ADVENTURES
IN THE
PLEASUREZONE
Delaney Silver

First published in Great Britain in 1993 by
Nexus
338 Ladbroke Grove
London W10 5AH
Reprinted 1995
Copyright © Delaney Silver 1993
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,
by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold,
hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's
prior written consent in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is circulated and without
a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A catalogue record for this title is available
from the British Library
ISBN 0 352 32845 2
Phototypeset by Intype, London
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
BPC Paperbacks Ltd

Dedicated to The Transformer . . .
. . . who transformed me.
THANK YOU

This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.

Contents
1.		Home Coming	1
2.		Into the Pleasurezone	19
3.		The Prince's Comforter	39
4.		Intermezzo I	63
5.		Bad	79
6.		Intermezzo II	99
7.		Devil Moon	125
8.		Intermezzo III	149
9.		Playhour	168
10.	A Little Something on Account?	197

1 Home Coming
'Oh God! Oh God! At last,' Josh moaned as his prick went
deep. She was hot. Wet. Tight. Fabulous. On the beat of
each attribute he shoved in heavily, and Julia bucked in
response. She whimpered and he swivelled his hips, stirring
his rod in the soft, pulpy pot. Oh God, he'd missed it so
much . . .
Electric sex? Fantasy? Pleasurezone? Hell, the real thing
felt just fine right now. He'd been starving for it, ravenous
for sex. Hungry for the fat, silky hole between a woman's
legs.
And yet, even as the climax built and the long-dammed
pleasure came surging up, his imagination niggled him, and
he knew he'd soon want - and get - something more. Much
more. And as different from this as night was from day . . .
'Unngh! Oh yes, Josh, yes! There's no one like you,' his
target groaned as he hit bulls-eye. 'Oh God, yes, do it! I'm
dying!' Naked heels drummed his arse, and nails - inch-
long and baby pink, he thought in an odd cool moment -
scrabbled and scored at every last bit of him they could
reach. A warm, fluid-lined vagina rippled around him . . .
'Oh yes, baby, yes, it's better than I remember,' he
hissed against her throat, slap-bang in the hold of reality
now, no time for conjecture or question. His prick was
sliding in a smooth, stretchy glove. A glove lined thickly
with melted butter.
'Oh Jesus, that's beautiful,' he groaned, dimly surprised
by the strange, husky sounds coming out of his own mouth.
It'd been so long, so very long. Not only had he forgotten
1

what it felt like to. be inside a woman, he'd even forgotten
what his voice sounded like when he was.
It couldn't last long, of course. Josh was proud of his'
control, but after eight sexless months he was fighting a
losing batde. For a minute he thrust metronomically, urged
on by Julia's ecstatic yelps and the hot, liquid squelch of
sliding flesh; then, like the beginning and the end of the
universe - the Big Bang and Apocalypse all rolled into one
- the familiar miracle began.
'Oh God, oh God, oh God,' he shouted as spunk powered
out of his balls, along his shaft, then spewed into Julia's
shuddering, climaxing cunt.
The feeling was sublime and loin-shattering, like nothing
else known to humankind, and Josh couldn't believe that
he'd managed without it. The few times he'd jacked off on
Phobos - when his drug level had dropped and his prick
had been twitching - hadn't been anything like this. Nice
as it'd been at the time, you couldn't compare a damp squib
with a supernova.
In a few moments, as he drifted slowly down, remnants
of rational thought began to assert themselves. It was time,
Josh realised, to relieve Julia of his weight. He was a lean
man - hard, sleek and fit - but at just short of six foot and
solidly muscled, he was a heavy burden for his petite part-
ner. As he lifted himself clear and lay back on the crumpled
sheets, she snuggled against him with a long, satisfied sigh.
Within a few seconds, she was asleep, her soft snores
quite endearing in a way, and Josh, feeling peculiarly lucid
and alert, was able to relax and take stock now his first
screaming lust was sated.
A horny kid, then a highly sexed man, Joshua Jordan
Mortimer knew that he'd never been as randy as this in his
whole life. He was also beginning to suspect that this latest
of his many homecomings was quite different from all the
ones before it. But at least, as he stroked the warm damp
skin of the woman beside him, he knew some things were
the same and he liked them that way . . .
Julia was soft and pliant, warm and willing, with thighs
like pillows and an ever-flowing cunt. She never asked
2

questions - she never asked for anything - she was simply
the very first name in his computerised 'little black book'.
He'd called her the moment he'd got in from City Field,
almost before his flight bag had hit the mattress. But while
he'd waited for her, even before he'd stripped off his travel-
stained clothes, he'd discovered that 'something more'.
Scanning the flickering video screen, he'd scrolled
quickly out of his own personal files and into Leisuretext
and the general entertainment listings, where he'd found
very little of interest. Eight months away on a rockball,
and what'd changed? Absolutely zip. He tracked up
through music and three-dee art. Still nothing. Finally he
keyed in 'Services Available', and then the code for his
newly enhanced financial status.
Virtually anything could be acquired through Leisure-
text: bookings for sport or concerts; for drama or exhi-
bitions; every conceivable kind of tuition, relaxation and
amusement to either cheer up the miserable or wind down
the overstressed.
Yeah, they can sort out every bloody problem but mine,
Josh thought wryly, shifting uneasily and feeling the hard
slide of tumescence in his pants. Come on, Julie baby, I
need you, he thought, still flicking keys to take his mind
off his prick.
Then suddenly he blinked in amazement and sat down,
stunned, in his computer chair, his cock pulsing wildly as
he stared.
I don't believe it.
It's impossible.
Josh had seen some exotic merchandise on sale in his
time, but surely they weren't allowed to offer this to the
general public? And yet they must be. The municipal
approval code was flashing in the bottom left hand corner.
He cupped his crotch unconsciously as he read.
sex on the brain? looking for something unique
and special? your wildest erotic fantasies can
now be explored and realised in absolute safety.
we can make your most bizarre dreams real, and,
3

if you're feeling adventurous, create new ones
especially for you.
if you think you can afford us - and you dare
take us on! - access pleasurezone inc. on code
0000000####000#01 ... and prepare for the
ultimate fulfilment!!!!!
Slightly dazed, Josh scrubbed at his eyes and shook his
head. But when he looked again, the extraordinary message
was still alive and glowing. Space-lag, man, he told himself.
But when he cleared the screen and re-keyed, he knew that
his tired eyes weren't deceiving him. The crazy ad came
zapping up all over again.
What did they mean? Was it some kind of brothel? A
role-playing club? He laughed out loud, then looked round
nervously. There was no one around to call him a nutcase
but he just couldn't imagine anyone playing out his 'wildest
erotic fantasies'.
And what did they mean, 'in perfect safety'? The sexually
adventurous were safe from disease these days, but there
were still scenes and practices that were physically hazard-
ous - not to mention being an emotional and psychological
minefield.
Off duty on Phobos, with nothing to do in his spare
time but read, he'd dipped into all sorts of esoteric science
articles. He'd read about 'structured dreaming', 'neural re-
creation' and other such mindgames, but had assumed that
the techniques described were either experimental or firmly
in the hands of the military.
Until now.
Was that what Pleasurezone Inc. were selling? Custom-
ised wet dreams for discerning perverts?
It was a mindboggling concept. And an incredibly sexy
one, thought Josh, biting his lip and wishing Julia would
hurry. How the hell did they do it? Make people dream . . .
Make them believe . . .
The info code was hip but cryptic.
ever wanted to step out of your own sex life and
4

into somebody else's? ever wanted to make your
fantasies real? try things you never dared? do
things your partner won't? take risks? ever
wanted to do all these things but not done them
because you've got more sense?
in that case welcome to pleasurezone inc. we
can give you anything and everything in absolute
safety. the only risk is to your bank balance!
so why not spoil yourself? do yourself the big-
gest favour of your life and run wild in the
world of sensual fantasy! there's a full refund
after the first session if you can't stand the pace,
but we dare you to take us on . . . and push your-
self to the limit - and beyond!
access code 0000000####000#01 A/P for details
of our fees and how to pay them. and don't
forget ... we challenge you to challenge us and
experience the magic of pleasurezone inc!!!!
Don't do this, Josh, he told himself then, even as he reached
out to press the appropriate keys. Don't do it, it's a con.
Don't be a cretin, man, he murmured as the information
flicked into view.
You must be joking, he thought. Preposterous figures
pulsed green on black, yet the very mind-numbing outrage-
ousness of the price hardened him as he read.
To satisfy his as-yet formless fantasies, Pleasurezone Inc.
would require most of the money he'd worked so bloody
hard for on Phobos. He'd be back to square one. He'd have
to sign up again straight away.
And yet. . .
This is it, old son,' he said aloud, laying his hand lightly
over his bulging groin. Then he laughed. He'd gone
bananas but he knew beyond doubt that he'd always tor-
ment himself if he didn't answer this ludicrous electronic
advert.
Commonsense fought to be heard, but couldn't fight the
throbbing clamour in his prick. One-handedly he keyed in
the 'commit and pay' code. His felt his flesh leap as the
5

final digit appeared and the screen went into 'credit check'.
Within seconds verification appeared; his account could
handle Pleasurezone's exorbitant charges. He moaned when
the 'transaction complete, stand by for further instructions'
message flashed up - not so much from his pathetically
depleted bank balance, but because he'd never been harder
or randier in his life.
It was at that moment, either mercifully or unfortunately
-		because he'd no time to cancel what he'd done - that
Julia had arrived.
Not your fault, babe, he thought now, reaching for her
hand and placing it on his newly hardened prick. She stirred
slighdy, her fingers curling instinctively around him like a
sleepy child with a favourite toy.
He'd an aching stiffy again already, he noted, half
pleased, half troubled, knowing that even though his body
just wanted to sleep off the long journey from Phobos, his
hyperactive tool was demanding more action.
This temporary extreme priapism was perfectly normal
at the moment, though. Coming off Libidox stone cold -
after taking the synthetic bromide for eight months to make
a womanless job more bearable - was bound to put sparks
in his sex drive.
He'd got eight whole months' worth of spunk backed up
-		no wonder he was crazy to fuck.
But he wanted more than just fucking, and even as he
shook Julia gently by the shoulder, then tried a more effec-
tive method of waking her - flipping her slowly over and
starting to suck her breast - he knew that Pleasurezone
Inc., the destroyer of his new solvency, was the answer to
his more complicated and as yet indefinable needs . . .
LA SELENE. FRIDAY 20.00 HOURS.
Bloody thing, Josh thought frustratedly as he twirled the
cryptic plastic slip in his fingers. It was 19.30 hours and it
was Friday, and he was about to set out for La Selene,
the bar in question. The last twenty-four hours had been
extremely peculiar and very frustrating, and he couldn't
6

count the times he'd wished his rash deed undone. Starting
the moment he'd seen this slip.
Julia had just left, with a yawn, a thanks-for-the-fuck
grin and a drowsy 'See you around', and Josh had decided
to find out exactly what he'd committed himself to. Punch-
ing in the command for hard copy, he'd expected a descrip-
tive brochure at least and been both angry and puzzled to
receive so little enlightenment.
What were they playing at? He'd spent all that money,
and all he'd got was a place, a day and a time. Recognising
a cynical curiosity-building ploy, he'd rekeyed in all the
releyant codes - and got precisely nothing.
Tricky buggers, he'd thought, staring powerlessly at the
screen. They'd pulled an immediate data drop-out and left him
with no option but turn up at the appointed time and place.
Which was almost now.
Within quarter of an hour the City's rapid transport
system had him at the portal of La Selene - and as he stood
in its mirrored foyer, one of the most striking, famous and
notorious on the planet - he almost turned tail and ran.
What have I got myself into? he wondered, hovering.
They'd told him nothing. There was no guarantee he'd
even get a fuck tonight.
Tour fantasies realised in perfect safety' they'd said. But
how? How did they work it? Sexual amateur theatrics or
somebody playing around with his mind? He didn't know
which rattled him most... or which felt most exciting.
Gambling on his feeling that there would be a woman
involved, he'd dressed in his best stone-killer style, and
lingering in front of the long silvery mirrors, he gave him-
self a last once-over.
He saw a tallish figure, long-limbed, rangily built and
broodingly male; a man dark of skin and hair and dressed
in a pale silk-worsted designer-tailored suit.
He gave himself a little ego-boost and tried out his wide
white smile. He shifted his weight, rocking lightly on the
balls of his feet and enjoying the feel of his clothes. Indulg-
ing what he suspected was a low-grade fetish, he was wear-
ing silk from the skin out. The smooth, sensuous fabric
7

seemed to kiss his whole body and made it tingle with
wellbeing, especially where his close-fitting briefs caressed
his cock. Aroused by this secret pleasure, and not a bit
ashamed of his dandyish tendencies, Josh smoothed a hand
over his fragrant, freshly washed hair.
On Phobos, where one had to wear a helmet most of the
day, there were only two practical hairstyles for men: either
cropped to a few millimetres, or worn long and tied back.
Josh, always proud of his glossy black curls, naturally
sported the latter style, and tonight had bound his 'tail'
with a soft fabric tie, easily undone, of course, when the
situation demanded it.
Women, in Josh's experience, were extremely susceptible
to his long silky hair, and most couldn't keep their fingers
out of it. He'd been told again and again how sexy it felt,
especially when it brushed his partner's belly or breasts, or
lay across her thighs as he sucked her.
This is it then, he thought. He made a discreet thumbs-
up sign to his reflection, then pushed open the swing doors
to the opulent bar. This is either the biggest night of your
life, Josh, or the rip-off to end all rip-offs, he told himself.
It could even end up being both.
The remarkable La Selene was subtly lit, and at this
comparatively early hour, almost empty. Not more than a
dozen couples and a handful of singletons were scattered
around the sumptuous yet understated room. The whole
place whispered of secrets and screamed of sex, and Josh
looked around with a keen curiosity. Was everything true?
The things that were said and heard . . .
La Selene, with its spectacular views over the City of
Night and the main landing field, had a systemwide and
ambiguous reputation. Not only was it a sophisticated and
fashionable venue, frequented by glitterati from a variety
of milieux, it was also an accepted stomping ground for
whores of both sexes: dedicated professionals and enthusi-
astic part-timers alike. If Pleasurezone wanted to play at
cloak and dagger silly buggers, at least they'd chosen the
right place.
So ... he was here and the time was ripe - where were
8

'they'? And how would they contact him? Sod this for a
lark, thought Josh, suddenly angry with his unknown mani-
pulators. I've had enough of all this shot-in-the-dark stuff.
Squaring his shoulders he walked straight to the bar, slid
on to a stool and signalled for service. When the barman -
a slim youth with a blond crew-cut and disturbingly sharp
blue eyes - sidled up, Josh didn't wait to be asked.
'I'm supposed to meet someone here at eight. I don't
know if it's a man or a woman, but they sent me this.' He
held out the plastic slip with the entwined PL face up.
'Ah yes,' murmured the blond, his handsome face unre-
vealing, 'you must be Mr Mortimer. You're expected.
Someone will be here for you in a moment. May I fix you
a drink?'
'Er, yes, okay,' Josh answered, feeling both troubled and
faintly aroused by the fact that his identity was known.
'Scotch, please. Make that a double.'
'If I could make a suggestion, sir,' the barman replied
unexpectedly, 'you might find a glass of wine more suitable.
Your . . . er . . . treatment will be more effective with a
clear head. Hard liquor doesn't mix too well with the
therapy.'
'Okay then, whatever you say.' Though he couldn't fault
the man's discreet manner, Josh felt profoundly shaken.
'I'll have a glass of house white,' he muttered. 'Whatever
you've got that's good.'
Hard liquor doesn't mix too well with the therapy . . .
What were they going to do to him? As he settled on his
seat, his prick jolted to sudden, fierce erection. Caused by
fear? Yeah, it had to be. He'd got a stiff on again - an
absolute stonker - because he was scared more shitless than
he'd ever been in his life.
When the wine arrived, Josh sipped at it gratefully. If
he hadn't been warned to the contrary, he'd have drained
it down in one and signalled for another. Pleasurezone were
going to have a ball with him if he got off on terror.
And for some unknown reason, all his usual fantasies had
conveniently blanked themselves out, leaving only this dif-
fuse idea of being intimidated - a scenario that was making
9

him harder by the second. He moved uneasily on his stool,
tensioning the silk briefs across his cock and secretly mas-
turbating.
Cool it, he admonished himself, realising what his sub-
conscious was up to. Save yourself for the main event, man;
you've paid enough. Checking the cubelike, stainless steel
chronometer behind the bar, he saw there were still ten
minutes to go. Shifting in his seat again, he cut his cock
some slack and swivelled round to check out the room
behind him.
La Selene consisted of two distinct sections: a long, mir-
ror-backed, L-shaped bar which was bright, glittering and
convivial, and a spacious, atmospherically lit area beyond
that contained smallish tables for two and intimate, snugly
upholstered booths.
Well then, Ms Pleasurezone, are you here yet? he won-
dered, panning his gaze across the various women in the
room - women alone, with men, or with other women.
Women sipping cocktails and talking in that low, seductive
way that only women could. His mind reminded him that
it wasn't forced to be a woman he was meeting, then his
balls and soul told him resoundingly it was. But was she
here yet? Was she sitting somewhere in the dark or light,
biding her time and watching him squirm?
He fixed his eyes on a possible candidate at the other end
of the bar. Foxy lady or what? Josh wished to God the
sumptuous redhead in question really was the one.
She wasn't young, and she wasn't the sort of woman he
would normally have fancied, but after one glimpse he
couldn't take his eyes off her. She wore glamour and beauty
like an ermine cloak and - he decided suddenly - she was
almost certainly a whore. Slender yet magnificently full-
breasted, she was draped over her stool like a bolt of silk
and sipping diffidently at something rose-pink and icy. Her
vaguely preoccupied expression made Josh long to do some-
thing that would shake her up, and when she reached for
a pistachio nut from one of the many small bowls scattered
along the bar, his cock leapt screaming to red alert and his
balls josded in their stretch-silk container.
10

Josh hadn't wolfwhistled since he was a green kid, but
now he only just stopped himself. The unknown woman was
wearing a tubular dress of some black sequined stuff, and
its straight, strapless top bisected her spectacular bosom
at several microns above nipple-height. In stretching for the
savoury titbit, she'd nearly caused the gorgeous creamy
spheres to tumble out of their precarious confinement, and
made Josh, in his hypersexed state, clench his free hand
into a fist. It was either that or grab his aching genitals.
This was not, obviously, a common or garden callgirl.
With those looks - jade green eyes, lush crimson mouth,
near-perfect features and a great mane of pure red curls -
she could well be worth the enormous sum that Pleasure-
zone were charging him. She was like a lioness who roared
of wild, ecstatic and mind-blowing sex, yet she had a classy
touch-me-not aura that Josh found irresistibly tantalising.
Her gaze flicked idly in his direction, and he couldn't stop
himself from smiling at her. The woman nodded almost
imperceptibly, but made no move.
Josh Mortimer, you're a berk, he told himself, taking a
swig of wine as the gorgeous whore turned away. If she
was the one who'd been waiting for him, she'd have come
over by now; especially as she seemed to be on good terms
with the barman, who was obviously in cahoots with
Pleasurezone.
Nope, I won't be enjoying that particular lady tonight,
Josh reflected wistfully. But that didn't stop his fantasy
muscle from flexing at last. A woman like that would get
on top, he decided dreamily, taking a swig of his wine.
Mouth, cunt, hands; she'd really make a man have it. He'd
buy her, expecting a slave, but he'd get a goddess instead
- a true-blue dominatrix who'd call all the shots.
Come on, little man, he imagined her saying, let's see it.
Let's see you shoot. His fingers itched either to grab his
crotch or pick up his glass and toss back the lot regardless
of warnings, as she shuffled erotically on her stool, then
crossed and recrossed her superb long legs. Slim, delicate
ankles, circled by diamante, gave way to strong sleek calves,
which in turn were crowned by smooth, biteable knees
11

encased in ultra-sheer nylon. Josh saw those knees now,
still stocking-clad but braced against a fur bedspread, on
either side of his own brown thighs. Her thighs rose in a
wide-spread vee above him, crowned by a soft, downy bush of
hair of the same almost fluorescent colour that crowned her
lovely head. A dripping dew graced those scarlet curls . . .
lovejuice that'd oozed spontaneously from a warm naked cunt.
She wanted him; she was a time-hardened whore and yet
she wanted him - he, Josh, was the one who'd finally turned
her on, made her desire him, and made her glorious quim
run river. He saw muscles ripple minutely beneath the fine
black mesh that covered her thighs, as slowly, oh, so slowly,
that magnificent sex lowered to meet the equally magnificent
cock that reared up in tribute.
'Joshua Mortimer?' enquired a soft voice, and Josh
knocked over his empty glass in his tumble back to earth.
His eyes were still only part-focused, but when he turned,
he couldn't stop himself moaning aloud. Not sure whether
he was disappointed, confused or scared, he saw that his
new companion was not the woman his mind had been
about to fuck. No, the sequin-clad stunner was still at the
far end of the bar, lost in a reverie and munching pistachios.
Sitting on the stool next to Josh was an entirely different
woman. But a woman who was - if anything - even more
alluring, despite the fact she was faceless.
No. Correction. She did have a face, but its beauty - or
lack of it - was mostly hidden by a heavy veil of slate-grey
lace. This filigree mask was attached to a small felt hat of
the same colour which was perched, well forward and pertly
angled, on the newcomer's quizzically tilted head.
'Are you okay?' she enquired, and Josh had to admit the
voice fitted too. Low and husky, it wasn't hard but had a
distinct ring of power. The words were unmuffled; the veil,
though effectively obscuring the upper part of the face, left
a small but suggestively curved mouth, the lips tinted a
clear almost luminous rose, open to his view. Even so, Josh
wondered how much she could see.
'Yeah, I'm fine, thanks,' he answered, reaching out to
right the glass, which luckily was empty. 'I just got back
12

to Earth. Yesterday.' The qualifier was necessary; he'd been
so obviously miles away. 'I'm still getting used to civilis-
ation.' He favoured the veiled woman with a shy smile, and
felt a bit more back in himself when she returned it as
warmly as her covered face would allow. He wondered
what she looked like. Her mouth, on closer inspection, was
utterly delectable, with soft dainty lips that would perfectly
enclose a good-sized cock like his.
Josh's rambling mind stopped short. She'd addressed
him by name . . . She was the one he was here to meet.
'You! You're from Pleasurezone,' he accused, appalled,
in a detached sort of way, by his own abruptness.
'Yes,' she replied, apparently unruffled, although her
face of course revealed little. 'I'm sorry if I've kept you
waiting.'
'I ... I didn't . . . ' He felt unnerved by the continued
presence of the veil, 'I thought. . .' His eyes flicked
towards the end of the bar, where the lush redhead was
now talking softly and earnestly to a new arrival - a slim,
hard-faced individual in a startlingly white suit and a
matching and rather natty fedora hat. Her pimp?
'Oh, you thought it was Tricksie!' The veiled woman
laughed delightfully, and the husky sound seemed to trickle
down Josh's spine and pool around his balls. Oh God, this
place was just heaving with sexy women! For the moment
he abandoned all thought of the quaintly named whore in
the distance, and focused on the closer and as yet un-named
charmer in front of him.
Though not as pneumatically spectacular as Tricksie, Ms
Pleasurezone was equally easy on the eye. Josh's interest,
and sexual excitement, jumped a few notches when he
realised she was wearing leather. Quite a lot of it. In fact,
apart from her whimsical hat, she was dressed entirely in
the stuff. A well-cut suit, in a buttersoft hide just a few
shades lighter than her veil, skimmed rather than gripped
what appeared to be a trimly shaped figure. Though not
overtly busty, she had a nice full curve to her leather-
covered chest, and a neat nip-in at her waist. The suit-skirt
was straightish, hinted at slim but defined hips, and tapered
13

