon it was.

And she’d been right.

Of course, there were few, if any, actual dungeons dotting the New England countryside. There were, however, many small towns with big old houses, once the domicile of the local landowner, and now being repurchased, remodeled, refitted, and occasionally actually lived in.

It was to one of these that the couple had driven one stormy summer night.

The trees were tossing their branches around wildly and lightning flickered on the horizon as Jason and Francesca arrived.

“And you say these people are okay?” Jason raised a quizzical eyebrow as his eyes roamed over the assortment of vehicles parked in the overgrown driveway.

There was everything from a beat-up ‘57 Chevy to a state of the art Cadillac, a shiny new ragtop Mustang and a couple of Harleys.

“Sure.” Francesca grabbed his hand and together they walked to the open door and into another world.

Jason considered himself an educated and informed man. He’d written knowledgeably about sex, about its psychological twists and turns, and its influence over society. He’d completed his thesis and been awarded a Ph.D. in sexual psychology, albeit quietly, as the college was proud of his achievements but even prouder of their alumni donation record which might have been threatened by the news that they were now granting degrees in what amounted to S and M.