to reveal the second set of exceptionally cute knees he'd
seen in ten minutes.
Tm sure you'd have had a very, shall we say, pleasant
evening with her,' his companion said, dragging Josh's
attention back to deep pink lips and the even white teeth
they framed. 'She's not called Tricksie for nothing. But it's
my expertise you've paid for.' An even pinker tongue flicked
impishly at the rosy lips, and the whole delicious mouth
formed into one of the most sensual smiles Josh had ever seen.
Lord, that naughty tonguetip, that soft, moist pinkness!
Josh swallowed and shifted on his stool again. He tried to
get a grip on himself.
'Come along, Josh. It is Josh, isn't it?' his enigmatic
partner enquired. Then, as if reading his mind, she went
on: 'We'll get a drink, grab a booth, and I'll tell you what's
in store for you.'
'Is that wise? The drink I mean. He - ' Josh nodded in
the direction of the blond doyen of the bar. 'He said I
shouldn't have too much booze.'
'Wine's okay. Quite beneficial in fact,' the woman
replied, signalling for the beverage in question. 'It's only
hard spirits that are a problem. They impair the mental
function rather too much for our purpose.' With the wine
ordered, she extended a hand - gloved in pearl-grey leather,
Josh noted with a genital throb - towards a nearby but
secluded booth. 'We'll sit there, shall we?'
Josh was suspended between two realities as he followed
her away from the bar. Half his attention was on the grey-
clad bottom, which was moving like a well-oiled machine
just a couple of yards in front of him. She had a beautiful
walk, gently syncopated but not .obvious, her easy sensu-
ality facilitated by elegant but not over-high heels. He
noticed, too, that she was fairly tall and had strange but
rather lovely hair. It cascaded in a long thick sheaf down
her back, its colour a brindle of auburn, rich brown, and
subtle shades of muted blonde. These details he observed
with the part of him that wasn't yowling with the need to
jump her immediately.
It was those gloves. His prick was twitching, and he
14

could almost feel the kiss of that superfine hide on his stiff,
sensitised shaft. Pushing both hands into his pockets, he
tented the silk cloth of his trousers as much as he was able,
and prayed that that, and the firm stretchy cling of his
underpants, would keep him decent. It was a good job the
booth area was fairly dark.
He let out his held breath inaudibly as he slid into the
booth and faced his leather-clad enigma. 'Well, lady, you
know my name. Who the hell are you?'
'Isis,' she answered, her smile open as she held out her
gloved hand in formal greeting.
Josh accepted her hand gingerly, glad of the table to hide
the leather's effect on his prick. 'Nobody could be called
Isis. What is it? Some kind of code name?'
'No,' she replied blithely. 'I really am called Isis. My
mother Was something of an egyptophile ... If I'd been a
boy I'd be Rameses.'
The wine was served. 'Okay, then, I'll buy that. But
what's your surname?'
Isis grinned and supplied her second name. It was so
unlikely that Josh laughed out loud and shook his head.
She nodded, still grinning.
'All right, I believe you,' Josh replied, still shaking his
head, but enjoying the new relaxation between them. 'But
I'll just call you Isis, if that's okay by you?'
She nodded again, and suddenly, urgently, Josh had to
see her face. Telepathy worked again and Isis raised her
gloved hands to the swathe of grey lace. Almost in slo-mo,
the delicately scalloped edge was lifted.
'Oh Christ!' Josh gasped before judgement could stop
him. 'Oh Christ, I'm sorry . . .' He looked away for a
second, felt remorse for doing so, then faced her again,
reaching compulsively for his glass.
'No, it's me who should be sorry,' Isis said soberly. 'I
tend to have this effect on people. I should have warned
you.'
Isis was a startlingly beautiful woman. In part . . .
On the right side of her face she had an immaculate ivory
complexion, an exquisite high-sweeping cheekbone and a
15

huge, long-lashed sable-gold eye. The left side of her face
had the same underlying structure, and indeed was per-
fectly symmetrical with the right. . . But it was also half
covered with a large, sprawling wine-coloured scar which
extended from her delicately arched brow to the soft dimple
that bracketed her mouth. The whole disfigurement had a
vaguely floral shape - like an orchid, Josh's stunned brain
suggested, or maybe even a cunt? - and in the socket it
encircled was an eye of muddy red-streaked brown.
'I was in a laboratory accident. Years ago, when I was
in Uni - ' Isis had softly anticipated his questions. Til pop
the veil down again if it bothers you. But I don't know
which is worse, trying to talk to someone who can see this,'
she touched leather to scar-tissue, 'or someone who can't.
I'm used to it, of course, but that first oh-God-she's-a-
monster moment still gets to me sometimes . . .' Her slim,
gloved fingers rose towards her hat, ready to tweak the veil
back into place.
'No,' Josh said firmly, and before he'd realised what he
was doing, he'd gripped her wrist and gently brought her
hand back down again. It dawned on him that he'd like to
keep hold of that hand. She's ripping twenty thousand
credits off you! he told himself. Carefully, he let her go.
'Are you sure?' she asked doubtfully, disbelief in her
peculiar non-matching eyes.
'Yeah.' Josh nodded emphatically, 'It's not really so bad,
you know . . . Not when you look at it properly. It reminds
me of - ' He blushed pre-pubescently. 'Of something,' he
finished lamely.
Isis threw back her head, her hair tossing luxuriantly,
and laughed. It was a rich, sexy gurgle that made her
bizarre face crinkle enchantingly and sent a frisson of
pleasure through Josh's still-tense cock.
'Don't worry,' she said, still smirking, 'You're not the
first to notice that rather interesting resemblance. And some
of my closer friends have told me it's actually quite a good
likeness.'
Josh's flesh pulsed in his pants. It was true. Isis was
outrageously desirable. Apart from her scar - even because
16

of it - she was thrilling and luscious in all the ways he
liked best. As she'd just pointed out, when viewed by the
enlightened, her stigma was enough to rouse even the most
jaded sexual palate.
As if fielding some unheard cue, Isis set down her glass
with an attention-grabbing tap and looked Josh squarely in
the eyes.
'Okay then, Josh,' she said. The change was only just
perceptible, but the new power and confidence of her voice
played a tune along Josh's aroused shaft and made the
juices simmer in his balls. He sat motionless and rapt, his
hormones in turmoil.
'Now that we've got my face out of the way, and what
may, or may not, be etched upon it, I think it's time to
talk Pleasurezone.'
'Pleasurezone?'
'The reason you're here!' Lights danced in her eyes: like
flecks of gold the normal one, a muzzy, muted radiance in
the flawed orb.
'You must have questions.' She reached for her wineglass
and took a small sip. A droplet hovered on her rosy lower
lip, and that sweet little tongue darted out to catch it. All
Josh wanted at this moment - in spite of the cash he'd
outlaid for his 'something different' - was to go somewhere
and make it with this strange, scarred woman. He wanted
to peel away the leather and explore the promise within,
part those long, shapely thighs and discover if her cunt was
as pink as her nimble tongue, if the folds there were as
pronounced and flowerlike as the schematic on her left
cheek suggested.
'Josh! If this is a fantasy, let's hear it,' she said sharply,
as if recognising a fugue when she saw one. 'It could be a
useful opener for us.'
'No, it wasn't,' he lied, wanting her, wanting to submit
to her, yet resisting the very same urge. Still fighting both
her and the compulsion, he blurted out the first stupid
thing that came into his head. 'I was just wondering if I'll
actually get laid tonight?'
Isis's soft laugh twinkled in the air. 'Now that's a tricky
17

question. You may well believe you're getting laid . . .'
Her smile broadened in relation to the puzzlement that
crimped Josh's brow. 'And you can have straight sex via
Pleasurezone, as yourself, if that's what you want. But
don't you think it'd be a waste? A handsome guy like you,'
her eyes flicked all-encompassingly over him, 'can get a
simple fuck without spending a cent. . . And if it was the
concept of "buying" that turned you on, you could have
the night of your life with friend Tricksie over there. For
a fraction of what you're paying us. Although - ' Isis
shrugged, 'straight sex is probably the last thing she'd
expect you to ask her for.'
Josh's mind was reeling. He felt like a gauche schoolboy,
pathetically randy in the face of this strange woman before
him - a woman who'd been tempered by suffering and
made as fine and steely as her cool grey suit. He glanced
towards the end of the bar, and the other woman. He'd
probably be safer with the whore.
'What do you mean by "believe I'll get laid" . . . and
"as myself"?' He already half knew the answer.
'Hah! I just knew it was in you,' Isis replied, lacing her
gloved fingers and studying him obliquely, sound cheek
leading. 'Only the brave, the bold, the curious, and the
astronomically horny would answer such a preposterous
advert as ours. To have committed yourself already proves
you want far more than straightforward sexual gratification.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, with us you can have straight sex, or indeed any
other kind of sex, but the interesting thing about Pleasure-
zone is - ' she paused, tweaking out the tension, 'you can
have it as someone else. Think about it,' she went on. 'You
can step outside your own mind, your own bias, your own
inhibitions. You can be turned on by other turn-ons, need
other needs. You can understand the divine and the bizarre.
Be somebody else, Josh, and feel their pleasure. Do you
think you can handle that?'
18

2 Into the Pleasurezone
Well, could he?
Twenty minutes and another glass of wine later, Josh
still wasn't sure. The only thing he did know was that the
prospect of even trying to 'handle it' was making him randier
than ever. That and the fact he'd do just about anything
to get closer to Isis. Everything about her was driving him
crazy, to the extent he was prepared to trust his living
psyche into her slender leather-gloved hands - not to men-
tion his horny male body, if he got half a chance.
And he still didn't understand what she was going to do
to him . . .
Without being immodest, Josh was proud of his high IQ.
But he also knew that as a mining engineer, his intelligence
was of necessity the practical variety. He was a nuts-and-
bolts man, an expert with machine tolerances and on-line
troubleshooting. So, in spite of his reading, when Isis
started throwing 'brain architecture' 'neural resonance' and
'enforced perception shifts' at him, he had to admit she'd
lost him. He understood her moist, rosy mouth quite per-
fectly, but the incomprehensible psychotechnical jargon
that came out of it? No way!
'Okay, I'm obviously not as smart as either of us thinks
I am.' He shrugged hopelessly. 'I'll have the idiot's version,
please.'
'You're no fool, Josh,' Isis replied, her voice light but
serious, 'but the bottom line - '
Suddenly she stopped, pressed her gloved fingers to her
lips and smothered an almost schoolgirlish giggle. 'The
19

bottom line is . . . with the sensory re-creator we cn make
your fantasies real.'
'So it's just a kind of glorified dream machine?'
'Oh no, Josh, it's more than that. As far as you're con-
cerned, it'll all happen. Your brain will receive the same
messages, both physical and emotional, that it would if the
event were actually occurring . . . And you have the choice
of three different modes. Either selecting and inducing
your own fantasies, living through a pre-programmed, pre-
recorded scenario, or what we call an "F & F" . . . which
is where we provide the framework but your subconscious
directs the action with free choice.' She was warming to
her theme now, her voice sparkling, a slight blush rising
in the unmarked side of her face. Josh was almost certain
she was aroused. 'The last one is the most popular, but
whichever you choose, Josh, to you it'll be real.'
'Okay then, let's do it.' Josh sighed. Decision at last.
He'd been enjoying Isis's subtle domination of him - and
the flexing of her obviously prodigious intellect - but it was
time for things to get physical. How physical he wasn't
sure . . . but his cock hoped very!
'So what happens to my body while my grey cells are
getting their rocks off?' he asked casually as they rose, and
once again, Isis led the way, 'I suppose I just lie there in a
trance.' The prospect offered little comfort to Josh's aching
prick, and in spite of his attempts to cool it, the sex-fiend
inside the civilised man was still clamouring to get his end
away.
'I suppose you could say that,' she said huskily. Her grin
was what could only be described as evil, and its effect on
her scar was devastating, given what that scar reminded
him of. 'You'll certainly have to lie back and think of
something.' She laughed that soft foreboding laugh again
and Josh felt scareder and stiffer in about equal proportions.
'Let's not hang about then,' he snapped, embarrassed by
Isis's slow perusal of his groin.
'Don't worry, Joshua,' she went on, investing his full
Christian name with a heavy sensual emphasis, 'you won't
be disappointed. In any department. That I can promise
20

you.' Josh felt himself drowning, adrift on the waves of sex
pouring out of her. 'Come on. This way,' she commanded,
swirling again and leading Josh towards the far end of the
room.
To boldly go! he thought half hysterically as Isis pushed
open a door concealed in the red baize back wall of the
spacious room. Had Captain Kirk ever got this hard being
ordered around by women? Josh doubted it. And he doub-
ted too whether the characters in that classic series had ever
had an adventure as weird and wonderful as he was about
to have . . .
Once through the secret door, they entered an austere
white-painted corridor with a second door at its far end -
stainless steel this time with only a digital lock to relieve
its shiny featurelessness.
Acutely conscious of his aching cock, Josh tried to watch
two things at once: Isis's deft manipulation of the control
panel, and her sultry swaying bottom in its grey leather
casing. She seemed to be one of those people who had a
head full of music all the time, and her feet were tapping
the floor as her fingers tapped out the entry code.
Josh had a sudden overwhelming urge to see her body,
a stronger need by far than anything he'd felt since coming
home. He'd been wracked by lust for women as a sex since
the moment he'd touched down, but right now the whole
boiling lot of it focused on this slim, grey-clad doctor with
her strange scarred face and her sensually delectable shape.
Was she physically involved with the process ahead?
Would she touch him? Would he touch her? The steel door
sprang open and Isis gestured for him to follow her.
Inside was a vestibule as bland as the corridor, apart
from a row of coloured prints on the wall. Josh registered
that they were both erotic and oriental; Shunga most likely,
the explicitly sexual ancient Japanese art. He would've liked
to have lingered and studied them - to check out the back-
breakingly gymnastic positions - but Isis was already half-
way through another door.
'Wait in here a moment, please,' she said briskly, and
ushered him into a luxuriously appointed room that seemed
21

part lounge and part library - all furnished in creams,
browns and beiges.
'Make yourself comfortable and I'll bring you something
to relax you. Dip into anything that takes your fancy.
There's books, magazines, prints, holovids. A lot of clients
find that when they actually get here their fantasy inspi-
rations desert them, so we keep a selection of erotica as
triggers.'
As she spoke, Isis reached behind her head and pulled
out the pins that held her hat. Her thick, vari-coloured
waves tumbled forward over her shoulders, and Josh shud-
dered violendy, his prick hardening to iron. His bedmates
weren't the only ones turned on by long hair against their
skin.
'I won't be a second.' She smiled faintly and left him
alone in the strange and sumptuous waiting room. Josh
flopped down on to the nearest settee and stared blindly at
the heap of leather-covered volumes on the coffee table in
front of him.
'She's all different,' he murmured to himself. It'd been
like watching a slow, subtle metamorphosis, from the cau-
tious victim who'd been scared to lift her veil to a seasoned
sexual professional in total command of her own exotic
domain. She's fabulous, he thought, picking up the nearest
volume on the table. Who needs mucky books? I've found
my fantasy.
Nevertheless, the connoisseur inside him was intrigued
by what seemed to be a heavy hide-backed photograph
album - a ridiculous collector's anachronism in an age of
electronic images. The book's cover was unmarked but
inside was a series of prints depicting lesbian lovemaking:
the first few quite gentle and innocuous, but getting gradu-
ally more explicit as the pages passed.
The artwork was superb and detailed, and Josh caught
his breath at the sight of a beautiful oriental girl draped
over a chaise longue, her slim olive thighs widely apart as
a Junoesque blonde licked delicately at her glistening cunt.
The genital detail was exquisite, but Josh found himself
even more stirred by the ecstatic expressions on the
22

women's faces. They were totally out of it, completely
absorbed in the pleasure they were sharing, and not for the
first time, Josh wondered what it was like to be a woman
who wanted a woman. In his mind he saw Isis's small, elfin
tongue probe Tricksie's crimson bush . . .
'Beautiful, aren't they?' said Isis, and Josh nearly jumped
through the roof. He'd never heard her return.
'Er . . . yes,' he muttered, snapping the book shut and
focusing on Isis and what she was holding out to him:
an inch of amber-coloured fluid in a small cut-glass
goblet.
'I thought I wasn't supposed to have spirits,' Josh said,
more interested in her hand, suddenly, than the glass it
held. At first he'd thought she was wearing pink lace gloves,
but as he looked more closely he saw that the network of
whorls and lines was actually on her skin.
'Another leftover from my accident,' she commented
crisply, 'but there's not much more. My hands and face
caught the worst of it. Now come on, drink up. You're the
one that wants to get on with it.'
'What is it?' he asked, taking the goblet and swirling its
contents. The tawny fluid clung ominously to the glass.
'An inhibition-buster,' she answered with a grin. 'And
don't worry, it's made from all natural ingredients. It's to
help you take the brakes off.'
'Are you licensed to dish out drugs?' Josh was worried
now. Nothing was turning out quite as he'd expected.
'Don't worry.' She touched her fingers suddenly to his
cheek. The skin of her hands was soft, warm and smooth;
there was no tactile evidence of the scarring. 'You can trust
me, I'm a doctor.'
'Oh, for crying out loud!'
'No, seriously, I am,' Isis protested. 'I'm an MD. I
majored in psychosexual medicine.'
He believed her, although it didn't ease his suspicions
about the gungy-looking drink. The first sip was thick and
herby tasting, slightly bitter but not unpleasant. It warmed
his gullet as he tossed it down, and though he was probably
23

imagining things, he immediately felt less uptight. Handing
the glass back, he returned Isis's smile.
'Okay then, I want you to relax and get into the mood,'
she said, and Josh could've sworn she was flirting. Take
off your jacket and tie, choose something to look at or
watch, and lie on the settee. Let the ideas come, but don't
force anything. Just take it easy, absorb the images, mastur-
bate if you want to. But if you can't fix on a specific act or
event, don't worry. That's what usually happens the first
time. It's a good thing really. With no particular require-
ments from you, we can start you with one of our set pieces.
Something that'll really show you what we can do.'
'What do you mean?' Josh wondered why he'd stopped
being worried. He felt no alarm whatsoever now, just a
loose, mellow glow.
'You'll see,' she said quietly. 'Now get in the groove
while I set things up.'
With that she left him to it. He'd have considered follow-
ing her but he'd heard the faint click of a lock.
Licking his lips he thought about the potion she'd given
him. Was it an aphrodisiac? It'd certainly had some kind
of effect on him. He felt curious about what awaited him,
but in a gentle, spaced-out sort of way. There was no way
to gauge if it'd made him any randier . . . he'd been rock
hard since the moment he'd set eyes on Isis.
Masturbate, she'd said. The cheeky cow! At least she
could've stayed around and done it for him. He imagined
the feel of those lace-patterned hands on his cock. They
were slender, elegant hands; they looked as if she could take
a man to heaven and back with them. His flesh twitched at
the very thought of it. Would she be rough or gende with
him? Would she tease him for hours with featherlight
touches? Work the whole surface of his tool into a state of
agonising sensitivity? Or would she be swift and clinical,
bring him straight to ejaculation with ruthless scientific
precision? Assess the number of spurts against a carefully
researched norm? Measure the volume and consistency of
his spunk ... Oh God, he really didn't care, just as long
24

as she touched him . . . For the first time in his life, Josh
was ready to beg a woman to make him come.
He thought about orgasm . . .
Christ, he really needed to have one. But if he was locked
in some kind of trance, what the hell would it be like? A
glorious three-dee, electronic wet dream with spunk all over
the ceiling? Or would he wake up at the point of climax
and maybe shoot into Isis's waiting hand? Whichever it
was, the need was getting desperate; his prick was so stiff
now it was really hurting. He looked down and saw the
mass of it bulging behind his zip.
Comfortable as he could be, Josh reached out for one of
the leather-covered books and flipped it open.
Bondage.
It hit him in a series of stark, high-definition images of
bodies in torment. A woman, obscenely spread-eagled and
gagged, was held immobile in an array of leather and steel.
A man was remorsely forcing a giant prosthetic phallus into
her rectum and simultaneously frigging her clitoris. Juices
glinted wetly on every detail of her shaven cunt: her clit
enormous, knoblike and protruding, her anus stretched
open several unbelievable inches. Shocked in spite of him-
self, Josh wriggled in his seat. There was something both
repellent and captivating in the image, and he had an urgent
need to understand it, to know the minds of both the man
and woman. Her eyes were wide with humiliation and fear,
yet her quim was dripping; his face was cool, remote,
disinterested. For whose benefit was the scene being
played?
He flipped through a few similar prints and the ache in
his prick got both better and worse. He flung the book aside
in favour of another. His prick was a jumping, steaming rod
now, dancing in his pants. Isis's damned jungle juice was
driving him crazy. Either that or he was a closet bondage
freak . . .
The next selection was more romantic, a selection of
classic, stylised themes. A man and woman fucking naked
in a forest glade; a samurai warrior parting the robe of an
25

exquisite geisha; a dangerous liaison between a courtier and
a half-disrobed queen.
Was this a book for female clients, Josh wondered sud-
denly. Did Pleasurezone have any female clients? Most of
the women he'd known were like Julia. They liked the
sexual shallows, the here and now of safe, straight positions
and manageable thrills. There must be women who went
in at the erotic deep end, but sureiy they were a minority?
As a sex they were generally too practical and realistic to
need or want a magical mystery tour.
Now here's an oldie but goodie, he thought, turning the
page. The picture showed another well-loved fantasy. The
Seraglio', at a guess. A young woman lay on a brocade-
covered divan, almost swooning from the caresses of two
other women, who were sliding aside her diaphanous robes
and preparing her, it seemed, for the attentions of a prince
of some kind. This bearded lord stood to one side, hand
on cock, clearly getting off on the sight of the innocent
young girl being primed for him. Who wouldn't? thought
Josh with feeling. And the girl was in raptures too, her
breast being suckled by a giant negress and her cuntlips
carefully parted by a slender, naked houri with brightly
hennaed hair.
'Layla and the Prince. Do you like it?' said a soft voice
beside him, and Josh realised that once again, Isis had
snuck in and caught him unawares.
'Yes, I do,' said Josh decisively. He loved it. He'd always
fancied a harem. But when he looked up at Isis, he won-
dered if another of his long-time fantasies was coming true.
It was, after all, every man's perennial yen to have it off
with a nurse . . .
Isis had shed her leather suit and now wore a white
overall in classic medical white. A doctor's garb, he realised,
not a nurse's; and although it was just a simple tunic style,
careful darting made the thin white cloth skim faithfully
over what Josh suspected was a perfect figure. Slim but
curvy; long legs; fine waist; high, rounded, but not too
enormous breasts. The plain but prick-teasing garment had
a tiny tab collar and ended just above the knee; and on her
26

feet, Isis wore a pair of white canvas flatties. Her thick,
brindled hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and perched
right on the end of her nose was a pair of metal-rimmed
half spectacles.
Josh blinked, then stared. She was Frankenstein's
naughty night nurse, the mad professor, and utterly
gorgeous. He'd never wanted a woman more.
This is an artist's impression of one of our "set pieces",'
she said, taking the book from Josh and studying it as if
she'd never seen it before. 'Care to try it? It's an excellent
example, a tour de force, though I say it myself.'
'Why not?' Josh replied, leaping lightly to his feet,
revitalised and eager to get stuck in. Isis could be the
handmaiden to his prince. 'Any chance of having you in
this sex dream of mine?' he said huskily, reaching towards
her. Good God, he thought, that stuff was dynamite! He
could've thrown her against the wall and shagged her where
she stood. Isis evaded him nimbly and said nothing.
Did she have panties on under that cute little smock?
Josh did a quick survey. There were no lines showing
through, no evidence of lingerie. It'd be a simple matter to
slide up the hem, glide his hand up her thigh, slip it into
her crotch . . .
'Naughty, naughty!' she admonished, dancing out of his
reach as he lunged forward, 'I'm not what you're here
for. I'm just the technician. And to answer your question,
Josh - ' She rubbed her hands in a businesslike manner,
and Josh suddenly realised she was wearing a pair of fine
rubber gloves. Something inside him went 'flip', and if his
cock had had a voice it would've whimpered. Oh God, not
rubber as well!
Oblivious, Isis went on, 'It's too disruptive for clients to
have me in their fantasies. They have to have faith in my
expertise, put themselves in my hands, literally. To picture
me in some . . . some possibly subjugated situation would
undermine my authority and destroy their trust. Surely you
see that?'
'Not really,' said Josh, advancing again. 'And anyway,
27

how do you stop me dreaming you up in one of these so-
called free-choice scenarios?'
'Because, as I've already told you - although you obvi-
ously weren't listening - in the Pleasurezone, you're not
actually dreaming. You're perceiving an induced reality.
The re-creator reads your brain patterns and creates the
scenario from the data it receives, and it's programmed to
lock out any images of me. So there!'
'You're a mean cow, Isis.' He plunged forward and made
a grab at her. Caught unawares, she couldn't stop him. He
ran a rapid, exploring hand down her body and gleaned a
crumb of sexual comfort. Her breast was firm and proud
to the touch, with a nipple, he realised triumphantly, that
was hard as a nut. She did fancy him after all!
'Get off, you idiot,' she said sharply, dashing away his
fondling hand. 'Look, shall we get on with what you came
here for? Or are you only interested in groping? If you
don't want the treatment, we'll quit now and I'll have your
money transferred back to you.'
Chastened, but still wanting her, Josh stepped back.
'Yes, ma'am,' he said facetiously. 'I'll behave myself.'
'Good. Now, do you see that door over there?' She
pointed to one of several doors that opened off the lounge
area. 'Behind it you'll find a bathroom. Go in, strip off all
your clothes from the waist down and empty your bladder
and bowels. When you've done, go through the other door
beyond and I'll be waiting for you.'
'I beg your pardon?' Josh was flabbergasted. What the
hell was going on? She'd vetoed any kind of sexplay
between them, and now she was telling him she wanted to
see his dick hanging out! And what the hell was all that
about emptying his bladder and bowels?
'You heard what I said,' she replied, her voice like tensile
steel.
'Okay. But why do I need to ... to strip and . . . and
everything? I thought the action was all up here.' He tapped
a finger to his sweating brow.
'Some of it is,' Isis said, coming close again now he'd
ceded control to her, 'but for the experience to be complete,
28

there has to be action down here too.' She reached out and
closed her slim fingers on his cock, delicately testing its
width and solidity through the cloth of his trousers. Josh
groaned and she gave him an old-fashioned look over the
top of her glasses, mischief bright in both her good eye and
bad.
'Don't worry, Josh,' she murmured seductively. 'It'll all
be worth it, I promise. Now let's get to it, shall we?'
She gave his shaft one last squeeze - quite lovingly, he
thought through his daze - then let him go and left him to
it.
The bathroom was also beautifully appointed, but as
Josh followed Isis's instructions he was too befuddled to
appreciate it. At first his erection made it difficult to piss,
but eventually he calmed down enough to get a stream.
He'd no problem with his bowels, but wondered, as he
sat staring at his own bare feet, why the hell it was all
necessary.
She's going to handle me somehow, he decided, loving
the idea. He thought of those long fingers touching him -
his bare skin this time, not through layers of silk - and
smiled. Then, scrupulously, he washed himself both fore
and aft, with his penis back at attention almost before he'd
begun . . .
'You might change your mind, lady, when you see this,'
he observed smugly to himself as he dried his smooth vel-
vety shaft. It looked red and fierce as he held it against the
fluffy white towelling: like a weapon, a tool, a rampant
pussy-stuffing club. It was no use being modest. He'd a
good sound cock on him; every woman he'd ever been with
had praised it and he knew they were right. There was no
way the good doctor could ignore its charm.
He gave himself an extra little rub, although he knew he
was just about as stiff as a man could ever be; then, feeling
a burst of ridiculously juvenile braggadocio, he stepped
forward and opened the door.
The room beyond was smaller and more intimate than
he'd expected, and seemed almost filled by a long, white,
leather-upholstered couch.
29

The cradle of fantasy, thought Josh whimsically as he
took in its single thick central pedestal and, behind and to
the side of where the client - victim? - laid his head, a
small bank of electronic gadgetry. He saw monitors, digital
readouts, a disk drive of some sort, and - at both the head
of the couch and underneath - coils of fine wiring. Isis was
sitting on a tall stool, tapping busily at a keyboard, but at
the sound of his arrival, she turned around.
She didn't say anything immediately, but took a long
look at his swaying erection.
'Good,' she said with a slight smile.
Good? Was that all? Josh's ego deflated, but oddly his
prick grew even stiffer. Of course, I forgot, he thought
wryly. I get off on humiliation, don't I? He'd learnt more
about his sexual psyche in the last hour than in the whole
of the rest of his life.
'Okay, hop on the couch,' Isis said briskly. 'Are you
feeling comfortable?'
Josh took a moment before replying. The couch had
lowered to the perfect height for him to get on it, and as
he did so, he noticed that its shape was moulded slightly,
and that while the upper part was made in one whole piece,
the lower half - from approximately where the base of the
spine would rest - was made of two separate but presently
flush panels. Unease coiled in Josh's belly as he lay down
on the warm leather, and the whole structure rose again,
purring almost inaudibly to a height that was ominously
convenient for Isis's reach.
'I feel great, thank you,' he murmured airily. 'I've got a
stiffy on that's killing me, but apart from that I've never
felt better.'
'Fine,' Isis replied, ignoring the sarcasm, 'but what I
meant was, have you emptied yourself?'
'Yes, ma'am, I'm a vacuum. What's the problem? Am I
going to have so much fun I'll shit myself?'
'I suppose you could,' said Isis consideringly, dropping
from her stool to stand beside him, 'but it's simply that we
don't want any minor discomforts to spoil things, do we?
Shuffle down a bit, please.' Josh complied, and as he did
30

so, Isis took him firmly by the hips, and carefully eased his
buttocks into the soft leather indentations. She seemed
oblivious to the pulsing erection so close to her rubber-clad
hands; but Josh couldn't take his eyes off it. He watched
it bobbing obscenely as Isis unbuttoned his shirt and folded
it back on either side of his body. Easing the spare material
from under his arse, she tucked it neatly beneath the small
of his back. The leather couch seemed to kiss the cheeks
of his bottom and he could feel the divide beneath his anus.
His disquiet grew.
Machinery whirred again, and padded armrests rose up
beside the body of the couch. Isis took Josh's wrists - first
one, then the other - and placed them on the rests as if he
were a rag-doll.
'Now then,' she said in a soft, authoritative voice, 'I'm
going to position the sensory transceivers on your body,
and as they're very precise and delicate, it's best that I strap
you in position too. Whoah! Don't go ballistic.' She pushed
down on Josh's chest as he started to rise, 'It's for your
own good. You want to get the best out of this, don't you?'
'Yes, yes, I do,' cried Josh, not knowing whether to be
angry or excited. He opted for both. 'I've paid good money
for this, and I didn't bargain for being strapped in a glorified
dentist's chair.'
'Easy, easy,' crooned Isis, coaxing his arms back on to
the rests, stroking his wrists and forearms, making soothing
litde patterns on his hot skin, then suddenly and shockingly
clipping on the restraints with a speed that left him breath-
less. The cuffs were steel, Josh noted in wondering horror,
though lined with a feather-soft felt; and as he absorbed
the impact of this first set of bonds, Isis ran her latex-clad
fingers the entire length of his torso - chest, waist, hips -
then on and down his leg to his right ankle. Before he had
time to protest again, the foot was locked firmly in place,
and, that one dealt with, she walked quickly around the
couch and secured the other.
Josh closed his eyes, but behind them, shockingly, was
the image he'd seen earlier - the spread-eagled woman
in erotic bondage - and several clues slotted neatly and
31

awesomely into place. Empty your bowels, she'd said. No
discomfort to spoil the experience. And notice how meticu-
lously she'd folded his shirt out of the way . . . The division
in the lower part of the couch assumed a dreadful signifi-
cance.
'Omigod! What're you going to do to me?' He was
appalled by the high whining note in his own voice. Where
was the suave sophisticated Josh Mortimer now? The crimi-
nally smooth ladykiller who always took control? His eyes
flew open but Isis was busy with her computer array and
pretending, he suspected, not to have heard him.
'Are you listening? What're you going to do to me?'
T think you've probably worked that out by now,
Joshua,' she replied, turning away from her mystic calcu-
lations. 'Or at least some of it.'
'Maybe I have,' Josh replied, surly with confusion and
fear, 'but I think I've paid enough for you to tell me.'
'Quite true,' she remarked amiably. 'So here it is. The
next step is to position the transceivers on your body, the
sensors that both receive information and transmit stimu-
lation. Pleasurable stimulation, Josh, and for maximum
sensation we go right to your pleasure centres to apply it.
The brain, of course, is the primary sex organ and the main
message goes there. But we'll also be working elsewhere.
You being a man, we'll be applying direct stimulation to
your prostate gland and the head of your penis.'
'Oh God.'
'I shouldn't worry, Josh. You could well end up believing
you're God,' she murmured, turning back to her keyboard
and punching in a code. The couch's mechanisms whirred
again and Josh felt the lower half of his body tilting upwards
and curving inwards. His prick seemed to dance before his
eyes, stiffer and redder than it'd ever been, a little moisture
already oozing from the tip. Isis still seemed unimpressed
by its rigid magnificence, though, as she pressed one gloved
hand flat on his belly to force his bottom right into the
snugly shaped hollows of the leather seat.
'Relax, Josh,' she whispered in his ear, then reached out
with her free hand to key in another command.
32

Josh moaned, then bit his lip as the cradling leather
seemed to grip his arse-cheeks, then slowly but firmly eased
them apart. The machine's soft purr and his own gasping
breath were the loudest sounds in the universe. The couch's
inexorable division seemed to go on and on until his legs
and his thighs were widely splayed and the twin mounds
of his bottom were almost unbelievably stretched apart.
'Relax, Josh,' she repeated, the words whispering in the
cool empty air beneath his trembling anus. Josh closed his
eyes tightly, trying to deny what was happening and shut
out the sensations invading him. He'd never felt more vul-
nerable, yet the stark exposure was both exhilarating and
voluptuous. And even though he knew now what was going
to happen, he still jumped with shock as Isis touched a soft
cool gel to his arsehole. He twitched, bit even deeper into
his lower lip, and tossed his head as she slathered on more
of the slippery scented substance, and worked a large dollop
of it right inside him.
'Easy now, easy now,' she whispered, her lips close to
his ear and mercifully masking the other small sounds.
'Relax again. More . . . Let yourself go, Josh . . . Open,
sweetheart . . . Let yourself open up . . . That's it, my
Josh, let it in . . .'
Something firm, smooth and rounded was pressing itself
into Josh's rectum. Pressing, pressing, pressing; not cruel
yet not kind, it moved remorselessly through the muscle-
ring, stretching and opening. It felt huge, gigantic, shock-
ingly good as it pushed in and in, filling him and distending
the whole of his consciousness.
'Oh God, oh God, oh God,' he whispered through par-
ched lips. This penetration suddenly seemed as if it were
the whole of his life, the only thing that'd ever happened,
ever mattered. He wanted to weep, and welcome the
intruder in his bottom, while the same muscles that
embraced it sought - automatically - to expel it.
'Oh Christ, I'm going to shit . . .'
'No, you're not,' said Isis firmly from somewhere behind
his head. She'd done with coaxing him now, it seemed, and
Josh felt suddenly and ridiculously frightened. 'It's just
33

your nerve ends telling lies. And I don't know why you're
making such a fuss. Surely you've felt anal penetration
before?'
'Just what the hell do you think I am?' he demanded,
twisting to try and see her, then thinking better of it. Every
slight movement reminded him of the phallic object lodged
in his bowel, and of the unacceptably delicious sensation
of being stretched and invaded in the most intimate and
demeaning way.
'What I think you are, Josh,' she said with slight
impatience as if talking to a stubborn child, 'is a sexy and
imaginative man. A man who's done everything and had
everything done to him . . . Why else would you be here?'
She moved around into his field of view, adjusting the probe
with a gentle impersonal touch that made him feel more
exposed than ever and set his prick pulsating unbearably.
He moved uneasily, hating himself for enjoying the sen-
sations it brought. He wanted desperately to touch himself,
but his bonds prevented it. He wished that she'd touch
him. But she'd turned away to monitor the equipment, as
if indifferent to his hugely straining erection. Moving again,
and biting down on the resulting moan, Josh wished he
could be indifferent to it; but strapped as he was, it reared
up at him - in the centre of his field of view - and he
couldn't seem to look anywhere else.
'There was once . . .'
Astounded, he heard his own hoarse voice, 'I was just a
kid. I didn't want to . . . But I just couldn't seem to help
myself. . .'
'What was it?' she asked, coming close again, standing
by his head, smoothing back a lock of sweaty hair with
infinite gentleness. He was reminded irresistibly of a nurse
again, or a priestess, or a mother. To his horror, he felt he
might burst into tears. 'What did you have inside you,
Josh? A dildo or a man?'
'A man . . .' he whispered brokenly, remembering an
experience quite unlike this controlled, clinical penetration.
It'd hurt, it'd been a rough buggering and later he'd bled.
But. . .
34

'Did you enjoy him?' she persisted quietly.
'Yes,' he croaked, feeling utterly weak and unmanned in
spite of the monumental hard-on swaying before his eyes,
'Yes, goddam you. He tore my arse and fucked me and I
loved every minute of it.'
'Well then.' Her voice was no-nonsense; the gentle con-
fessional moment was over. 'If you'll just relax into the
feeling, you'll enjoy the probe.'
'How the hell would you know?'
'Tut tut, Josh. What kind of therapist would I be if I
hadn't tried the treatment myself?' she asked, slanting a
sideways glance at him as she fiddled with a small wire-clad
gadget attached to the console at the side of the couch. 'Of
course I've had a transceiver in my arse. And one in my
vagina at the same time. Now will you stop complaining?'
Josh closed his eyes, his prick leaping again as he saw
Isis strapped to this same couch, nude, legs wide open,
thighs twitching, dildoes protruding from both orifices . . .
Wires trailed obscenely, and he could almost see fluid glist-
ening on her clitoris and labia . . .
'Holy shit,' he shouted, feeling her fingers enclose the
tip of his penis. Bare fingers this time. Though he hadn't
heard the action, she must've shed her gloves now she'd
finished handling his backside. His body rose involuntarily,
only to fall back and lodge the probe more deeply in his
rectum. The sensations were incredible! The wicked thing
seemed to swell inside him, stretching his anus exquisitely.
His balls pulsed, rose . . . His prick was on fire, a rod of
iron waving and throbbing . . .
'I think I'm going to come,' he moaned, feeling pathetic
and completely out of control.
'No problem,' said Isis, easing what seemed to be a small
stretchy cuff over the circumcised knob of his penis. He
hissed between his teeth, feeling the pleasure roil, then
subside as the delicate grip controlled his impending
orgasm. 'You'll probably come several times before this is
over,' she murmured conversationally, 'and the majority of
clients come at least once before they go under.'
Go under? thought Josh dazedly, then remembered that
35

this fabulous trial was simply a means to an end. Lying
semi-naked with wires attached to his prick and a gigantic
prod rammed up his backside seemed like hysterically good
value already. He turned slowly towards Isis, and his lang-
uor dispelled when he saw her priming a small hypodermic.
'What the hell's that?' he demanded, and troubled by
the idea of more drugs, he pressed himself down on to the
probe in a bizarre yearning for comfort. It jostled gently
inside him and he sighed with relief.
'You do like that, don't you?' Isis commented as she
applied an antiseptic swab to his forearm, peering at him
over the rim of her glasses.
'Of course I do, you sadist,' he snarled. 'But I still want
to know what's in that needle. I don't like to think I'm
being pumped full of junk I don't know about.'
'Tsk tsk, don't fret. It's just a mild hallucinogen. It helps
with the visuals.' The needle went in, hurt minutely, then
was gone as she dabbed again with antiseptic. 'You really
don't have to worry, Josh. I've told you before. You're
perfectly safe with me, I'm a doctor. Would you like to see
my diploma?'
'I'd rather see your snatch,' Josh said. It'd be nice to just
lie here, exposed and stimulated, and see Isis's cunt. She'd
be beautiful down there, he decided dreamily. All red and
moist and puffy . . . Then, maybe, she could kneel astride
his face and let him lick and taste her . . . And as she came
all over his mouth, she could throw one of her clever little
switches and make him spunk on that sexy white coat of
hers.
'Now don't be silly,' she admonished, giving Josh a flash
of the stern schoolma'am, something else he found himself
liking. 'You've paid for something far more esoteric than
little old me.'
'But don't you fancy me?' he persisted. There was
nothing to lose anymore: dignity, power, and control of his
body were all in the scarred hands of this woman he'd met
less than an hour ago. She'd even taken his voice; his words
were coming out more and more slurred as the drug took
hold. 'Don't lie to me, Isis,' he mumbled, then nodded
36

towards his prick, so stiff and twitchy in the pleasure-
giving cuff. 'You fancy some of that, don't you? I'd feel
great up your twat. Why don't you climb on board?'
She gave him a long look. A considering look. And to
Josh's addled brain it seemed almost as if she might suc-
cumb. His hopes - and then his penis - jumped as she
slipped off her wire-framed specs, placed them to one side,
and reached out to touch his lightly restrained flesh. Her
fingers felt cool, and the touch of them was heartbreakingly
delicate . . . but sadly, only momentary.
'You have a wonderful body, Josh, and a truly excep-
tional cock,' she said softly, with a genuine note of admir-
ation. Abandoning his groin, she brought her blighted face
close to his. Her voice was level and honest, and her odd
eyes seemed to reach right through the narcotic mist and
touch Josh's soul. 'If this weren't a professional relation-
ship, I might be tempted. Really. But you must see it's
impossible.'
All Josh could see was the most intriguing and desirable
woman he'd met in years* but his consciousness was floating
now and it was difficult to tell her that. He felt her soft
hands slide behind his head, loosen his ponytail and fan his
hair out over the shaped leather rest. He didn't protest
when she fastened a soft felt-lined strap across his brow,
but simply sighed and eased himself deeper on to the probe.
You love it, you fairy, he told himself, not quite sure if
he'd spoken out loud or not.
Almost on the brink, he felt Isis attach sensors to his
temples and his wrists, then after the sound of tapping
keys, the real world began a slow, gentle slide beyond his
reach. More tapping, and his body came alive in a strange,
almost multi-dimensional way. His prick tingled slightly,
seemed to swell. . . and deep in the core of him, a soft
warm glow was the most delectable sensation he'd ever felt.
Looking around him he saw the whole scene was slightly
out of phase, distorted yet strangely unalarming. Isis's scar-
red face had acquired a bright beatific beauty, and her
voice, when she spoke, was alien music.
'I'm going to put a mask over your eyes now, Josh, and
37

I want you to close them as I do,' she whispered. Josh
obeyed, lamblike, and felt the soft velvet-lined visor caress
his brow and cheek.
'It's time now, Josh. When you open your eyes again
you'll be in another world.' He felt the stroking touch of
her fingers on his face, so soothing, so much like a lover.
'It's time now, my Josh, time. Time to dream . . .'
38

3 The Prince's Comforter
'It's time, Layla! Time to wake up. We must get you ready
for the Prince.'
Rising from the deepest layers of sleep, Layla felt a gentle
hand stroking her face. Momentarily disorientated, she
brushed it away and pressed her fists to her eyes. She hardly
dared open them and look around. The last few days had
been so strange and beautiful, and in her half-awake state
she was scared they'd just been a dream.
But when she dropped her slim fingers from her face,
and opened her eyes to Raiza's kindly smile, Layla realised
that this was the real world, and the other dream, the
peculiar one she couldn't quite remember, was just the
product of over-excitement and a wild sensual anticipation.
That's better, little one,' said Raiza gently, 'we've got a
lot to do yet. Tonight the Prince will make a woman of
you. And for that, Safira and I must make you even more
beautiful than you already are.'
Safira and Raiza were the Prince's two most trusted and
experienced bondswomen, and they'd been taking care of
Layla for the past two days, preparing her for her role as
a 'comforter'.
The Prince's comforter ... the one who, according to
custom, would share his bed on the night before he went
to war, the freshly deflowered virgin who would comfort
him, and give him memories of sweetness and pleasure to
sustain him through the horrors of battle. To become the
Prince's comforter was one of the greatest honours in the
land, the pinnacle of a loyal girl's aspirations; and Layla
had had to do nothing at all - so far - to achieve it. The
39

Prince had seen her from a distance, walking in her father's
garden, and decreed that it was she who would sustain him
through the greatest test of his warriorhood. Her fresh
young body would be his solace on the eve of a holy war.
Layla shuddered; wracked by the delight of newly born
sensations, she savoured the heavy yearning ache she felt
in her loins whenever she thought of Prince Suleiman and
the pure unfettered desire she felt for this legend of strength
and male beauty.
Until two days ago, and before the tutelage of Safira and
Raiza, Layla had been ashamed of her feelings, confused
by the physicality of them; but now that she understood
their nature, and how right and natural they were, she
welcomed them with a happy heart. Almost without think-
ing, she slid her fingers beneath her sleeping robe and began
to stroke her cunt.
'Yes, that's right, little one,' Safira encouraged, joining
her friend at Layla's bedside. 'Don't feel ashamed of your
pleasure. The Prince will glory in it. He loves eagerness
and sensuality. The law decrees you must be untried, but
my Lord likes a comforter who welcomes the sex act gladly.
He doesn't like girls who cringe and grizzle, and he adores
women who make their own pleasure.
'Relax, Layla, enjoy your body. It's very beautiful,' Safira
said softly, kissing her charge's cheek, then easing the
loosely tied robe off Layla's shoulders. She smiled at the
sight of firm young breasts and small stiff nipples. 'Bring
the mirror, Raiza,' she told the younger bondswoman, then
returned her attentions to Layla, lifting the delicate gauzy
skirt of her robe and uncovering her slim thighs, soft gold-
brown curls and the slender hand that moved amongst
them.
Layla turned languorously towards the polished metal
mirror they'd wheeled to the side of her couch. She'd
watched herself masturbate many times in the past few
days, and in the name of erotic education, been shown how
to improve her technique.
And Layla herself was the first to admit she'd needed
teaching. The subjects she'd studied in her nineteen years
40

had all been bookish and highly academic. She was pre-
cociously gifted in literature, art, mathematics, astronomy
and the various sciences, and she'd even covered the theory
of human biology; but until Safira and Raiza had gendy
explained things to her, she'd been abysmally ignorant
about sexuality. Nevertheless, being a quick study in every-
thing she'd ever turned her hand to, Layla had taken to
sexual pleasure with a hungry and full-blooded enthusiasm:
she loved all the wild new sensations she was experiencing,
whether induced by her own fingers or by the hands and
mouths of her two teachers. All she lacked now was what
the Prince would teach her tonight... the penetration of
her eager young cunt by the hard flesh of a man.
She tried to imagine it as she gazed into the mirror at
her reflection: a slim, lovely girl with her sex and breasts
wantonly displayed. And on either side of her, two older,
darker women whose eyes twinkled with experience as they
watched her frenzied contortions. Inflamed by the sight of
her fingers paddling in her own juices, Layla rubbed furi-
ously at her clitoris and pumped her hips in time to the
strokes.
'Easy, sweetheart, easy,' whispered Safira, reaching down
to slow the rapidly frigging fingers. 'Work yourself more
slowly, savour the pleasure. I swear I've never met a virgin
as randy as you are, litde one. It's hard to believe you've
never made love. And yet - ' She reached gently between
Layla's thighs, down past her still-moving fingers, and
tested her own finger against the slippery mouth of her
vagina, 'you are a virgin.' She pushed against the revealing
membrane and Layla whimpered. It wasn't the pain that
bothered her, just the desperate craving to be penetrated.
Sweet heaven, how I want it, thought Layla wildly, jer-
king her hips then groaning again as Safira removed her
hand. In the last two days, this exquisite joy - rubbing
herself to orgasm - had become almost a drug to Layla,
but much as she revelled in it and half-died each time her
clitoris seemed to explode, backfire up her spine and con-
nect directly with her brain, she was becoming desperate
for more. She wanted to experience the ecstasy with a
41

prick inside her. The prick of His Serene Highness Prince
Suleiman Ariffa Ib'n Alu.
How beautiful you must be, my lord, she told him sil-
ently in her mind, as her cunt screamed with lust. Oh my
Prince, my beautiful Prince, I want you so much! it seemed
to wail, a voice of weeping desire that sang between her
thighs.
She'd seen her lord quite often from the discreet secrecy
of her window, and each time, he'd looked more handsome
and virile than the last. But on one particular day, she'd
learnt far more than she'd expected . . .
The desert wind had been blowing hard and fast, and
Layla had winced empathically as an especially vicious gust
had battered the Prince and moulded his robes to his lean
powerful body. Then in an instant her fears had ceded to
fierier feelings. She'd felt faint, with flaming cheeks and a
racing pulse, at the sight of Prince Suleiman's thin silk
pantaloons plastered almost translucently across his bulging
loins. From her studies of anatomy, Layla had known
exactly what that mass between his thighs was, yet she'd
been shocked and thrilled by its majestic dimensions.
And now, as her intimate flesh began to burn and flutter,
she superimposed a mental picture of that sovereign rod on
to the sight of her own tortured cunt.
'Oh lord! My lord!,' she screamed hoarsely and driving
pulsations ripped through her vulva. Her hips rose clear of
the bed and gyrated helplessly in the air.
That was wonderful, little darling,' cried Safira as Layla
collapsed on to the coverlet in a sweating heap.
'Oh Layla, you're so beautiful when you frig yourself,'
murmured Raiza, cradling her sobbing, half-naked charge.
The Prince will adore you. You're so perfect he may even
take you as his wife.'
Layla could hear her teacher's soft words, but so closely
tuned was she to her own throbbing flesh that she could
hardly make sense of them. She could hardly think further
than tonight. Tonight she would ascend to the sweet heights
so longed for by every woman in the land; she would lie
42

beneath His Highness Prince Suleiman, and feel his sacred
prick slide possessively into her cunt.
But for the moment, Layla must rest a little more, and
conserve her energies for his pleasure. Safira - who was
older and more senior than Raiza - rose gracefully from
the couch and made a start on Layla's elaborate toilette:
moving the mirror, she turned out chests and cupboards to
select clothes and cosmetics, then sniffed her way through
a selection of perfumes, looking for the scent that would
most please His Highness. Raiza, who was closer to Layla's
age and very tenderhearted, remained on the bed, cuddling
her trembling charge and settling her after the tumults of
orgasm.
It took quite a while.
Layla had been shocked by her own emerging sensuality,
and even though she now knew that sexual pleasure was
natural and beautiful, she was still shaken to the core by
the power of her own climax. Safe in Raiza's cradling arms,
she sent her consciousness winging through her body to
absorb the effects of her sweet, self-induced delight.
The delicate fleshy groove between her legs - her cunt as
she now liked to call it after Safira had taught her bedroom
language instead of the coldly clinical textbook terms - was
flooded with slippery juice. She'd learned recently that this
silken moisture, far from being something to be ashamed
of, was an extremely happy product and was exuded by the
excited woman to welcome her lover's prick. Both Safira
and Raiza had marvelled at how quickly Layla became
juicy, and told her how much easier it would make things
when the time came to take her virginity.
The Prince, they told her, had adopted a very civilised
custom when it came to deflowering his comforters. He
preferred that their maidenheads be dealt with first by the
women who attended them. He considered it kinder for a
girl to be broken by a gently wielded dildo in the hands of
a sensitive woman, rather than subject her to the blind
ramming force of a lustful man, even if that man were
himself.
This revelation had, at first, surprised Layla very much.
43

Her scanty knowledge of sex had led her to believe that the
Prince, like most men, would set great store by piercing
the membrane himself. But on thinking more about his
way of doing things, Layla found herself falling even deeper
under his spell. How caring he was, how considerate of
a timid untutored girl like herself! Prince Suleiman was
everything a man should be. Magnificent in face and body,
he was beautiful on the inside too - a hero to inspire the
utmost devotion, and more.
A moment ago she'd achieved fulfilment by her own
manipulations, but now she felt her body blooming again,
glowing slick and turgid and ready for the Prince. Matters
of state, and his imminent departure, all decreed that their
coupling would be for one brief night only; but Layla swore
to herself, as her young cunt began to swell and throb, that
every second of their time together would count. When he
pressed his hard flesh into her she would keep her eyes
wide open. She would look into his handsome face as he
fucked her, and print it in her soul forever. She would see
his eyes lust-dark in her heart, even if he never came back.
'You're dreaming of the Prince, aren't you, my sweet?'
Raiza murmured, cupping Layla's rounded breast and rol-
ling the nipple between her fingers. Tour body gives you
away, little one.' She pinched gently, running her hand
down the flat white plain of Layla's belly. Within seconds
she'd parted the tawny curls below and was rubbing her
charge's stiffened clitoris.
Layla moaned, rising instinctively to the tantalising pres-
sure.
'Oh Layla, my beauty . . .' Raiza's voice was husky, and
Layla sensed more than simple affection in it. Of her two
teachers, Safira was more technically skilled in lovemaking,
but Raiza displayed more genuine lust. Layla had sensed a
personal rather than tuitional interest, and while she herself
didn't mind at all, Safira was careful to restrain Raiza's
excesses. The two bondswomen had a common purpose:
they had to rouse Layla to sensuality in the universal sense,
not to make her want only women.
'Oh Layla,' Raiza repeated, 'I'd love to make you come
44

right now.' She pressed harder on the fleshy little bud and
Layla's pelvis rose towards the source of pleasure. 'I want
to nibble your clitoris and lick all the juice that's drooling
from your slit.' Layla tossed her head, as excited by Raiza's
unexpected crudeness as she was by her attentions to her
cunt.
'Raiza! Stop that!' Safira cried sharply, abandoning a silk
robe and striding over to haul the two of them apart. In a
turmoil of lust, Layla could do nothing but lie panting on
the couch, her legs wide open and her quim all pink and
tumescent. She saw Safira peer closely at it, and knew she
could see how Wet and aroused it was. Layla had never felt
more lewd in her life, and almost wept for someone to
relieve her stimulated flesh.
'But, Safira,' protested Raiza, 'look at Layla's cunt. See
how swollen her clitty is, how puffed up her lips are . . .
She needs to have a climax, Saffy, it's cruel to leave her
like that.'
'No, it's not,' Safira said firmly, then looked Layla in the
fierily blushing face. 'Just think how much more you'll
enjoy the Prince, little Layla,' she whispered, 'if your cunt
is so swollen and ready for him. Now come along, my
sweet, we've got to bathe and prepare you. Every part of
you must be immaculate for our lord's enjoyment.'
Accepting the wisdom of Safira's words, Layla struggled
to rise, biting her lip at the delicious discomfort it caused.
Her tender flesh was so engorged that it was difficult to walk
without creating waves of intense and intimate sensation. As
she walked between Safira and Raiza to the bath house she
was hard pressed not to rub herself like an animal. And it
was hopeless to expect her randy body to contain itself.
Layla knew she'd climax again — long before Prince Sulei-
man set eyes on her - especially as many of the bathing
rituals were so arousing.
Every nook and cranny, every chink and crevice of her
body was first cleansed, then pampered and perfumed. And
it was while one of the most private of all these cleanings
was going on that Layla had her next orgasm.
After first pissing, then emptying her bowel in the normal
45

way, Safira made Layla crouch, bitch-fashion, over one of
the bath house's fast-running pools. Ordered to relax, Layla
laid her head on her arms and parted her thighs widely,
then let out a little shriek of alarm when she felt a metal
nozzle pushed into her exposed backside.
Tatience, little one,' Safira said soothingly. 'His High-
ness may wish to use this hole and you've got to be com-
pletely clean for him.' Layla whimpered in fear as the
lukewarm water flowed into her rectum, but Raiza knelt
down and stroked her hair reassuringly.
Within moments, the fear was replaced by an entirely
different feeling, a beautiful feeling of fullness that seemed
to caress Layla from the inside out. Her swelling bowel
pressed hard on the base of her clitoris, and she couldn't
stop herself swivelling her bottom around to intensify the
forbidden stimulation.
'Aaagh!' she screamed out, climaxing violently as Raiza,
in defiance of Safira's orders, reached between her charge's
shaking thighs and frigged the aching bud of her sex.
Wracked by pleasure, Layla's wet body bucked wildly,
but her two companions held fast, Safira taking particular
care that the warm enematic flow continued. With no let-
up in the pressure, Layla has several more orgasms, her
hips pumping obscenely as the water gurgled softly inside
her. Her spasms increased shockingly when she saw herself
in the mirror, her slim buttocks jumping and the fine metal
tube snaking out from the rosebud of her anus.
At last Safira gently withdrew the nozzle, and she and
Raiza held Layla in the fast cleansing stream as the fluid
gushed out of her bottom. The relief was so glorious that
Layla came again, tears of shame pouring down her beauti-
ful face.
'Don't be ashamed, my sweet. It's quite natural to be
aroused by a purge,' Safira said soothingly as Layla came
back to her senses. 'Lots of people find it pleasurable. The
Prince himself enjoys been cleaned out this way, especially
when there's a beautiful young woman to administer the
enema.'
'Oh yes, Layla,' said Raiza in answer to Layla's aston-
46

ished look, 'I'm sure it'll be you one day. So remember,
he likes you to push your finger into him afterwards and
fuck his freshly sluiced bottom.'
'Surely not!' Even as she protested, Layla imagined the
scene, and to her confusion found it unbearably exciting.
'Oh yes, little one,' returned Raiza with an impish grin,
'the Prince is sensual throughout the whole of his body,
not like most men, who are entirely obsessed with their
pricks. Imagine it, Layla, the naughtiest of erotic
sights . . .' The girl paused, and with glazed eyes, ran her
tongue slowly over her lips, 'My lord Prince Suleiman all
stretched out and naked on a couch, his limbs writhing
helplessly as you push a huge dildo into his arse - '
'Raiza! Enough!' rapped Safira, 'Layla is young and
untried. It's not right to describe such advanced pleasures
to her. His Highness will suggest them in the fullness of
time. For tonight, a simple fuck will be all that's required.'
Yet as the bathing continued, Layla mulled over the
Prince's 'advanced' pleasures. With the enematic experi-
ence still fresh in her imagination, and the whole of her
lower body still glowing from its benefits, she could well
imagine that Prince Suleiman would enjoy having his
bottom pleasured. For all her virgin state, Layla was gradu-
ally discovering her own lack of inhibitions. Surely no act
or pleasure should be forbidden - as long as it didn't harm
others? Why shouldn't men also enjoy being penetrated?
Why should anyone be confined to purely conventional
roads to pleasure?
I suppose I'm too modern, Layla reflected as Safira helped
her into the perfumed and blissfully warm large bath. The
idea of Lord Suleiman with a dildo into his bottom was
extremely stimulating. For her, somehow, it did nothing
to undermine his royal dignity. In fact it had a certain
lightness to it. It seemed to her . . . appropriate? Familiar?
Had she once dreamed of it, yet not consciously remem-
bered the dream?
Consigning the thought to the back of her mind, yet
hoping one day to make it reality, Layla applied herself to
47

the here and now, and the task of scrupulous bathing,
anointing and perfuming of every last inch of her skin.
Naked like herself, Safira and Raiza set about washing
the whole of Layla's lx>dy with a gentle vegetable soap that
enhanced the smoothness and softness of her skin. As her
hair was so thick and long, they'd bound it on top of her
head so it wouldn't get wet, but otherwise, every part of
her was washed with the beneficial lather, then rinsed in
the crystal-fresh water that flowed from the fountains.
Especial care was taken with her breasts, armpits and groin;
Raiza very craftily got the job of soaping her there.
And Safira had obviously changed her mind about Layla's
having orgasms before going to the Prince. She was the one
who slid her arm under her charge's bottom, lifting her up
so her crotch was offered to Raiza's cleansing fingers. Layla
relaxed back in Safira's strong arms - buoyed up in the
water with her thighs wide apart and her vulva fully
exposed. With her pretty face creased in concentration,
Raiza applied herself to the task, working up a rich foam
then slathering it thickly on to Layla's genitals. First the
labia were gendy pulled and pummelled, then all attention
was focused on the clitoris.
Ablutions as such were forgotten as Raiza took the little
nub firmly between her finger and thumb and worked it
rhythmically up and down. Layla thrashed like a fury,
drenching everybody, but Safira held her fast so the minis-
trations could continue. Within a few moments the victim
was jerking in a violent climax, her lovely mouth drooling
and distorted by the uncouth animal grunts that issued
from it. And below, when the tumult was over, her cunt
needed a second soaping to wash away all the freshly exuded
juices.
Eventually Layla was led from the bath, perfectly puri-
fied, and ready to be painted and clothed in her sacrificial
finery. The first stage was to make her skin even softer with
an emollient made from the same smoothing ingredient as
the soap. This was applied all over her face and body, then
followed by a sweetly exotic perfume rubbed into her limbs
and body hair: an essence of patchouli, musk and tuberose,
48

a head combination that would rouse the most abstemious
ascetic let alone the notoriously sensual Prince. Then, with
her long hair dressed in soft, maidenly waves, and her eyes,
lips and nipples painted with benign herbal dyes, Layla was
ready to be dressed for her possession by Prince Suleiman.
Her clothes consisted of two simple garments topped by
a densely obscuring floor-length veil - and for her feet, a
pair of dainty embroidered slippers. The top half of her
outfit was a short, sleeveless jacket made of blue and gold
brocade, which fastened down the front with three easily
released buttons. On her lower half, Layla wore a deceptive
and ingenious pair of silk gauze pantaloons held up by a
wide sash that matched her jacket. The trick of her silky
bloomers was that although the material, draped in luxur-
iant folds, kept her completely decent, the whole affair was
made in two separate pieces that could be simply opened
to allow access to her vulva. Anonymous modesty was
assured by the thick but beautiful veil.
'But surely,' said Layla, puzzled, 'my lord will want me
naked once we're in private?'
'That's possible, eventually,' said knowledgeable Safira.
'But Prince Suleiman is fond of ornamentation and beauti-
ful clothes, both for himself and his women.' To illustrate
this she put a dazzling beaten gold and lapis lazuli necklace
around Layla's throat, then added a bracelet and dangling
earrings to match. 'So don't worry if he asks you to remain
partially dressed.'
'That's nice,' murmured Layla dreamily, taking pleasure
in her own reflection in the mirror. The jewels glinted as
she moved, and by a daring manipulation of her floating
trousers, she could display her own living jewel: the delicate
hair-shrouded folds of her cunt.
Prince Suleiman sounded more wonderful with every
second that passed. All his preferences seemed to suit Layla
too. It was almost as if some kind genie - some wise-eyed
ancient with incredible powers beyond human comprehen-
sion - had created him especially to satisfy her fantasy, to
fulfil her body's destiny and make real her wildest romantic
dreams.
49

Dreams that would very soon come true.
'Come along,' said Safira, when she and Raiza had put
their clothes on too, 'we mustn't keep the Prince waiting.'
The two helpers wore garments similar to Layla's - though
not quite as sumptuous - but because they were no longer
virgins, their veils were merely token gestures that covered
just the lower halves of their faces.
Layla was trembling with anticipation as they walked
through the lamp-lit corridors of the palace, and was blind
to everything but her own increasingly heated visions -
visions of the Prince's naked body and how it would
entwine - intimately - with her own silk-covered one. Her
cunt trembled, and her legs could hardly carry her as the
interior picture sharpened lewdly, and focused on Prince
Suleiman's erect penis as it slid majestically into her well-
moistened slit.
'The Lady Layla to see my Lord Prince Suleiman,' cried
Safira with a good deal of pomp. Layla blinked behind her
heavy veil; she'd been so lost in her erotic dreams that she
hadn't noticed they'd arrived.
Fiercely armed guards protected the door, but as Layla
and her two companions were obviously expected, they
stood aside, bowing with their eyes downcast. Even if she
was carefully veiled, it was still forbidden for them to look
at a virgin destined for the Prince's bed.
Layla and her own 'honour guard' passed through a
beautifully decorated anteroom into an even more spectacu-
lar inner chamber. Opulent hangings decorated the walls,
all alight with precious metal threads; richly woven carpets
were underfoot throughout. Several thickly upholstered
couches of various heights were arranged about the room,
along with various stools and low tables of exquisitely
carved hardwood.
But the priceless furnishings - and indeed the other two
men in the room - lost all meaning in the presence of the
man reclining on the central couch. Unbidden, Layla flung
herself face down on the carpet, assuming without instruc-
tion the pose that protocol demanded. Yet even with her
50

veiled forehead pressed to the rug, an image burned before
her dazzled eyes.
His Serene Highness the Lord Prince Suleiman - the
sovereign of all Layla's young dreams and the most glorious
human being she'd ever seen. Enraptured and hardly daring
to breathe, she awaited his mercy.
'Rise, gentle Layla,' said the soft, harmonious voice she'd
long waited to hear, 'and you too, my friends Safira and
Raiza. Welcome, ladies, to my humble abode.' Despite her
awe, Layla's lips twitched with a smile at the subtle humour
in the Prince's sensuous tone. 'Matters of state oppress me
even now; I would be grateful if you could all make your-
selves at ease while I attend to my onerous duties.'
Following the example of Safira and Raiza, Layla sat
down on the carpet a little distance away from the Prince
and his two advisers, reflecting as she did that his sarcasti-
cally tinged words must be aimed at the officious clods who
pestered him with documents and decisions when he had
so few hours of serenity left to him. But at least their
presence gave her a chance to study the object of all her
newly forged desire.
Her heart started pounding and her cunt grew moist at
the new wonders his informal clothes now revealed. It was
the first time she'd seen him without his traditional head-
dress and the lack of it gave Layla a thrilling and wonderful
surprise. She'd expected him to be close-cropped - as all
the men she'd ever seen bare-headed were - but to her
intense delight, Prince Suleiman had long hair instead.
Rich black waves tumbled to his shoulders and beyond and
gleamed with an almost metallic sheen in the flickering
torchlight. Immediately she imagined it a thick perfumed
mass across her skin as he knelt to kiss her body . . .
The Prince kneel? What a preposterous thought. But
Layla still prayed he'd let her touch his hair.
At this close range, and with her veil to conceal her
curiosity, Layla could study him in every detail - and
everything she saw made her desire burn hotter than ever.
A tall man of some thirty summers, it was obvious even
to those who'd no idea of his origins that Suleiman Ariffa
51

Ib'n Alu was a Prince. His slightest movement betrayed an
innate grace and power, and his long, lean limbs and slim
but well-muscled physique hinted at his enormous strength
and great endurance. All these qualities had served him
well in the defence of his country, although they had not
stopped him from getting his share of honourable battle
scars. The most notable of these made Layla wince
empathically. There must've been a lot of pain in the long,
purple cicatrix that marred the sculpted perfection of his
handsome face.
And Prince Suleiman was a most elegantly fine-featured
man, so much so that, given his newly revealed long hair,
he would have looked almost femininely beautiful if it
hadn't been for the lurid scar and the neatly trimmed beard
and moustache that graced the lower half of his face. The
sight of that amazing face left Layla swooning, torn between
adoration, and a desire to rain kisses along the livid line of
his wound, the high curve of his cheekbone and his broad
noble brow. All this . . . then she'd feast on the luscious-
ness of his full red lips until both he and she were desperate
to join their bodies as one.
'How much more, gentlemen?' he demanded of his
advisers, sighing at the huge pile of documents still set
before him. 'Patience, ladies. I'm as eager as you to see the
back of this, but alas . . He shrugged expressively and
favoured Layla with a particularly sensual smile. The heat
in his black velvet eyes made her innards melt and she was
afraid her satin gauze trousers would be soiled with her
own juices; and the sparkle of fine white teeth against rich
swarthy skin was so wicked and promising that her vulva
twitched and shivered in response.
'My lord,' she heard one of the statesmen protest. 'All
these petitions must be read and considered. Who knows
how long you will be away, Sire, and these matters must
be resolved first, for the good of your people.'
The Prince smiled gravely, and in spite of her lust, Layla
was moved by the serious expression on his perfect face.
Lord Suleiman's concern for the welfare of his subjects was
legendary. Many times he'd put their needs before his own,
52

and their government before the satisfaction of his highly
libidinous nature. It seemed that tonight was a particular
instance.
But . . .
'Does the study and signing of these papers require your
presence?' he enquired of the chamberlains.
'No, Sire,' answered the spokesman, 'all that is needed
is a note of your decision on each one and they'll be put
into effect in your absence.'
'In that case, gentlemen, you may leave and I'll work on
the documents with only these fair ladies for company.
Their beauty will make the job more pleasant.'
With that the advisers left the room, bowing as they did
so. When the heavy door closed, Layla, Safira and Raiza
were left alone with their liege lord.
'Forgive me, sweet Layla,' he murmured, rising from his
couch to approach her. 'I would have liked to have been
with you right from the beginning, but now it seems I've
got state duties to perform, even while Safira and Raiza are
preparing you.'
He stood before her, so tall and strong, his magnificent
body clearly displayed by a loose robe of the same sheer
gauze that she was wearing. Overcome, Layla threw herself
again into face down obeisance. He was too much! Too
handsome, too manly, far too much her own beloved
Prince!
'No, no, no, precious one,' he admonished kindly, reach-
ing down to help Layla to her feet. She gasped as with only
one arm he lifted her whole weight momentarily off the
carpet. 'No, gentle Layla, you mustn't kneel to me tonight.
I'm the one who should abase myself before your
beauty . . .'
As if at a signal, Safira and Raiza stepped forward and
lifted the veil clear of Layla's face and body.
There was a long silent moment while Lord Suleiman's
gaze wandered from the top of Layla's head to the tips of
her toes and back again, repeatedly lingering and returning
to certain portions of her anatomy: her blushing face, the
53

proud swell of her breasts, the shadowy juncture of her
thighs.
'Lady, you are a jewel,' he said at last, his voice suddenly
very deep and husky. 'When I first saw you in your father's
garden, I knew you were the only one who could soothe
me tonight ... If only I had more time.' He paused,
reached for her hand and drew it to his lips. Layla shud-
dered at the warmth of the touch, the gentle pressure and
the slight tickle of his moustache on her skin. 'I should like
to spend the whole night sheathed in your exquisite body,'
he said, 'but I'm afraid that's not possible, beautiful one.'
He nodded in the direction of the state papers. 'I'll promise
you one thing, though. On my return we'll have our night.
Many nights . . . and I'll make up for this shabby treat-
ment.'
'My lord!' cried Layla, preparing to throw herself at his
feet again.
But he wouldn't let her. He pressed one kiss to her warm
face, then turned, with a heavy sigh, towards his duties.
'Begin, ladies,' he said simply when he'd taken his seat and
picked up his first document.
Without a word, Safira and Raiza led Layla to a couch
close to the Prince's. Large and lushly upholstered, it was
made with a clever tilt so he had only to lift his eyes slightly
to have a perfect view of everything that happened on it,
everything that Layla did or had done to her, her every
intimate response.
Guided by her companions, Layla reclined on the soft
bed and arranged herself as gracefully and alluringly as she
could. Scared, yet unbearably excited, she pinned her gaze
on the Prince, but he was already deep in his documents.
Yet even though he seemed to be concentrating so hard,
Layla sensed that at least some of his attention was still on
her. With his sixth sense he 'knew' her, her face and body,
her fears, her hopes and her innermost needs. Acutely
aware of this subconscious link, Layla trembled as Safira
unfastened her ornately embroidered waistcoat. At least,
she thought it was Safira. In spite of her ever-growing
desire, Layla suddenly felt embarrassed. She yearned for
54

her royal master's touch, yet she'd automatically closed her
eyes in mortification. Her body was too wanton, too obvi-
ous. Her rouged nipples were hard and swollen, twin pout-
ing signals of a lust she couldn't control. And even though
with her eyes tight shut she couldn't see him, her other
senses were meshing with his. Prince Suleiman was as aware
of her engorged breasts as she was.
Layla moved uneasily on the couch, and instantly Raiza
soothed her with caresses: first to her blushing face, then
to her breasts - in a slow, purposeful glide that inflamed the
already sensitised curves. And when the stroking became
pinching, and Raiza was tantalising her stiff, pink nipples
without mercy, Layla began to gasp and moan. It felt as if
a pair of fine silk cords were entwined around her clitoris,
and the more that Raiza tweaked and pulled at Layla's
nipples, the more that tiny organ swelled and pulsed and
cried out for contact.
In the vivid world of Layla's mind, the Prince reached
out to her and took hold of her clitoris, working the little
bud in time to Raiza's inflammatory tugging. A seething
mass of sensations, Layla wriggled on the soft divan, her
buttocks moving compulsively against its padded velvet
surface as her body cried out to the Prince for his attention.
She groaned, low in her throat, as cool air hit the moist
membranes of her cunt. Safira had pulled apart the wispy
trousers to show Prince Suleiman his comfort.
As if from a great distance, Layla heard a harsh male
gasp, then a muffled curse and the vicious scratch of a pen.
If she hadn't been so wracked by lust, she could have pitied
him. He was hot blooded and highly sexed; it must be pure
torture to have a fresh, beautiful virgin half naked, wet and
panting just inches away, and be forbidden - by duty - to
touch her.
Being displayed like this was an exquisite frustration,
and Layla wanted to scream; and scream and scream when
Safira and Raiza started dragging her thighs apart.
Raiza whispered in her ear. 'Layla, my darling, play with
your nipples the way I was doing. Go on, do it, sweetheart,
55

frig your beautiful little titties while we prepare your sex
for my lord.'
'I can't,' whimpered Layla.
'You must,' ordered Safira as Raiza guided Layla's hands
to their task. She flinched at the heat in her own body. Her
breasts were simmering . . . her cunt a boiling pot, her sex
fluids churning in readiness for her princely lover. Tenta-
tively, she moulded her fingers around herself, shaping the
smooth globes, the pale resilient flesh. Surely she was bigger
now? Her nipples felt unnaturally hard, like little pebbles
that sent instant fiery messages to her naked slit. Experi-
mentally she pinched them and felt such a blast of sensation
between her legs that her bottom kicked up off the pillow
beneath her.
That's good, little one,' Safira murmured, sliding her
fingers between Layla's slippery labia and bringing an agi-
tated gasp to her charge's parched lips.
'Beautiful, beautiful,' came a soft male sound, a long
exhalation, half moan, half sob. No prince now was he, but
a simple lusting male who hungered for his virgin feast.
Papers fluttered to the floor and the pen scratched on, more
jerkily than ever.
Layla was jerking too. Like one in a fit, she bounced and
struggled while Safira pulled insistently on her clitoris and
Raiza fondled the soft inner cheeks of her bottom and
tickled her exposed anus. Layla could feel the juices trick-
ling into the cleft of her backside and coating her friend's
probing fingers. The pressure, and the delicate pinching of
her clitty, was both appalling and sublime. Layla could
almost taste the orgasm as it rolled towards her from the
other end of the universe. And as it hit, and the most
delicate membranes of her body throbbed exquisitely, she
felt intimately joined to the Prince - the man who was both
yards and a whole world away.
'Devil take it,' he growled, pushing aside his papers as
Layla moaned and sobbed. 'I'll make time before I leave.
I can't wait. Make her ready!'
Layla's eyes flickered open and she saw .the scene around
her through a haze of pleasure. Her gaze, and her conscious-
56

ness focused sharply as Prince Suleiman rose from his couch
and, with a couple of lithe steps, drew close to her lewdly
sprawled body.
'A few moments, gentle Layla,' he said softly, his hand-
some bearded face shockingly close, 'a few moments of pain
and you'll be mine. I long for you, sweet one. I've never
seen a virgin girl so responsive. You'll be perfect. I know
it. Hurry, you two,' he said, grinning first at Safira, then at
Raiza. 'Have mercy on your sovereign. See how he suffers.'
Layla gasped as the Prince sat back on his haunches,
pulled open the luxurious folds of his silk-gauze robes . . .
and his erection bounced into full magnificent life.
As a virgin of good family, whose father had foreseen
this night, Layla had therefore never seen a fully naked
man. But in spite of that she was a sensual girl, who'd
studied her anatomical texts minutely and been entranced
by the drawings of penises. But no pen and ink, however
cleverly used, could have prepared her for the real thing,
the vibrant beauty of Prince Suleiman's prick.
Generously formed, he had a long thick shaft crowned
by a bulging plum-like glans; and from her slight knowl-
edge, and the way the organ stood up stiffly, almost pointing
the way to her virginity, Layla deduced that not only was
her Prince a circumcised man, he was also intensely aroused
and ready to enter a woman. To enter her . . .
She shuddered, thankful she would not be broken by the
blind strength of that living rod; it had a little eye that
wept a pearly drop, but she knew it could batter its way
mercilessly through her tender tissues and hurt her far more
than the carefully wielded ivory phallus that Safira was
preparing to use.
'Don't be afraid, little dove,' the Prince said kindly,
obviously attuned to her fears. Taking his prick in his long
brown fingers, he worked it a little, then, as his breath
became ragged, stopped again. 'This won't hurt you,' he
wagged the blood-filled shaft in her direction, 'not once
Safira has readied you. All I want is to please you, Layla.
Give you the love your body was formed for.'
Dazed as she was, Layla gasped with shock when he
57

leant forward, bending over his own rigid penis, and bowed
to her, reaching out to kiss her slim trembling foot. She
gave a little moan as his warm lips touched her skin, not
from fear or distress, but because the tiny salute seemed to
travel straight up her leg and kiss her streaming cunt, to
land on her shivering clitoris like a gentle, pleasure-giving
butterfly.
'Soon,1 whispered the Prince, then he nodded to Safira.
'Do it!'
Layla watched in numbed fascination as her friend held
out the fat white dildo. It glistened in the flickering light,
its surface coated with a soothing oil that would ease its
passage into Layla's unsullied body. In the instant before
Safira brought it to the entrance of Layla's vagina, Raiza
trickled a few drops of the oil on to its target - Layla's
already well-moistened cunt.
As Layla felt the nudge of the phallus, its intrusion was
almost forgotten as Raiza started frigging her again. But
even as the pleasure of this mounted and mounted, threat-
ening to take Layla's mind again, she could still feel the
Prince's soft mouth on her naked instep. She looked down
at him as the dildo began to press and stretch, feeling its
discomfort but finding it made bearable by the Prince's
burning dark eyes - and the way they devoured the sight
of her semi-impaled cunt. For a second, those eyes flared
as the phallus went still deeper; then he looked up straight
into Layla's mesmerised gaze. 'Courage, exquisite one,' he
mouthed, his breath red-hot on the skin of her foot.
Tears sprang into Layla's eyes as the ivory rod bored
deeper. Having enjoyed orgasms, and the physical stimu-
lation of her own and her friends' fingers, she'd never
expected this to hurt so much. At a nod from Prince Sulei-
man, Raiza began to work harder against the pain. Palpat-
ing Layla's clitoris in a delicate, persistent rhythm, she bent
over her and began to suckle on a nipple too, thus entwining
the pleasure of the breast with that of the besieged cunt.
The Prince himself caressed the long smooth length of
Layla's thigh.
Though she tried to stay still and bear her immolation
58

with grace, Layla couldn't stop herself wriggling about.
The combination of lovingly applied stimulation, and the
remorseless progress of the dildo, was driving her half mad,
and it was difficult to tell where pain ended and pleasure
began. All three were holding her down now, either sooth-
ing her or exciting her. Safira was draped across her, kissing
and nuzzling at her victim's stomach, even as she continued
to shove steadily with the dildo.
'She's very tight, my lord,' the bondswoman whispered.
'So sweet and pure . . .' replied the Prince distractedly,
matching Layla's latest flinch with one of his own, then
pressing his mouth to her thigh. 'Maybe we should stop - '
Hearing these words, Layla grabbed at a fragment of
reason, and with a harsh cry, bucked her hips into the
dildo's pressure. A white shard of pain sliced through her
cunt, then, just as suddenly, was gone - leaving only the
delight of Raiza's fingers and their tireless frigging. Layla's
vulva fluttered in a slight orgasm, the pleasure sweet but
indescribably strange for having the ivory rod lodged firmly
inside her vagina.
'It's done, my lord,' Safira said quietly, drawing away,
with Raiza, from Layla's newly opened body. They were
presenting her; she was no longer a virgin and she was
ready to receive Prince Suleiman . . . once the hard white
phallus was removed. Four pairs of eyes were fixed on the
object protruding from Layla's rose-pink cunt.
It seemed strange to her, that odd carved white thing
sticking out amongst her russet curls; and yet it was very
real and very solid in a deliciously stretching way. There
was no pain now, just a novel feeling of fullness. But it was
a static sensation, and Layla suddenly craved movement, a
hand rocking the rod inside her body, or better still a
living rod to replace the dead ivory one - Prince Suleiman's
beautiful penis, throbbing and waving between the rich
folds of his robe. Fearless now, Layla met his eyes, held
them, then let her gaze drop to his erection. Lying there,
his slave, bleeding and penetrated, she felt more regal and
powerful than any princess that ever lived. His equal, she
wafted her cunt to him in mute invitation.
59

'I will not need you any more tonight, ladies,' the Prince
said, nodding to Safira and Raiza. Thank you for your
gentleness and skill. I won't forget it. But I'd like to be
alone with Layla now.'
'But shouldn't we cleanse her, my lord?' Raiza asked,
surprise in her voice.
'Don't worry, gentle Raiza,' the Prince replied kindly,
'I'll take care of Layla. Now go. Rest. Amuse yourselves.
You'll be well rewarded for your skills tonight.'
'Yes, my lord.'
'Yes, my lord.'
In a rustle of silk, the two helpers were gone, and with
them went Layla's last shred of fear and inhibition. Lifting
herself on one elbow, she put the other hand to her cunt
and explored herself, conscious of the Prince's fiery brown
gaze following her every movement. She ran a finger around
the bulky white intruder then lifted it to observe the slick
blend of pink-streaked juices that moistened the whole of
her slit. Satisfied that the wetness was more arousal than
injury, she smoothed a little fluid over her clitoris and began
to rub herself. The dildo inside her made her feel lewd and
hungry for satisfaction, as did the blazing desire in the
Prince's eyes. Woman's instinct told Layla that he enjoyed
watching displays like this, enjoyed them very much . . .
and loved having the sex act teased out to the limit of his
erotic endurance.
She frowned though, when he rose and walked quickly
across the room, his penis bouncing stiffly as he moved;
then she smiled again when he returned with a large free-
standing mirror in a gold frame, which he set at an angle
allowing Layla to see her own actions - and soon the sight
of the Prince's cock sliding into her cunt.
'Thank you, my lord,' she murmured.
'Suleiman, sweet Layla,' he said, bending to kiss her foot
again, 'not "Lord" or "Prince". Tonight, I'm Suleiman.
Suleiman who wants you . . . and loves the sight and sound
and glory of your pleasure. I'd like to watch you make
yourself come before I take you . . . But only if it's what
you want too.'
60

'It is, my - ' She stopped and smiled. 'It is, Suleiman,
it is!'
'Then please. . . . Begin. I'm dying for the sight of it.'
Settling himself beside the couch, his face just inches from
Layla's wet flesh, Suleiman took hold of his prick and began
a slow cautious rub. Layla could see both their bodies in
the gold-framed mirror, and it was difficult to say which
sight was most arousing: her own moist distended cunt
with the ivory phallus obscenely protruding, or Suleiman's
penis, so rigid and purple as his brown hand moved
smoothly over it.
Within seconds Layla was coming, her body riding a
great crest of pleasure that brought a soft, whimpering cry
to her lips. Her eyes had closed - a reflex action - but
even in the unseeing haze, she was aware of Suleiman's
movements. As her vagina spasmed and pulsed, she felt
him withdraw the cold ivory rod and replace it with his
prick - a warm, living bar of flesh. She moaned even louder,
and her fingers slid from her cunt. Nothing on earth must
obstruct this man ...
It was Suleiman, shafting slowly and smoothly, who
pleasured her now - and Layla arched into his thrusts,
lifting her pelvis to match his rhythm, pushing her crotch
to meet his as her hands grabbed and kneaded his muscular,
working buttocks. Orgasm stretched out into one long
seamless sheet of bliss. Layla screamed with joy into his
kissing mouth, and carved it - with her nails - into the
silky skin of his back and arse. And when at last his control
snapped, and he stabbed and fucked and pumped his semen
into her, she heard and felt a great sobbing cry - Suleiman's
wail of release - that matched and mated with her own.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she knew he was
weeping as hard as she was.
'My Layla,' he whispered, 'my sweet, precious, beautiful
Layla.'
'My lord,' she answered, heedless of his desire for equal-
ity. 'Oh my lord, I love you so much . . .' Sleepy, she
registered the absurdity of what she'd said, but was too
relaxed and sated to worry about it.
61

'And I you, gentle Layla,' he replied, but just as she
expected him to snuggle close, he drew away from her.
Confused by this, and by the sudden realisation of what
he'd said, she moaned softly.
'Hush, my sweet. . .'
And then he was close again - as close as when they'd
been fucking - and he was folding a rich, soft blanket
around their sweat-streaked bodies. Layla knew her thighs
were smeared with semen, and her face stained with tears,
but for the moment nothing mattered but Suleiman's strong
arms around her, and his thrilling voice whispering in her
ear.
'Rest now, Layla. When you wake up I'll be gone, but
when I return we'll be together. You'll be my princess,
sweet one. My princess . . .'
'Suleiman,' she whispered, knowing it was already a
dream.
'Hush, my little one. Go to sleep. Go to sleep . . .'
Accepting the dream, Layla smiled and set herself adrift.
The last things she remembered were warmth, peace and
safety.
And a long, gentle hand slowly stroking her hair . . .
62

4 Intermezzo I
... a long, gentle hand slowly stroking his hair.
It felt nice, and very comforting; and enjoying the sen-
sation of warmth and safety, Josh stirred slightly and
stretched. He didn't open his eyes, but he sensed he was
in a softly lit place, lying on a settee and wrapped in a large
fluffy blanket. He moved again, savouring the friendly wool
against his naked thighs and belly.
'How do you feel, Josh?' said a nearby, but somewhat
disembodied voice. It was husky, but sounded wrong.
Suleiman's voice was far deeper . . .
Suleiman?
Prince Suleiman!
'Holy shit.' Josh sat up like a shot, knocking away both
the blanket and the stroking hand.
'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,' he moaned, covering his face
with his hands. He couldn't keep out the fast-dawning
truth . . .
'Take it easy, Josh. You're okay. You're back.'
That voice . . . Not the man he'd just made love with.
Not Suleiman but a woman, a doctor ... a tricky mind-
twisting lady quack!
'You bitch!' he shouted, opening his eyes and glaring
into the pale, scarred face that hovered over him.
'Charming.' Despite Josh's sullen struggles, Isis reached
out, took his wrist and monitored his pulse. 'I give you the
fantasy experience of a lifetime, and how do you thank me?
You call me a bitch. I'm very disappointed in you, Josh
Mortimer. I thought you had better manners.'
He shook her off and scowled.
63

'When I asked for a fantasy, I expected a man's fantasy.
You made me a woman!'
'Almost, but not quite,' she replied. 'For a limited period
of time, you experienced the mind, the body and the
responses of a woman. Surely you must've wondered, Josh,
imagined what it'd be like to cross over? Admit it, isn't
that the greatest sexual adventure of all time? And doesn't
it just show you how clever Pleasurezone really is?'
'Yes, I suppose it does.' And yes, he admitted grudg-
ingly, she was right. It'd been the most bizarre and incred-
ible experience of his life. It'd been real\ He'd been Layla,
felt her emotions, her pleasure, her orgasms . . .
Suddenly he felt scared. 'There won't be any after effects,
will there?' He was feeling a wonderful sense of satisfied
wellbeing, a feeling he'd never felt before. Was this how a
woman felt after really great sex? 'I mean, I won't keep on
thinking I'm a woman, will I? Start wanting to make it
with men . . .'
'No,' Isis said decisively. 'You'll remember the experi-
ence, and I should imagine it'll make a great masturbation
fantasy. But there's no way it can affect your fundamental
sexuality.' Before he could stop her, she reached out and
laid her fingers on his naked prick, holding it lightly and
reverently. 'You're a man, Josh, and very much a heterosex-
ual man. Examine your feelings, your body . . . You
haven't changed, have you? Pleasurezone will expand your
experience and understanding almost beyond belief, but we
can't alter what you are.'
Josh's flesh leapt in her soft, pink-scarred hand. It was
very much a woman's hand and that heterosexual man's
body of his was responding to it. And more than just her
hand ... He was stiffening for her slim curves encased in
that cool white smock. Her long, sleek legs. Most puzzling
of all, he was excited by her blighted face and its crazy,
lop-sided smile.
'Be honest, Josh,' she drawled, 'you enjoyed yourself,
didn't you?'
'Yes,' he said softly, accepting the wonderful truth. 'Yes,
I did.'
64

It'd been the most incredible sexual experience of his life
and now he felt completely and utterly satisfied. He looked
down at his prick, still cradled in her long elegant hand.
Thank you, Isis. I don't know what to say. It was amazing.
A blast. But . . .' A sudden thought occurred. He glanced
down at his prick again. 'What happened to . . . Didn't I?'
The semen?' She grinned, and Josh nodded, blushing
beet-red like a schoolboy caught wanking.
'You spunked several times, Josh. In considerable quan-
tities. I'm very impressed.' She let go of his penis then and
covered him with the tails of his shirt. Putting temptation
out of sight? 'Don't worry, I cleaned you up when I un-
hitched you.'
Unhitched? Oh God, yes! What'd happened before the
fantasy was less real than the 'adventure' itself. But now it
all came back. Being strapped half-naked to a white leather
couch. The giant prod in his rectum. His erection, red and
waving in the air . . .
'But how did I get here?' he asked uncertainly. That was
in the treatment room, and now he was back in the 'lounge'.
'You walked. Under my guidance, though, because you
were still actually under at the time.'
'That's wild. I don't remember it at all.'
'No, you won't. And that's perfectly normal.' She laid
the back of her hand against his brow, testing for undue
heat. It was a routine medical gesture, and yet strangely
tender. Josh's cock started twitching, wanting her delicate
fingers to touch him there again too.
'How do you feel now, Josh? Physically. Emotionally.
Sexually. Tell me exactly how you feel; then I'll know if I
got it right for you.' She grinned crookedly. 'And if you're
getting your money's worth.'
Good God! He'd been so far out of it, he'd completely
forgotten the money, forgotten that he'd virtually bartered
his freedom for this, and gone broke to buy the ultimate
in sexual fantasy.
'Josh?' she prompted.
'Er, yes.' He sank into himself, trying to assess the
65

unquantifiable. The state of his body and mind. 'I feel
great,' he said after less than a second.
He did. He felt better than great. Back in his own head
again, he realised just how well he was feeling. His limbs
were heavy and relaxed, as if he'd just had a particularly
satisfying workout, or a prolonged and strenuous fuck. Isis
had said he'd come several times and he could well believe
it. His balls felt warm and slack, and there wasn't a scrap
of tension left in him. His cock felt especially good: quies-
cent now, all passion spent, but alive with possibilities, and
ready - soon - to grow again. It pulsed suddenly, as if
remembering its moments of glory or speculating on
moments yet to come. He was flaccid, yet not entirely limp:
his flesh felt peaceful yet promising and completely tuned
in to the woman at his side.
In a word, he felt alive. And more so than he'd done in
months.
But what about his mind?
Again, he felt great. With the initial disorientation over,
he was thoroughly 'Josh' once more - yet with delicious
memories of being Layla. And there was no gender con-
fusion, even though he remembered coming as a
woman . . .
As that thought resurfaced, he glanced sharply at Isis.
She winked with her bad eye, then grinned. She had
read his mind!
'What do you think of it then?' she asked huskily.
'I think women get a pretty good deal. You can come as
much as you like and as often . . . and you've no tool to
let you down when you most need it.'
'I can't imagine yours ever letting you down, Josh,' Isis
said after a moment. 'But on the whole I agree with you.
Women are the luckier sex. I've tried being both - ' she
nodded vaguely in the direction of the treatment room and
her magic sex machine, 'but given a choice I'd climax as a
woman.'
'It's . . . it's different,' Josh said thoughtfully, knowing
the adjective was inadequate. He shuddered, feeling cool,
yet more affected by memory than temperature. Isis, fright-
66

eningly aware of his responses, picked up the blanket and
swaddled it around his shoulders.
'When I was Layla,' he continued, 'the orgasms were a
sort of inward experience, not a bit like the ones I have
as ... as me. When I'm me the feelings are kind of outgo-
ing, outpouring. The semen moves out, shoots - it travels.
But a woman seems to "arrive" inside herself . . . "Come"
is the wrong word. Women are already there. Their cunts
fall in on themselves, they collapse into inner space. It's
beautiful.' He paused and quirked his brow at his raptly
listening companion. 'I'm not explaining all this very well,
ami?'
'Oh, you are, Josh,' she said softly. 'You're explaining
it very well. You're the first client to even try.'
Josh frowned, then on the point of replying, he found
himself yawning hugely. God, he was bushed! Losing your
virginity was a tiring business.
'Yes, it's pretty exhausting, isn't it?'
Uncannily, Isis seemed to have read his mind again.
'Look, why don't you lie down again? Sleep a while. I'll
bring you your clothes and a drink when you're ready.'
'Sounds great,' Josh mumbled, fighting unsuccessfully to
keep his eyes open. 'Just great.' Yawning again, he stopped
fighting, lay down and let his eyelids droop. He felt Isis
adjusting the blanket around him, and as he wished, muzz-
ily, that she'd strip off and crawl beneath it with him, he
suddenly realised who Suleiman had been.
'You said I couldn't dream about you,' he whispered
from the edge of slumber.
'You can't, Josh.'
'Then how come Prince Suleiman had a bloody great scar
on his cheek?'
He never heard the answer.
Back at his flat - some time later - Josh wasn't sure she
even had answered.
He was alone now, in bed and naked, yet his thoughts
were filled with the strange doctor-cum-sorceress who'd
67

shown him the secrets of the female mind and handled his
body with such devastating intimacy.
It oughtn't to have been such a big deal. Women had
been touching him all his adult life. Lots of them. Yet
when Isis had laid hands on him, the contact had had a
million dimensions that were far beyond simple touching.
For half an hour of real time, he'd entrusted his body
and soul to her, and she'd cherished both with care and
tenderness. Not to mention thrilling him with a tour de
force of psychodramatic art.
The whole Layla scenario was the product of Isis's inven-
tive, romantic, and wickedly sexy mind. She'd admitted
that afterwards, while Josh was putting on his clothes again,
even though she'd vehemently denied her presence in the
fantasy itself.
But she had been there. It was undeniable. And Josh
suspected he'd made something of a breakthrough. But Isis
hadn't mentioned Prince Suleiman's scar, either when Josh
confronted her about it, or afterwards, when he'd rested
and he and she were sorting out the mundane business
details. Signing over the bulk of his bank balance for a set
of bizarre wet dreams, it'd been hard to believe that the
brisk, methodical administrator beside him was the same
creature who'd teased and threatened and touched him,
who'd stuffed his arsehole and run her pink-scarred fingers
tantalisingly up and down his cock.
The treatment itself seemed as much a dream as being
Layla. And yet not so. Of Layla's vagina - that had been
stretched by the ivory dildo and Prince Suleiman's substan-
tial prick - there was no longer any trace. Josh could
remember the sensations, but he couldn't actually 'feel'
them any more. The dream, the 'adventure' as he liked to
call it, now seemed as if it'd happened to somebody else.
But what'd happened in the run-up to the adventure had
happened to him - and to his all-too-real body. He reached
beneath the sheets and touched his bare bum. Yes, what'd
happened there was real enough . . .
Resting on his hip, he drew up a knee and with one hand
prised apart the cheeks of his bottom. With the other he
68

delicately explored his opening. Running his fingertip over
the puckered rim, it felt no different. Yet from the inside,
he felt slightly loose and stretched. He'd no idea how big
the transceiver probe had been, but it had seemed gigantic
at the time. He shuddered, still troubled by the pleasure
he'd felt . . . and the memories it'd stirred up from his
teens.
Am I bisexual? Josh pondered, reinforcing the question
by prodding at the sensitive little hole. Or am I just more
anal-erotic than I thought. His cock trembled in partial
answer, and Josh augmented the question by trying to
imagine a second naked man on the bed with him. He was
relieved when his mind showed him Isis instead.
Old Scarface. The mad doctor. Boy did he want to fuck
her! Drowsy now, aroused yet far too sleepy to do anything
about it, he summoned the image of his erstwhile torment-
ress, faintly astounded by its incredible almost four-dimen-
sional clarity.
Sweet dreams are made of this ... of grey leather suits
and lush curves within. He'd always liked ladies in hides,
and Isis - in this frighteningly hyperreal fantasy - looked
better in hers than any woman he'd ever met.
But luscious as it looked, he wanted the leather off. In
his mind, he flicked his way down the popper buttons and
revealed lace underneath - shimmering, steel-grey lace to
match the suit; lace so sheer it displayed the flesh beneath
rather than concealed it. Isis's breasts rose and fell as she
panted with desire.
'Isis,' he hissed, seeing the mirror of his own lust in
those odd un-matching eyes. Her long fingers - beautifully
manicured in spite of the scars - were unfastening tiny
buttons and drawing back the dainty panels of her camisole
like the wings of a blue-grey dragonfly. Her breasts were
larger than he'd expected, not huge but rounded and orb-
like with a perfect magical evenness that her poor sorry
face would never have. Dreaming, Josh bent to kiss the
rose-tipped nipples, and savoured the warm, creamy flavour
of the ultimate woman. He sucked, and taking the illusion
one step further, she tasted of milk and became his maternal
69

nurturing goddess. Far out, thought the real analytical man
in Josh's meandering mind.
Then suddenly, with the unquestionable pseudologic of
fantasies, the leather and lace were gone and he was peeling
her, nude, from the unbuttoned white coat. Her skin was
as pale as the smock, yet warm-toned. The whole surface
of her breasts, belly and thighs seemed to pulse with life.
The brindled hair at her groin was a living flame, a match
for the luxuriant mass that streamed over her shoulders.
Her scarred face grew soft and sensually smiling, and as
she shifted the slim columns of her thighs, her cunt-lips
peeked pink and endearing through her pretty pubic thatch.
They were shining and juicy; she wanted him.
'Josh . . . oh, Josh!' That soft husky voice murmuring
through his dreams - he heard it as clearly as he saw her
face, and saw the succulent flesh it mirrored. The scar, and
the offered cunt below, were utterly alike, identical save
for the wet gleam of her arousal. Instinctively, Josh
smacked his lips, relishing the tasty fragrance that rose up
from her oozing slit.
I'll eat you, lady! I swear it! One day I'll eat that beautiful
cunt of yours. He felt really tired now, and as he hovered
on the edge of sleep, he smiled at his own fuddled and
randy silliness.
Isis . . . Isis . . . Isis . . .'
The name beat the air in a soft, almost religious sibil-
ation. He wanted to hear it while he fell asleep, so he could
dream of her. And then, because it was his own dream this
time, he could have it all his own way and fuck her.
Three nights later, back in La Selene, he still wanted to
fuck her.
And in his new and bizarrely enhanced fantasies, he'd
already done so. Not to mention sucked her, groped her
and taken every other liberty he could think of, including
some divinely dirty ones he'd never imagined doing with a
woman before.
It was as if Pleasurezone had spilled over into his every-
day sex fantasies. With a breathtaking sensation of immedi-
70

acy and involvement, he'd smacked her bottom, pushed
dildoes into her delicious holes, and teased and abused her
until she lost her clinically clever air and sobbed and grovel-
led before him. Then he'd made it all better by bringing
the lady herself to endless screaming orgasms, and finished
off by handing his quivering carcass over to her for precisely
the same thing.
Steady on, he told himself, sipping the obligatory white
wine and scanning his glittering surroundings. He was
already rigid inside his black jeans, and the resulting pleas-
ant discomfort made him want to wriggle on his stool like
an excited juvenile. It took a massive effort to keep still,
but he did it. Writhing about to ease an obvious hard-on
was simply not too cool. Especially in a place like La Selene.
josh had dressed with extra care again tonight, because
looking good was now even more crucial than ever. Isis had
already seen him in a pale outfit - not to mention stark
bollock naked from the waist down - so he'd chosen a easy
winner this time. Drama-black from head to toe: leather
jeans, loose cotton jacket and fine silk polo-neck top. Not
that he'd be seeing too much of his real-world appearance.
Before the end of the night, his psyche might be in any-
thing: tutu, toga, crinoline, you name it.
But no. He'd not wear a frock tonight, he decided. He'd
have a say in his adventure this time, seeing as he was
paying so much. It was beginning to look, though, as if
he'd have to give Isis a fairly free rein again, because at the
moment he hadn't a single real-world fantasy that didn't
include her. Glancing around the bar, he searched for some
stimulus that didn't have a cunt-shaped scar and an eye the
colour of blood-stained mud. The tricky whore with the
vermilion hair might've done, but that lushly voluptuous
stimulus was nowhere to be seen.
Probably entertaining a customer, thought Josh with a
grin, rather fancying the chance to sample her wares. He'd
seen her only briefly, but in a respite from Isis, he pictured
her now, flat on her back, her thighs lewdly splayed as a
well-hung man slammed rhythmically into her dribbling
cunt. Suddenly the fantasy took flight, as they seemed to
71

so often now, and both whore and punter began to buck
spasmodically. With sound engaged as well as sight, Josh
heard guttural groans, and the prostitute cursing a blue
streak as the client's prick squelched obscenely in her cli-
maxing slit . . .
The pressure in his groin began to nag again. It was like
having a customised porno holoflick running right inside his
own head. He took another sip of his wine, and mercifully
managed to switch the movie off. If he went on like this,
he'd be coming even before Isis arrived.
Raised voices suddenly came distractingly to his aid. A
couple at a nearby table were arguing, and as Josh swivelled
for a discreet look, he realised to his surprise that he recog-
nised them.
La Selene was a notorious haunt for the famous, and the
squabbling pair were well known, to say the least: a red-
hot pop star and his equally celebrated journalist wife -
Kenny Jayston and Rio da Ville were perhaps the media
love story of the year, but right now they seemed to be
involved in the mother and father of all rows.
They were just too far away for Josh to hear their actual
words, but the antagonism poured off them in waves, and
it was easy to follow the ebb and flow of the conflict by
facial expression alone. Rio was blonde, and delicate yet
determined looking, while the famous Kenny was dark and
flamboyant, and also, judging by the gist of the exchange,
currently in the deepest of deep shit.
Temporarily forgetting his mad dreams and the resulting
genital torment, Josh found himself intrigued by possible
causes of this high-profile domestic war.
Sex probably, he thought, and his stiff cock reasserted
itself with an excruciating stab. Rio was a pretty woman
with small but quite delightful breasts and long, slim legs.
Her pale skin and platinum curls would look superb against
her adversary's olive complexion and dark sable-brown
hair. Their fucking bodies would make a fabulous contrast!
A germ of an idea formed . . .
Who'd win this fight? Josh mused. How would it be
resolved? What retribution would be demanded of the
72

loser? If the penance were as erotic as the sparks flying
now, he had the basis of a mind-blowing fantasy.
'Well, who'd have thought it?' said a soft, creamily fami-
liar voice at his side. 'Aren't they supposed to be the lovey-
doveyest couple in the business?'
Isis.
'They don't seem very devoted at the moment,' Josh
said. The effort of sounding casual made him tremble as
'the mad doctor' slid gracefully onto the stool beside him
and signalled for a drink. Josh gave her what he hoped
wasn't a dopey sex-struck grin and turned back toward the
Jaystons to hide his confusion. Oh God, if he was like this
in a public bar with her, how the hell would he cope when
she got his pants off him?
But as a distraction the rowing couple rose magnificently
to the occasion.
'Get fucked, you bastard!' shouted Rio, belying her
dainty appearance. Then, with an acid scowl, she sprang
to her feet. 'Don't you bloody well condescend to me,
Kenny Jayston! People were reading my articles before they
bought your crummy music!'
'Aw, honey, don't take on! I'm sorry!' The 'bastard'
seemed, now, to be admitting his fault, although this had
little effect on his enraged wife.
'Don't you "honey" me!' she flung over her shoulder,
stalking away. 'You'll pay for this, I'm telling you! You
won't know what's hit you!' Disappearing in the direction
of the exit, her whole body was a column of righteous fury,
and Josh couldn't help but admire the swing of her trim
buttocks as she stomped away from him. Women were
gorgeous in a temper, he reflected. And that applied
especially to pans encased in skin-tight stretch jersey.
The condemned man rose too, and made to follow his
wife. 'I guess I've been a bad boy again,' he said, addressing
his attentive fellow drinkers with a shrug and the engaging
grin that made teenage girls swoon before walking off with
a surprisingly eager stride to take his punishment.
'He doesn't seem too bothered, does he?' Josh observed,
turning back towards Isis and suddenly feeling far less
73

interested in the fate of Kenny Jayston. If a scarred woman
could look lovely, the good doctor surely did tonight.
'Of course he's not bothered,' she murmured, an arch
smile curving across her face. 'The whole thing's a set-up,
Josh, a game they play. Hadn't you realised that?'
Josh shook his head, although the light had already
dawned.
'Aw come on, Josh! You're not that naive, are you? The
row's a part of a little sex drama they're acting out. He
pretends to be "bad" and she has to punish him. The
shouting match is just to add spice. It's an appetiser. You
can't get into a domination trip stone cold, Josh. It's got
to be part of a scenario. You've been around, haven't you?
Surely you know these things?'
'Kind of,' he demurred, 'but I think I need to learn a
little more - ' he paused for effect, slanting a sharp glance
her way, 'if you get my drift?'
She did.
'Ah, so that's the way the wind's blowing, is it?'
'Could be.' Now it was his turn to be oblique. Let Isis
ponder for a change.
Josh admitted, however, as he took another sip of wine,
that he'd already settled on tonight's adventure. He only
wished the real Isis could be in it and use her real gift. She
was a true-born sexual dominatrix, he was sure of it. Beside
her, Rio Jayston da Ville would be a rank amateur. And if
the way Isis behaved in the treatment room was a guide,
she'd be awesome if she ever really cracked the whip!
Not that she wasn't awesome now. Josh stole the chance
to observe her as - deep in thought, and obviously planning
his fate - she swirled a long leather-covered finger around
the base of her glass. It was an unconscious gesture that'd
always turned him on and tonight was no exception. He
remembered those nimble fingers handling his cock, touch-
ing his body, both directly and through thinnest latex, and
wanted it again, and more . . . and immediately.
Isis wore no veil or hat tonight, although her scarred
hands were hidden by a pair of rust-red kidskin gloves that
exactly matched the colour of her dress. The dress itself
74

was deceptively demure, with a high neck and long close-
fitting sleeves, but to those who looked with more care,
its softly-clinging velour fabric revealed far more than it
concealed . . .
Josh had never looked at anything or anybody more
carefully in his life. He studied the erotically draped dress
and the tantalising body beneath it as if his next breath
depended on it. Stirring uncomfortably on his stool, he
used the rigidly stitched seam of his jeans to rub his prick
- and decided that for him Isis's shape was the acme of
female perfection.
Her breasts weren't huge, but had a high round firmness
that spoke directly to his hands and mouth. The naughty
velour of her dress hinted that her nipples might be hard;
and her thighs, and the gentle hollow of her crotch - both
excitingly defined by the rich velvet cloth - sang an
inflaming siren song to Josh's loins. And while he struggled
to sit still and disguise his acute discomfort, Isis sat on
her stool with an easy grace, the confident I-am-woman
sensuality of one who had a luscious wet fanny sizzling
away beneath the modest opacity of her skirt.
Josh swallowed convulsively, his mouth full of saliva at
the thought of her juices. His vivid hyped-up imagination
put the taste of her directly onto his tongue, and the sight
of her, red and dripping with pouting lips and stiff, swollen
clit, right in the centre of his bedazzled vision. And what
made it even easier to picture was the purple cuntscape
etched on her face, peeking so coyly from behind the heavy
fall of her silky, autumn-coloured hair.
'Look, Isis, can't we forget all the technology and just
go somewhere and fuck?' he heard a voice say. Astound-
ingly, it was his.
Shit! Why did he keep giving himself away? Talk about
dominance . . . She could make him into a shambling ado-
lescent, and strip away his last ounce of sexual savoire-
faire, just by the simple act of sitting down beside him.
She laughed: deeply, richly and irresistibly. 'I've told
you, Josh, you've paid for far more than just a simple lay.
75

You've paid for Pleasurezone Inc., not poor old batde-
scarred Isis.'
'Stuff Pleasurezone.'
'You do realise that now you've had the taster and signed
the agreement, they're aren't any refunds?'
He did, and though it didn't seem to matter at this
moment, Josh realised that he might kick himself to king-
dom come and back when he was away from this crazy-
making woman and her sensational effect on his bollocks.
'All right already,' he said grudgingly and tossed down
the last of his wine.
'Now now, Joshua, don't be so sulky. You're going to
have one helluva time tonight. I promise you.' She grinned,
the livid scar making her look positively demonic. 'To quote
the lady, you won't know what's hit you.' She finished her
own drink, set down the glass and rose elegantly to her
feet. 'Come along, Mr Mortimer, sir, it's adventure time.
Let's get moving, shall we?'
Moving?
Get moving, she'd said. But strapped to the treatment
couch once more, Josh didn't care to think too much about
moving. Every slight muscle-shift, even the necessary pro-
cess of breathing, reminded him of his aching vulnerability,
and forced him to face the fact that he liked being vulner-
able. The fact that he actually got off on it.
He liked being strapped half naked to a leather couch
with a fat plastic dildo wedged in his bottom and his prick
wagging in a helpless erection. If this was reality, the idea
of what would happen when the adventure itself started
didn't bear contemplating. He'd already climaxed once as
Isis was easing in the plug . . .
Ashamed of his loss of control, Josh had closed his eyes
tightly while Isis was gently cleaning the spunk from his
thighs, but not before he'd caught a single glimpse of an
arrangement of almost Japanese purity: the reddened,
softening flesh of his prick, his black pubic hair and tanned
belly, and Isis's long, graceful fingers dealing efficiently
with a sticky white mess.
76

And no power in the world could shut out the sense of
touch, the delicate ministrations of those skilled fingers,
the gentle stroking of his sweaty brow - then her robust,
uncompromising handwork as she wanked him back to
hardness.
It hadn't taken long, and now he was left with little to
do but observe his rigid prick and feel its insistent throb
as Isis busied herself with the console. He had to grin,
though. She was humming a little tune to herself as she
tapped away - one of Kenny Jayston's hits, appropriately
enough - just like a witch chanting over a spell.
Reluctantly, yet with a sneaky sense of pride, Josh turned
his attention back to his penis. He was as hard now as if
he'd never shot, and the head looked fat and swollen as it
protruded cheekily through the transceiver cuff. In fact the
whole view downwards was fairly obscene . . .
As before, he'd followed Isis's instructions and stripped
only from the waist down, and to see his naked hips, thighs
and genitals, then pan up to the neatly stitched edge of his
conservative black silk sweater, as it bisected his flat brown
belly, was oddly piquant. It was a far ruder display than if
he'd been totally nude.
Suddenly he jerked into the air, his cock-head tingling
violently, then landed back on the dildo with an eye-water-
ing jolt.
'Be careful!' he croaked when his ability to speak came
back.
'Sorry about that,' she said airily, 'just a teensy little
power surge. Nothing to worry about . . .'
'Look, it's my prick you nearly fried! Are you sure you
know what you're doing?' Was he imagining things, or was
the fear making him stiffer than ever?
'Yes, Joshua, I know it's your prick,' she answered,
returning to his side, the controls presumably stabilised,
'and a very delectable one it is too.' She reached out and
lightly flicked the member in question. Josh moaned softly.
'And yes, I do know what I'm doing. I designed all this,
remember?' Her broad gesture encompassed the computer,
the couch and himself, the recipient of her genius.
77

'You've got a warped mind, Isis,' Josh said, making no
attempt to hide a genuine rush of old-fashioned affection.
She was one helluva woman to get tough, fearless Josh
Mortimer into a pickle as deep as this.
He was still feeling quite fond of her when she carefully
pushed up the sleeve of his sweater and injected the halluci-
nogen.
'Hey, lady scientist, answer me one question,' he mum-
bled as the drug took effect and things started getting
swimmy. 'I'm not going to be a girlie again, am I?'
'No, Josh my sweetheart,' she answered, positioning the
velvet-lined mask over his eyes, 'you're not going to be a
girlie.'
"S probably worse . . .' The dream was starting to take
a hold now and it was hard to frame words.
'Just remember this.' Her words were faint now: sweet
and kind, yet deliciously threatening, 'You've been a bad
boy again, Josh. A bad boy. A bad bad bad . . . '
HQ

5 Bad
. . Bad boy,' murmured Kenny, then sat up with a jolt.
How in hell could he have nodded off with what Rio had
in store for him? The treat ahead that he didn't deserve,
because, to be honest, he'd been hard and thoughtless
towards her. He'd no right to talk down to her, not now,
not ever; and yet he'd done it. He'd patronised a woman
who was as bright a star in her own firmament as he was
in his. His only defence was the business's disastrous effect
on the ego.
Rio.
Jesus, how he loved that woman! He'd do anything for
her. Which was probably why they'd started this little game
of theirs. He couldn't bear to upset or hurt her, and when
he'd first done it - a trivial row over something now forgot-
ten - he'd suddenly found himself begging her to punish
him.
And she had.
But not in the way he'd expected. Not at all. Because
Rio loved him - bless every gorgeous sexy divine hair on her
marvellous head! - the punishment had been so delicious it
was more reward than retribution.
'Okay, you bastard, it's time.'
Her voice alone got him going. It was so husky, sexy,
and perfectly modulated that when its blonde, imperious
owner strode into the room, Kenny jumped nervously to
his feet, his prick already a pole in his pants.
'I'm sorry, honey,' he murmured, his voice small and
respectful as he slid into the ritual. 'I've been a shit. I need
to be punished. Do what you want with me.'
79

'I will do, mister. You'd better believe it.' Rio's huge
blue eyes sparkled like river sapphires and her full mouth
twitched in a knowing smile. 'And I'll have less of the bad
language, if you don't mind. Pretty soon you won't know
what you're saying, but until then I want some respect.'
'Yes, my lady,' said Kenny, accepting his role as a thrill
surged through his groin. With eyes submissively lowered,
he studied the gleaming nut-brown toes of his mistress's
dainty, highly polished riding boots. He couldn't see Rio's
eyes now but he knew exactly where they were looking.
'You've got an erection, haven't you, you disgusting little
Pig?'
'Yes, my lady.'
'And I suppose you'd like to rub it, wouldn't you? Get
it out of your pants and play with it?'
He nodded.
'Answer me, pig!'
'Yes, my lady, I'd like to masturbate.'
'Masturbate, eh? How prim. That's not what you usually
call it, is it?' Sweet, gentle Rio was light years away now,
her voice was steel: hard, cold and beautiful. 'You're a
dirty brute, aren't you Kenny? You want to wank yourself,
toss off, finger that fat meat of yours, pull your rod till you
spunk uncontrollably. That's what you want, isn't it?'
'Yes, my lady, I'd like to touch my penis.'
' "Touch my penis",' she mocked, her voice rich with
enjoyment. 'Well, that's as may be. But on this occasion I
don't allow it. You may, however, look at me.'
Kenny complied: loving, adoring and worshipping the
woman he was permitted sight of. Rio was perfect to his
eyes: tall, slender and curvaceous in her boots, her skin-
tight leggings and her lush white shirt; exquisitely beautiful
in face and body, with a great mane of shimmering platinum
hair that swept nobly back from her broad intelligent brow.
Her dark blue eyes impaled him.
'See it and weep, litde man! You won't be getting any
of this tonight . . .' With a deliberately lewd gesture, she
cupped her crotch and wafted her hips in a parody of
fucking.
80

Kenny suppressed a groan, almost feeling those glorious
thighs wrapping around him, that strong pelvis surging up
to meet his, that soft fiery cunt engulfing his hungry tool.
She made sex, she made love, she turned the insubstantial
world into paradise. And every time she satisfied him
utterly, he wanted her more than ever.
'Rio,' he whispered in an agony of need.
'Shut up!'
He clamped his lips together but couldn't tear his eyes
from that slim, taut, energy-filled body.
'Come here,' she commanded, pointing with one long,
red-gloved finger to a spot a few feet in front of her. Kenny
moved quickly to comply, looking down again, trying to
hide the fact he was studying the exquisite vee at her crotch.
He'd just stripped her to the soft bush of gold-white curls
he knew nestled there when he felt the glide of leather
against his cheek and jaw. The insistent pressure of her
fingers forced up his face.
'Poor little Kenny,' she murmured, her blue eyes almost
kind. 'Poor little Kenny,' she repeated, stroking his face
with one gloved hand as the other reached down to his
groin to assess the weight of his need.
Even through layers of leather, denim and silk, her touch
was electrifying. First a hold, ineffably light, then a slow,
delicate exploration with elegant fingers that traced the hard
bar of his erection. 'Poor little Kenny . . .' She continued
her soft chant into his ear, even though he felt himself huge
and pulsating in the cradle of her grip. As she squeezed
ever so slightly, he felt her painted lips against his cheek,
and then the moist flick of her tongue as she licked the
corner of his trembling mouth.
He wanted to cry. This was only the beginning and yet
already he was her helpless, palpitating slave. She blew
soft, wine-scented breath against the hot skin of his face,
then brushed wayward strands of hair out of his eyes.
'Come along, little Kenny, present your crotch for me.
Push that nasty bulge forward. Show me what you've got.'
It was another part of the ceremony, another way to
demean him. Bending his knees, dipping slighdy, Kenny
81

tilted his pelvis forward and pushed his swollen body into
her hand. His own hands hung at his side, fingers flexing
as he balanced his weight. A single tear trickled from
beneath his closed lids.
Thrust,' she ordered softly, and Kenny began a slow
undulation, trying to obey as smoothly and as gracefully as
he could. It was hopeless. He was without power; he felt
crude, rude, obscene, and the debasement had barely
started.
'Open your mouth.'
His lips parted on a sob and immediately Rio jammed
her mouth on his and began thrusting her tongue into him
in time to his pelvic movements. The game denied his
tongue pennission to thrust back; his mouth was simply an
orifice for violation, a symbol of his utter submission.
And as Rio raped his mouth and set her bruising seal on
him, Kenny hardened in her hand. Oh my lovely woman,
I love you, he cried inside his mind. Use me, my darling,
I'm yours. I want it. I want you. I want anything,
everything . . .
His jaw ached from the force of her kiss, and he mar-
velled anew at the pure strength of a creature so feminine.
She was fine and hard and potent, a living force who could
bend his spirit like a bow.
'Enough of this,' she said, depriving him of both hand
and moutlj^ Tm too soft with you, bad boy. It's time to
get down to business. Isn't it, Kenny?'
He nodded, silently thrilling to her purposeful tone.
'My case, if you please?' She tossed her spun-silver mop
despotically, and nodded towards a slim black case that lay
in a chair. Heart pounding, Kenny brought the simple but
menacing object to her, then stood, holding it out, his head
bowed respectfully.
'On the table.'
He placed it on the small mahogany table, its customary
resting place.
'Open it and take out the cuffs.'
Flipping the locks, Kenny raised the lid, then winced
with familiar joyous fear at the sight of the items within.
82

Restraints. Gags. Prods and bungs of unbelievable girth.
Small electronic devices of luscious obscenity.
'Come, little man, the cuffs. Chop, chop!'
He lifted them out: silvery cruel, yet kind in the soft
velvety lining that would surround his straining wrists.
Her next order was another slight nod, and Kenny
walked over to the wall and stood in front of its tapestry
hanging - an ornament that was suspended from a forged
steel rail bedded deep into the brickwork. The tapestry was
richly embroidered, and luxuriously thick and heavy . . .
but the rail was designed to bear a significantly greater
weight, and resist forces no inanimate antique wall hanging
would exert. Rio grinned in arch wickedness, and at a
second nod, Kenny tossed the glittering handcuffs over the
rail and let them dangle there in silent threat.
'Well?' she queried, eyeing the cuffs, then smoothing the
ruddy-rose leather that encased her own hands. Positioning
himself with care, Kenny faced-front before the tapestry
and raised his hands above his head. His wrists hovered at
the precise level of the cuffs, but they shook uncontrollably
as Rio advanced towards him.
'What's this? The dying swan?' she taunted, then reached
effordessly to secure him. She was as tall as he was, and
hardly had to stretch, yet as she shot the catches, her arms
and body in parallel to his, Kenny pressed forward and
smeared his chest against her firm, resilient breasts.
Seconds later, his face stung like fury from a hard leather-
coated slap, delivered with the full weight and force of a
powerful superbly fit woman.
'Don't you touch me,' she hissed. 'Do you hear? You
don't put your miserable disgusting body anywhere near
me, do you understand?'
Kenny nodded, then felt his left cheek flame even more
viciously as she landed a second crack.
'I'm not hearing an answer, Kenny.'
'I'm sorry, my lady.' He blinked the moisture from his
eyes, loath to have the vision before him blurred, even
though it was her white-clad back and the sleek, tight,
jersey-covered curves of her magnificent arse. There was
83

no wrinkle in the stretchy fabric, yet he hardly dare specu-
late on her possible lack of panties. At times like this Rio
was a mind-reader.
Hardly daring to breathe, the focus of Kenny's body
sank inevitably to his groin. He didn't need to read minds
to anticipate Rio's next, and most magnanimous move. Her
hands were at work in front of her, and though he couldn't
yet see the revelation, he knew his wife was unbuttoning
her shirt. His prick throbbed and leapt as he imagined the
sight - Rio's full, yet exquisite body, the silky, milky curves
and the stiff, rosy bud-like peaks of her nipples. He bit his
lip, struggling against hope for some control. If he wasn't
able to pace himself, she'd laugh. And she'd despise him.
There'd be no silver lining to this cloud of punishment. He
wouldn't be worthy of her.
Pivoting slowly on her booted heel, she displayed herself.
So beautiful . . . The silken wings of her voluminous
shirt flanked flesh that was almost as pale, and the high
proud swell of her breasts was more exposed than concealed
by a sheer camisole of snow-white lace.
'Like them?' Rio enquired, her smile a siren temptress's.
Red seemed to scream against white as she cupped her
titties in her gloved hands and pressed their fullness up and
in.
Kenny tasted blood. A memory fragment - from a few
nights ago - had made him bite down harder. Himself,
astride Rio's slim body, his prick gliding in the sweaty
channel between those lushly swollen mounds. Then the
supreme bliss of ejaculation, and the semen falling on her
flawless face, her soft, sweet mouth. All this, of course,
before he'd hurt her with thoughdess words.
'Oh Rio,' he groaned, awaiting retribution.
Her long, blonde-tipped lashes drifted down, the tiny
movement slow and languorous as she pinched her own
teats and her hips described a slight, involuntary undu-
lation. For Kenny the torment only grew; there was nothing
more inflaming than this woman alive with her own lust.
'Mmmm . . .' The sound was a low, feline rumble in her
throat as her pelvis flicked explicitly. Kenny jerked in his
84

bonds. She was too much, too fabulous for any man to
resist.
The rattling cuffs broke the spell, and Rio dropped her
hands to her side, regarding him through narrowed eyes.
'I think perhaps Til overlook that,' she said silkily. Tm
starting to feel sexy, Kenny. Very sexy indeed. I think I
may be kind to you.' She walked slowly towards him and
halted within touching distance. 'Not too much, though.
Just a teeny little bit.' In a blur of red and white, she ripped
open the front of his shirt and sent black pearl buttons
skittering across the room. Carefully, meticulously, she
folded back his black shirt in a mirror of her own white
one, then stared speculatively at the expanse of chest she'd
revealed. Unwillingly, Kenny followed her look.
Perspiration lay slick on his skin; his brown flesh gleamed
and his nipples were dark and tightly puckered. They
looked feeble, though, beside those stiff rosy nubs still half
concealed by Rio's lace bodice. His gaze tracked lower, as
hers did, to the heavy bulge in his jeans, and the little
spiralling curls of black hair that peeked out above his belt.
'Nice,' she said, reaching out and laying her hand flat on
his chest. The red leather felt deliciously cooling against
his skin. 'Nice ... but let's even things up a bit, shall we?'
In a series of tiny neat manipulations she unfastened the
ribbons down the front of her camisole.
But before Kenny could glimpse the complete beauty of
her, she pressed her body hard against him, and found his
mouth again, searing it with another voracious kiss. His
arm muscles screamed with the urge to grab hold of her,
crush that gorgeous flesh to his, grind nipple to nipple,
belly to belly, groin to groin. The punishment was over
now, he realised, the knowledge flowing into him through
Rio's rubbing skin and devouring mouth. She'd play her
game with him a while yet - in a drama that could last
hours - but the heat in her breasts and the sweet savage
power of her mouth told Kenny he was already forgiven.
He moaned again when she broke free, already missing
the textures of her body and lips. Her mouth was like her
breasts: aggressive yet yielding, soft and yet defiantly firm.
85

To Kenny his own mouth felt meaningless without his
wife's kiss; redundant when not filled with her moist
pointed tongue. Tonight, as ever during these interludes,
Rio was full of attack. Primally female, so by definition
penisless, she used her whole body on him like a cock, an
organ to dominate and possess him.
'Nice . . . Nice . . .' She darted forward again, running
her mouth down his jaw and throat, nipping at his collar-
bone, licking a wet path down his sternum, across the dense
cushion of chest muscle and ending at his left nipple. This
she rolled menacingly between her perfect white teeth, and
Kenny bucked and heaved as the sensation transferred
directly to the very tip of his cock.
'Oh God, Rio, please.' He pushed his crotch at her
breasts as she nibbled his teat.
'Please what, bad boy?' she purred, her grin impish.
Smacking her lips with relish, she dipped quickly down to
suck the other nipple. The pull was so fierce that Kenny's
nerve snapped.
'Touch my cock.'
'Such insolence,' she remarked, straightening up again.
There was a hard sparkle in her eyes and it made him
tremble. Had he screwed up? The bitterest punishment of
all would be for Rio to unfasten him and walk away.
Instead, to his relief, she pinched his nipple, feathering
her fingers across his cheek as she did so. 'That was very
rude and naughty of you, Kenny. For that you'll have to
wait a while.' She kissed his cheek, his eyes and the lobe
of his left ear, then poked her tongue inside the ear itself
and teased him by fucking it. 'You'll appreciate that,
though, you know you will . . . You don't want to come
too quickly and disappoint me, do you?'
He shook his head.
'No, of course you don't. Now, let's have a look at the
offending item, shall we?'
He nodded this time.
'But we're only going to look.' She gave a small, decisive
nod of her own. 'No touching. No rubbing.' She smoothed
her hands together, gliding her leather-clad fingers over
86

each other, circling one forefinger in a slow wickedly
suggestive gesture. Thrills shot up and down his shaft as if
she were really wanking him. 'No caressing. No fondling.
Not yet.'
Looking him directly in the eye, she unfastened his heavy
belt by touch alone, unbuttoned his waistband, then pulled
tantalisingly on the zipper tag. Unholy tension was at work
on those small metal teeth. Kenny begged her with his
eyes, begged her to release the throbbing rod that adored
her.
Slowly, she opened his jeans and looked down. Fine
white cloth tented obscenely; his shorts, marked with a
spreading stain of wetness, bulged out between the flanking
black denim.
'Oh my.' Rio revealed her delight in her husband's body.
'Oh my,' she reiterated, tossing back the spun-silver mass
of her hair so she could see better. Then, with almost
surgical precision, she pushed down the white cotton and
lifted out his prick and testicles. Letting the elastic slide
underneath and lift, she arranged his meat for her inspec-
tion. He almost begged aloud that she taste him.
'That's a fine specimen,' she said in a pseudo-clinical
voice. 'Really quite spectacular. Don't you think so?'
Kenny couldn't speak. At that moment his prick existed
solely to honour the woman before him. He could hardly
breathe. He was going to die if she didn't touch or kiss his
flesh. Enfold it with her own ... In torment, he closed his
eyes.
'Kenny!' She was softly imperious. 'Look at your penis.'
Shaking with mortification, he looked down at the bob-
bing stiffness of his own body. The head was lividly red
atop the paler, veiny shaft; the glans was stretched and
feverish, the eye quite large and glistening with a steady
flow of pre-come. Even as he watched, a drop of it grew
too heavy to hang there, and dribbled like a slow, silken
string to the carpet below.
'So juicy . . .'
Kenny looked up sharply and caught his wife licking
her lips. Her slender red-clad hand was reaching out. He
87

bumped his hips towards it, but she whirled away, far too
quick for him.
'Not so fast!' Standing well out of range, she set her
hands determinedly on her hips. 'We've a way to go yet,
horny boy, and I'd like to please myself a litde first.' Glanc-
ing around the room, she lit on her favourite chair, then
dragged it over and set it facing him but out of reach.
Flinging herself languidly into its upholstered depths, she
settled her body with fastidious care and proceeded to drape
one long, perfectly toned thigh over one of the padded
arms. Eyes steadily on Kenny's, she unfastened the heavy
brown leather belt she wore around her waist.
'There, that's better,' she murmured sensuously. 'I look
almost as nice as you do.' Her gaze dropped to his swaying
prick, and Kenny watched in a kind of agonised anguish
as she wriggled her bottom deeper into the chair. She laid
her hand lighdy over her crotch and his prick leapt as if
he'd been electrocuted.
'Yes,' she whispered, flexing her middle finger experi-
mentally, then looking up directly at her husband's rampant
body. Although already exposed, Kenny felt as if she'd just
bared him all over again.
This was a humiliating experience any normal man
should've hated, yet Kenny was almost deliriously happy.
Standing there, shackled and with his prick pointing out
in front of him, he was completely at home in his world.
His body was a ferment of lust and aching tension, yet he
felt utterly peaceful as his beautiful wife prepared to wank.
There was grace in those long leather-covered hands, a
magic dexterity that let her paint, sew and use a keyboard
with effortless ease. But of all Rio's manual skills, the most
accomplished was masturbation. Even gloved and clothed,
her fingers flew straight to the most effective spot, and her
jersey-covered hips lifted slightly to meet the pressure.
Was she wearing panties? Or was the fine tan-coloured
cloth being pressed directly onto her clitoris? Either way,
the sorceress was working her spell, on herself and on
Kenny. He seemed to feel that delicate rolling action
throughout the whole of his cock, those short merciless
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stabs in the very quick of his own sex. It would've been
easier for him not to look. Rio's mounting pleasure and the
accelerating jerk of her supple pelvis were torture in the
extreme. Need, and the denial of it, were tearing his guts
apart.
Rio was grunting now, the deep guttural sound that she
made when he was shafting her to the hilt. Eyes closed,
her blonde head thrown back, she was humping her own
hand, and seemed oblivious of her imprisoned watcher.
Her lithe body was lifting inches out of the chair, her
breasts bouncing and her throat working as she gulped in
air. She scrabbled wildly at her cunt now, the millimetre
accuracy lost in her desperate thrash towards orgasm.
Suddenly she shoved her whole hand inelegantly inside
her leggings to frig herself without the hindrance of fabric.
Kenny's eyes bugged, and his own crotch boiled at the
sight of that moving bulge in his wife's tight trousers. Some
small demon animal was feeding on her snatch, wriggling
and burrowing in its unashamed greed. Rio's beautiful face
was contorted into a snarling rictus of lust, her lush red
lips drawn back from the white gleam of her teeth. He saw
spittle at the corner of her mouth as her working bottom
first pounded the chair, then bounced her obscenely moun-
ded groin high into the air again. He imagined that cherry-
red cunt inflamed by those stiff, hard-frigging fingers. He
saw the rich juices bubbling, the pulsing twitch of impend-
ing climax.
'Kenny!' she cried again and again; it was a growl, then
a shout, then a scream as Rio's slim body became an epilep-
tic blur, her every muscle jerking in spasmodic motion.
She seemed to come for a thousand years, and seemed
in danger of wrenching herself limb from limb in the pro-
cess; yet eventually, with a long, falling croon, she relaxed
back into the depths of the chair.
Kenny kept his own body perfectly still. He took small,
shallow breaths. Any movement now and he'd spunk help-
lessly into nothingness. His cock had only to sway and he'd
have an orgasm.
'Oh, my. Oh my oh my oh my ... ' Rio seemed to be
89

rising out of a coma just as Kenny felt safe to leave his own
self-induced stasis. She stirred and stretched in her chair,
pulling her hand out of her trousers and adjusting the cloth
at her crotch. Businesslike again, she sprang to her feet,
her belt flapping in its loops. With an impatient flick, she
unshipped its length and dropped it into the chair. Tour
turn now, I think.' She turned glittering eyes towards her
trembling husband.
My goddess, he thought as she approached him. She
moved like fate, her glove stained dark with her own juices,
the air around her thick with the miasma of sex. My god-
dess, he thought again as she stood just inches from him,
staring straight into his eyes.
This is it, Kenny,' she said, making him flinch as she
reach up to brush the platinum tresses clear of her brow.
Flight and fight had said she was going to touch him. 'Can
you take it, my angel?'
He nodded, not sure whether he could, or even exactly
what 'it' might be. Anything with Rio, he thought. Any-
thing for her. He'd endure and adore anything and every-
thing that sprang from her creatively fertile mind.
'I'm going to have to be very careful, though, I think.'
Her gaze had dropped to his cock. It was still rodlike and
pointing at her naked breasts, the tip red and slick. He'd
come down from the hair-trigger state now, but with Rio
so close and so scented with lust, and her beautiful body
still half on show, he felt danger mass in his balls again.
He watched nervously as she assessed the swaying organ,
then pulled her gloves on more snugly. The red leather on
her right-hand fingers - fore, middle and ring - was dark
to the first joint, and irresistibly he glanced at her crotch.
She was the juiciest woman he'd ever known and he sus-
pected she was nude under her leggings. Sure enough, a
damp patch was crawling out of the vee.
'A G-string, you dirty boy.' She gave a rich chuckle.
'The question was all over your face. You don't seriously
think I'd go out without panties, do you?'
'I dunno ... I couldn't see a line,' he muttered, imagin-
ing the delicate scrap of sodden lace now lodged between
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his wife's legs. What colour? he wondered, even as his mind
made it red. Red and completely saturated with the most
delicious nectar in the universe, the same elixir that'd
spoiled an expensive pair of gloves.
As if in slow motion, she reached out towards his cock,
then paused, her fingertips just millimetres away. 'Ever so
careful,' she chanted to herself, then took the tip between
finger and thumb.
Kenny jerked and felt the rush begin, then die away, as
Rio squeezed with killing accuracy. Using this exquisitely
precise grip she could keep him simmering for hours, bring
him to the brink a dozen times, extend his pleasure, and
extend it again and again and again till he feared for his
sanity.
His prick subsided ever so slightly, yet remained bounc-
ingly erect. Rio dropped down, still holding him, her long
haunches flexing in the tight jersey leggings. He could feel
her warm breath on the moist membrane of his glans.
The whole of his consciousness gathered in that purplish,
plumlike knob, and a silent voice screamed for her to suck
it; then, knowing the instantaneous consequences, begged
her not to.
'Hmmm,' she murmured assessingly, then gave another
little squeeze. She was a connoisseuse of cocks and the
acknowledged expert on his. She tipped her blonde head
on one side, as if listening to his churning juices. A third
tiny pressuring and she stood again and released him.
'Okay, we've tamed the beast. But what're we going to do
with his master?'
Kenny had no idea, but a lot of mind-blowing specu-
lations. He didn't care what this woman did to him; for
these few hours he was her willing slave, a subjugated male
body she could touch, inspect and manipulate to her heart
and her cunt's content.
Evidently Rio now knew what she was doing, because
she took his hips in her two hands and forced him to turn
and face the wall.
Oh no. Oh God, yes. My arse . . . Oh, yes yes yes. Do
my arse, please!
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The voice in his head was vociferous again. Kenny
pressed his hot face to the tapestry as his bottom came alive
in readiness. He gasped as he felt a series of small deft
movements that led to the cold air on his backside. She'd
pulled his shorts and jeans down to his knees in one thick
bunch, then lifted his shirt and knotted it at waist level.
He was glad there was no mirror nearby; he didn't think
he could bear the sight of himself like this. The ignominious
exposure.
'Move your feet away from the wall. I don't want you
frigging yourself on the tapestry.'
He obeyed, and felt humiliation grow as his cock swayed
heavily between his body and the wall. The position was
difficult to hold; his thighs were twitching with tension and
there was barely enough play in the cuff-chain. He could
rest his hands on the wall, but only just.
Suddenly he shot forward like a rocket. Rio's gloved
hands were cupping the cheeks of his arse.
'God, you've got a beautiful tush.' She backed up her
praise by kneading the hard muscular mounds, first squash-
ing them together, then pulling them as far apart as the
stretched skin would allow. Kenny felt his arsehole flutter
like a trembling mouth. He was open and utterly and com-
pletely exposed, his eyes filled with tears of mortified joy.
Strong hands went on pushing and shaping his flesh.
After what seemed a lifetime of shame, Rio kissed his
silk-covered shoulder and released her hold on his bottom.
'I love your arse,' she whispered against his ear, 'I'm going
to do incredible things to it, sweetheart. You won't know
what's hit you.' Sliding her hand around to his cock, she
reapplied the tempering pinch. His throbbing tool was
momentarily pacified but the pressure on it seemed to trans-
fer elsewhere.
Kenny moaned softly as his anus pulsed and pouted. He
felt as if his own body was betraying him; when Rio
squeezed a little harder, his hips waggled automatically,
coquettishly inviting her attention. I've gone crazy, he
thought, as his bottom wafted as lewdly as a bitch's.
'You want it, don't you?' Rio's free hand flirted up the
92

crease, loitering at the hole itself, dipping in with a teasing
little prod, then scooting on to circle the upper curve of
his buttock. 4Yes, my sweet, of course, you do,' she
answered on his behalf.
It was the sweet demeaning truth.
'Some lubrication, I think,' she announced matter-of-
factly.
Kenny ground his forehead into the tapestry. For pity's
sake, what was she going to use? Something slick and gooey
that came in a tube? Or something more human? Something
warm and freshly exuded . . . There was a rustling, then a
sigh and a vulgar squelching sound, and when the lubricant
finally touched him it was warm. He pushed his bottom
towards the anointing, thrilled to feel both her gloved fin-
gers and her newly drawn juices upon him. Her middle
finger poked inside a little way, its entry frictionless with
such a slippery coating. The fingertip wiggled and he
danced; he was a puppet governed by the minutest pressure
on and in his anus.
'Is that nice?' she asked, prodding harder. Kenny
nodded, staring down at the juice dripping from the end
of his prick, and the red-gloved hand that some of it was
trickling on to.
'I asked you if this is nice?' The finger pushed again, the
movement rougher this time, not exactly hurting but caus-
ing a delicious discomfort.
'Yes. It's nice.' It was starting to be sublime, he thought,
grateful too for the clever pinching fingers that were taming
his cock-tip. Without them, he would've come by now, but
Rio was intent, as he'd known she would be, on extending
his pleasure as long as she humanly could.
'What would you like me to do next?' The probing finger
slid out, then described delicate little circles in the area
between his arsehole and his sack.
'I ... I don't know ... Oh God, anything! Anything!'
'Oh no no no,' she purred. 'You must tell me what you
want. Describe it. I want to hear the words, the details. I
want to hear it from your own mouth. I want you to ask
me for it. Ask me to push my fingers into your bottom and
93

fuck you until you come.' With her fingers enclosing his
testicles, she placed her thumb teasingly over his anus. She
had him in both hands now, and she swirled his genitals
in a slow rocking movement, exerting her dominion over
the most intimate portions of his body, commanding, with
her grip, her closeness and her perfume, that he speak the
lewdest of words.
And a grown man of thirty-four was suddenly stuttering
like a mortified adolescent. 'Please, my lady, I . . .' He
closed his eyes, fighting for composure as she feathered his
arsehole and perineum, 'Please, Rio, will you put your
fingers into . . . into my bottom? Please, my love, I want
you to fuck my bottom until I come . . .' His prick trem-
bled as he said it, jumping at the word 'bottom' yet being
effortlessly controlled by Rio's magic touch.
'Of course, my darling, whatever you want.' She paused,
refocused her attentions, then made a small sound of irri-
tation as the muscle ring resisted her. 'More lubrication, I
think.'
Kenny gasped as his arse and his crotch were suddenly
his own again, and there were sounds of Rio searching in
her case for things. He smiled dreamily, knowing what
those things might be.
Then she was back again, close, and he could sense her
neatly laying out what she'd chosen. Almost voluptuously
anxious, he resisted the urge to look.
A gob of something cool and runny was slapped into the
groove of his arse, then worked up and down and in. Rio
paused for a moment, then cupping one cheek, pulled it
sideways to open the crack a little. Kenny jumped as
another enormous dollop of jelly was applied and spread,
followed by another and another. Each time she worked it
in a little further, the last application being applied only to
the hole itself.
'Isn't this nice?' she asked softly. 'I'm going to fill your
bum right up with jelly, then it won't hurt a bit.' She
reached away for a second - getting another tube? - then
Kenny felt something small and metallic touch his arsehole.
It stayed there doing nothing, as Rio took careful hold of
94

his cock-tip, then slowly and inexorably he felt the lubricant
start oozing into his rectum. Cool, soft and slippery, it
nevertheless took up space. Within moments, he started to
feel full up, stuffed, and in dangerous need of shitting
himself. It's only a reflex, his mind told him, even as his
straining, swimming bottom screamed exactly the opposite.
The diabolical filling stopped for a moment, and as Rio
reached away again, he snicked his arse-cheeks together to
hold in the load. Seconds later a third tube touched his
anus, and she started packing him again.
When tears were streaming down his cheeks, and his
prick was hard as iron, Rio dropped the tube and plugged
his hole with her fingertip.
'There, nice and full, eh?' Her voice was gentle and
maternal. 'Wriggle your hips a bit. Feel it all gloop about.'
Plumbing the depths of shame, he obeyed, nearly fainting
from the sensations inside, the jelly's heavy drag as it
pushed and pulled on the root of his cock.
'Come on, you can do better than that,' coaxed Rio, as
her forefinger rode his waggling bum.
He tried. He really did. He made his bursting bottom
dance and sway, and almost gnawed the tapestry in his
attempt to stave off a humiliating orgasm.
'I . . . Agh ... I think I'm going to come!'
'No, you're not. Not yet.' The controlling pressure on
his cock-tip increased, and completely subjugated, Kenny
continued his delicious demeaning display.
It was purgatory, it seemed to go on for hours, and he'd
never been more excited in his life. His wife was a she-devil
and he adored her so much, he'd suffer any debasement she
cared to dream up.
'Still now, darling,' she said suddenly, and a soft note in
her voice made Kenny almost sob with relief. She was going
to put him out of his misery. 'You can relax your bottom.
I'm going to penetrate you . . .'
Planting his feet as firmly as he could, Kenny let his arse
go slack and fall back on the intruding finger. Jelly oozed
out of his anus as Rio displaced it. The pressure inside him
didn't ease though; the rigid, relentless digit was pushing
95

in faster than the lubricant could get out. With a harsh
groan, he jammed himself back on to his wife's hand.
'Good, eh, sweetheart?' she murmured, pulling back an
inch or two then shoving in harder than ever. Kenny felt
as if his cock, his arse and his head were going to explode
simultaneously, and his whimpers and squeals seemed only
to spur his tormentress on.
She was genuinely fucking his bottom now, pushing in
first two fingers, then three, sending jelly drooling and
slurping out all over the place. His balls and thighs were
coated in the stuff, and his cock and rectum were one
gorgeous fiery mass of pleasure. His own juices were bub-
bling out of his glans, and streaming out over Rio's leather-
covered fingers to pour down his shaft.
Kenny's world was a maelstrom. Erotic sound and move-
ment surrounded him inside and out. He heard obscene
slurpings and sloshings, felt their shockwaves searing the
whole of his bouncing loins. As his pelvis jerked back and
forth, suspended between two red-gloved poles of ecstasy,
he heard two voices chanting and hardly knew which was
which. One was a screaming, shouting, slavering madman;
one was a coaxing, soothing, cajoling woman . . . who he
knew was just as mad.
'You're going to come now, my love,' she gasped. And
deliriously Kenny let her position him for the coup de grace.
She spun him on the chain so he was backed against the
tapestry; her hand was between him and the wall, cradling
his bottom, her forefinger lodged as deep in his rectum as
it would go. Quickly and urgently she brought her free
hand to his lips. 'The glove, Kenny, take off my glove!'
Struggling out of the erotic stupor, he understood. He
took the tip of one red leather finger between his teeth and
felt Rio pull her hand out of the glove, then grasp the thing
from his mouth and fling it across the room. She turned
his tear-stained face to hers, took his mouth in a kiss, and
then took his pulsing cock in her naked fingers.
Two swift exquisite strokes burst his dam. Bliss bathed
him from the waist down and love filled his heart and his
brain. Rio released his mouth, and as the semen stormed
96

up from his balls and shot out of his cock's tormented tip,
they both watched it fly in a high majestic arc that ended
many feet away on the carpet. Again and again the creamy
stuff jetted out, as if she'd been goading him for a year
instead of for barely quarter of an hour.
The spasms were so intense, and the release so complete,
that within seconds Kenny was soaked in lethargy, his prick
resting wilted and spent in Rio's gentle hold. As he slumped
against the wall, he felt her finger slip out of his behind
and then her whole hand stroke his arse very tenderly. 'Oh
Kenny, I love you so much,' she whispered, patting his
cock and then reaching up to release him from his bonds.
Exhausted, he almost fell, but her strong arms were
around him immediately, helping to he down on the soft
carpet just a few feet from the sight of his erotic martyrdom.
Pulling off her second glove, she lay down beside him,
snuggling close so she could massage his freed wrists. The
caress was so gende, so kind that he felt great waves of
peace and contentment washing through his whole body
from the point where her fingers touched him.
Drifting, he let himself be soothed for a while, then
presently, he took her caressing hands to his mouth. Kiss-
ing them he tasted himself on the one that'd wanked his
cock, all overlaid by the warm afterscent of fine leather.
The salutation over, he took her into his arms, enjoying the
feel of her bare breasts against his chest and the sensation of
his sated prick resting against her cloth-covered thigh. He
knew that in a while they'd make simple, elegant, and
perfectly orthodox love, but for the moment, they both
needed to rest.
'I love you,' she murmured again. 'I wasn't too unkind
to you, was I?'
'No, my sweet, you were wonderful.' He reached up to
touch her lovely, worried face. 'I upset you before, I admit
it. And instead of being punished, you . . . you do a thing
like that for me. I could get addicted to being a bad boy,
you know.'
'And I could get addicted to it myself,' she whispered,
97

kissing his fingers. 'I love you, Kenny,' she said as he
drowsily pulled her closer.
'And I love you, my lovely lady.' His voice slurred, as
sleep took a hold, 'You're so beautiful, so clever ... So
beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful . . .'
98

6 Intermezzo II
'. . . beautiful. You're beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,' Josh
murmured dreamily, rubbing his face against the gentle
hand that caressed him.
'No, I'm not,' said a voice that was firm, yet kind and
indulgent. 'I'm probably the ugliest woman you'll ever
meet, so come on, Josh, open those sleepy eyes of yours.
Face the awful truth.'
'What . . . whadoya mean?' Josh mumbled, reluctant to
face that or any truth. And particularly the truth that this
time, within seconds, he was fully and completely 'back'.
The adventure was over, he wasn't Kenny, and a holy
terror with platinum hair was no longer a part of his life.
Isis, however, was still a part of it, and after a few
moments of reorientation, Josh opened his bleary eyes to
look at her.
'Okay now?' she enquired, her good eye full of concern.
'Yeah, I think so.' Josh blinked a few times, then looked
beyond Isis and around the room. There was something
else different about this awakening, he realised, taking in
his surroundings. This time he'd woken up sooner. He was
still in the treatment room and lying on the white leather
couch. Sitting up without thinking, he flinched as his head
started spinning. With a groan, he flopped back down
again, covering his dazzled eyes with his hand . . .
His hand?
Cautiously, Josh tested the mobility of both his limbs
and his body, then drew some conclusions. There weren't
any wires and restraints on him any more, and his arse was
completely his own. Wriggling his bare bottom against the
99

indented leather, he realised that the lower half of the couch
was now one undivided piece and the probe, like wonderful
tormenting Rio, had gone.
Risking a peek between his fingers, he found that Isis
had thoughtfully dimmed the main lights; and when he
glanced down at his body, he discovered just how very
recently his adventure had ended. His thighs and belly were
splattered with silky globules of semen and his cock-head
still glistened with a silvery ooze. He was flaccid, but his
entire sex felt gorgeous; in fact the whole of his body from
the waist down seemed to be bathed in a golden sexual
glow. He was totally sated - completely at peace - and
though his spunk-smeared skin felt slightly icky, he was
too tired, too dreamy, and too deliciously shagged out to
care.
Closing his eyes, Josh lay for a few minutes and listened
to the small sounds of Isis moving about the room. Total
lethargy stopped him wondering what she was up to and
he was too spaced out even to analyse his adventure.
He'd been submissive to a woman. Utterly so. As Kenny,
he'd let her torment and demean him, and at the same time
inflict a pleasure so brilliant and intense that he'd almost
lost his mind. Moving himself luxuriously against the soft
hide of the couch, he decided that his rear end had a lot to
answer for. Lying here drifting, he liked what had 'hap-
pened' to him - in fact, the memories were almost too
exquisite to bear - but he'd a sneaky feeling that once he
was fully awake and firing on all cylinders, he might have
a cause for concern.
Frowning slightly, he suddenly detected a new odour in
the room. Until now the smells had been predominantly
semen and his genital sweat, with an underlay of the citrus
cologne he'd applied earlier, and - when she was close -
the delicately seductive rose-musk that Isis always wore.
But now there was another smell around, a stronger one,
a fresh, bright tang so delectably clean and piney that Josh
sighed with appreciation.
He opened his eyes again, and Isis was bending over
him, a moist cloth in her hand.
100

'It's okay. Relax. I'm just going to clean you up a bit.'
The lovely odour rose up like a great wave and Josh sighed
again as Isis touched the cloth to his sweaty spunk-daubed
thigh.
Josh did as he'd been told. He relaxed. He'd no secrets
left now, he supposed, so there was nothing to do but
enjoy the attention. The cloth was damp, fragrant and
surprisingly warm against his skin, and Isis cleaned him
with a series of precise but gentle swipes that soon had his
thighs and belly pristine.
And it felt fabulous. Half in his dreams, Josh imagined
Layla doing this for her Prince, then grinned, remembering
belatedly that he'd been Layla. Would Rio perform such a
service for Kenny? After she'd taken him right to the sexual
edge and almost blown every nerve-end in his body?
In the real world, Josh realised, it was probably only Isis
who would take care of him so intimately. The whore,
Tricksie, looked too proud and haughty to do something
so menial, and none of Josh's previous girlfriends had ever
had cause to. He'd had a life full of sex, women, and more
sex, but never anything so different and so freaky as this.
'Roll onto your side, please, Josh,' said Isis, pressing
lightly his naked hip. Starting to tremble slightly, he com-
plied, baring the tight rounds of his buttocks for her inspec-
tion. Pressing his face to the soft leather of the couch, he
stifled a moan as she took a fresh cloth to his naked bottom.
Even though he'd just had several orgasms and, presum-
ably, disarmed his sexuality for the time being, this meticu-
lous cleansing of his anus and testicles was indescribably
pleasurable. Isis's touch was light as thistledown, and the
moist cloth so blissfully refreshing to his hot sweaty flesh,
that Josh couldn't stop himself crooning with delight.
'Good?' she questioned softly.
'Beautiful,' murmured Josh in reply, lifting his arse to
meet her gentle stokes. 'Feels so nice and clean.'
She made a few more delicate passes, then set Josh to
gnawing his lip as she probed the puckered hole itself. He
was still shaking, his head bowed and pressing against the
leather, when the washcloth was replaced by a soft fluffy
101

towel which she dabbed gently over the whole area. 'Okay,
pop yourself on to your back and I'll do the rest of you,'
she said matter-of-factly.
Josh was grateful for Isis's professional tone. What he'd
felt during that intimate and sensitive cleansing - both
erotically and for Isis herself - had brought him dangerously
close to doing something very very silly. He didn't know
quite what it was, but Isis's briskness had saved him from
it; helped him face the fact that she was now going to clean
his penis.
Flat on his back again, Josh ventured a glance down-
wards.
He wasn't erect but he was getting there. His flesh had
perceptibly thickened, and his shaft had the characteristic
meaty look to it that usually preceded a hard-on. It was
only because he'd already come so many times, he thought
shakily, that he wasn't a screaming rampant pole by now.
After what Isis had just done to his behind . . . His tool
gave a tiny but visible throb and he looked up immediately
into her pale, scarred face.
She'd been watching his rod as attentively as he had, but
now she met his eyes. Josh tried to hold her gaze but
couldn't; his eyelids fluttered closed. It'd been pointless,
anyway, because like a mystic, one-eyed sphinx, Isis was
completely unreadable.
But as he lay there, locked in the interminable seconds-
long wait for her touch, Josh set his highly coloured imagin-
ation on 'hypothesise'. How did she really respond to his
nakedness and vulnerability - to his spunk, his prick and
his orgasms?
Did she get off on having men at her mercy? And specifi-
cally, and closest to Josh's heart ... did she get off on
him?
What was it she'd said? That she was tempted. Could
she really be indifferent to him when he was strapped to a
table in front of her: half-nude, with a huge erection and
a dildo rammed inside his bottom. She was a sensual, highly
imaginative woman; surely a sight like that would turn her
on?
102

'Isis - ,' he began, then stopped on a half-drawn breath
as she began to wipe the moist cloth over his prick.
'Yes?' she enquired, taking him very delicately by his
cock-tip and lifting him up so she could pass the soft
material along the throbbing underside of his tool.
'Nothing,' he gasped through gritted teeth. 'It's nothing.'
'Sure?'
'Sure.'
'Okay,' she said blandly, then ever so gendy tilted his
cock from side to side to wipe its now considerable circum-
ference.
I'm going to die, thought Josh, knowing that he was now
fully erect. Isis's painstaking ablutions were both agony
and ecstasy, and his hips bounced when she cleaned the
hypersensitive ridge beneath his glans.
'Would you like me to bring you off?'
Her voice sounded cool, clear and bell-like, and its very
detachment calmed Josh's whirling brain.
'Yes, please,' he replied, emulating her tone, 'I'd be
grateful . . He paused, then managed to look her
unblinkingly in her equally unblinking eyes, 'But, please.
No frills. Just make me ejaculate, that's all.' He closed his
eyes again, proud of his clinical choice of words.
For the next few moments he made his face a mask
and his body a statue, and concentrated the whole of his
consciousness on his aching prick. He tried to ignore the
fact that it was Isis who was wanking him off, that it was
her expert fist gliding so superbly over his tool. He told
himself that one pair of hands was much like another, and
that even though these hands were slim and scarred, and
so inventive and accomplished that they made him want to
weep like a child, this was really no different at all to any
average, everyday tossing off.
But it was different. And better. And utterly and com-
pletely glorious.
In a series of smooth, precisely pressured strokes, Isis
slid the skin of his prick over its solid, blood-filled core.
The action was millimetre perfect in both speed and drag-
length.
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And there were no frills. It was a pure masturbation,
elegant: hand and prick in magic synchronicity. And when,
after approximately a minute, he came and screamed her
name, his soul shot out of his loins and was neatly caught
in a small square of moist, perfumed cloth.
Dimly, an indeterminate time later, a half-dreaming Josh
felt Isis clean him up again, then drape his sexed-out body
with a thick, soft blanket.
'Get some sleep, Josh,' she said quietly, stroking his
brow as she had when he'd first woken. 'You weren't really
ready to wake up yet. You're imagining things. You don't
know what you're talking about.'
But I do, thought Josh. I came, and I screamed your
name when I did. I didn't imagine it, lady, did you? He
grinned then, and fell asleep, cuddled in his blanket and
vaguely aware that he might just have been speaking out
aloud . . .
'Well?'
'Well what?'
'What did you think of it?' Isis enquired when they were
back in La Selene.
Josh was himself again now, dressed and nursing a much-
needed double scotch. 'Oh, you mean the hand job?' he
replied, wondering why he was being so obtuse. 'It was
first class, Isis. I've never had better. And if that was the
"no frills" version, God help me if I ever get the de-luxe.'
'Idiot,' she hissed, then took a rather large pull at her
drink - the large whisky she'd surprised Josh by accepting.
Josh sipped his own drink, feeling both niggled and
aroused that Isis was being as evasive as he was. Why
wouldn't she admit she'd just given him the most beautiful
wank he'd ever had? And why had her scarred face sud-
denly become a convenient mask? She was acting as if they
were total strangers when not half an hour ago she'd had
his prick in her long elegant fingers.
'You still haven't answered me,' she said after a few
moments. 'What did you think of your first self-generated
fantasy?'
104

'Self-generated?'
'Yes.' She turned to him, her good eye glinting, 'I
thought you realised. Tonight's adventure had nothing to
do with me, or Kenny and Rio for that matter. They prob-
ably went home and played Scrabble. It was your scenario,
Josh. What you wanted.'
'Holy shit.' She'd knocked him sideways. Again. With a
quick, nervous gesture Josh summoned another round of
whiskies.
'What's wrong, Josh?' asked Isis after the fresh drinks
had arrived. 'You got exactly what you wanted. You tail-
ored your own fantasy tonight, at least your subconscious
did. And there's nothing wrong with wanting to be sub-
missive.'
'I don't ... I didn't . . .' Josh faltered as a truly horren-
dous suspicion formed. He'd never really taken much notice
of Isis's computer hardware, but now he got a clear picture
of a fine-wire head set, a touch-contact pad . . . And . . .
Oh God, what if that monitor of hers didn't always show
incomprehensible strings of figures?
'Isis, you know when I'm . . . when I'm under?'
She was watching him very closely now . . .
'When I'm having an "adventure", can you actually see
what's happening?' He whipped out his hand, caught her
leather-clad one, and squeezed it hard, 'Look, Isis, tell me.
Do you see all that crazy shit? Tell me. I want to know!'
'Keep your hair on, Josh. And stop hurting me,' she
ordered, shaking off his grip with surprising ease. 'It is
possible to represent the experience visually and for me to
watch it.'
Josh gasped, but Isis went on quickly, 'However, I
choose not to watch. It doesn't seem ethical. I'd only switch
to visual if you seemed to be in distress.'
'Thank Christ for that.'
'And besides, I don't need to view,' she announced
blithely. 'I can interpret neural wave forms as clearly as
holovid ... I know what's going on without having to see
it.' She paused for wicked effect. 'And of course, you tell
me what's happening. I get a running commentary. Not all
105

clients are vocal when they're under, but you certainly are.
You're a one-man band, Josh, a three-ring circus. I've never
been so right royally entertained in my life!'
Josh - the one who'd screamed and groaned and whim-
pered - was suddenly struck dumb, beyond horror or
embarrassment. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.
The thought of Isis listening to his ecstatic outpourings
was . . . was . . . His mind became a complete blank. He
lifted his glass towards his hps then halted it halfway, just
staring.
'Josh,' she said softly, placing her gloved hand on his
arm.
'What can I say that I haven't howled or babbled or
grunted already?' he replied, his sense of the absurd rushing
in to save him. He took a quick swig of whisky. 'Do you
hear everything?'
'No, Josh, not everything. I was exaggerating a bit there.
Sorry,' she said with a slightly sheepish look, 'it's just
fragments actually. Real time and dream time aren't con-
tiguous. What you experience is too compressed for a run-
ning commentary as such . . .'
'Thank God. You must think I'm a raving loony.'
'Josh, look at me,' said Isis with a steady seriousness
that, ludicrously, made Josh's prick leap and throb. 'You
don't think this diminishes you, do you?'
'I don't know,' he said, both confused and intensely
turned on by the grave expression on that odd, lop-sided
face.
'You've a beautiful voice, Josh. However you use it,'
her hand tightened on his cloth-covered forearm, 'you're
magical, special. When you cry out in orgasm it ... it
touches the soul, Josh, it's thrilling. Your cock stands up
like a great spear, your spunk shoots out . . . Oh God,' she
paused, as if she knew she'd said too much, given herself
away just as he did when he was 'under'. 'It's . . . you're
awesome, Josh, quite unique . . .' Her voice fizzled out
awkwardly.
Josh's heart was pounding and his mouth dry. She did
106

want him! His arousal, his fantasies, his climaxes: they all
turned her on . . .
'Come back to my flat, Isis,' he gasped without stopping
to think. 'Please! I want you, you want me. We'd be fabu-
lous together.'
Isis was silent for about a minute. A minute in which
Josh almost forgot to breathe. A minute in which his cock
seemed to vibrate in his pants. A minute in which the most
important thing in the whole of his thirty-odd years of life
was to take this woman to bed and come deeply and viol-
ently in her cunt. He wanted to spew his very soul into her
gash, to live in her and die in her, and to make her live
and die in him.
'You know it's impossible, don't you?' she said at last,
in a voice that didn't sound quite steady; and when she
slanted him a cautious glance, Josh saw more expression in
that half a face than he'd ever seen in anyone else's whole
one. 'Thanks for the drink, Josh, but I think I ought to be
going now.'
Josh felt torn in two. The stud in him - the successful
fucker of Julia and a hundred others like her - wanted to
tell Isis to go to hell. Who did she think she was, turning
him down like this?
Then, perhaps a nanosecond later, the real Josh - the
nice guy who didn't like hurting people - told Mr Hardcase-
Legover to take a running jump. Isis had her reasons for
avoiding involvement, and he could accept them - even if
his erection was killing him.
'I'm sorry, Isis, I was out of line,' he said, smiling what
he hoped was a winning smile. 'Why don't you stay a while?
I promise not to come on to you.'
'Okay,' she said quietly, smiling her own bizarre version
of a smile, 'but not for long, though. And don't try and
make things complicated.'
'You got it,' he said, almost laughing with relief. 'I'll
behave myself. Cross my heart.'
It was easier said than done.
As they sat and chatted, Josh's hard-on showed no sign
107

whatsoever of subsiding; in fact, if anything, it got even
stiffen
Am I a masochist on top of everything else? he wondered
when it got to the point of actual pain and he found he was
enjoying it. Surreptitiously, he edged forward in his seat
and forced the aching flesh hard against the double-stitched
seam of his leather jeans. The sensation almost made his
eyes cross; and as he summoned a vision of Isis, nude and
waiting for him, he suspected his cock was probably leaking
its juice for her.
'So, what do you think of your fantasies so far then?' Isis
enquired, obviously trying to steer matters towards their
bona-fide relationship.
'Sensational,' he replied with feeling. 'But disturbing
too.'
'In what way disturbing?'
'The sexual pleasure is mind-blowing.' He smiled briefly
at the apt choice of word. 'But I'm learning about a whole
new Josh Mortimer. I'm discovering a side of me I never
knew existed.' He sipped speculatively at his drink, trying
to ignore Isis's slim body just inches away, the haunting
tang of her perfume, the fact that what went on in her
brilliant mind was probably ten times as sexy as her
supremely feminine body. 'I . . . I'm beginning to wonder
about my sexuality,' he went on, 'the submission, the anal
thing ... I always thought I was strictly macho, strictly
hetero, but now I'm not so sure.'
'Does it matter?' Isis asked softly. 'Heterosexual. Homo-
sexual. Bisexual. What's the problem as long as you're
sexual?'
'I suppose you're right.'
'I know I am. Now stop worrying and just go with the
flow,'
Easy for her to say; she was a scientist, a sexologist, not
a man discovering alarming new facets of himself. And not
just when he was 'adventuring' either. 'Isis, these trips I
have . . . They don't have any effect on my imagination in
general, do they? It's just that everything I . . . er . . .
108

Well, what I mean is . . . My ordinary fantasies seem more
real now as well.'
'Hmm. That's interesting,' she answered thoughtfully,
and obviously half to herself. 'It has been predicted, but
you're the first actual case I've encountered.'
'Case of what?' demanded Josh, mental alarm bells clang-
ing wildly.
'Theoretically, the process of sensory re-creation should
actually expand the network of neural paths, and quite
literally augment a person's imagination and their ability to
dream.' She turned to him, her good eye twinkling, 'That's
what must've happened to you, Josh. I told you you were
special, didn't I?'
Josh went hot and cold. 'Do you mean to say that my
brain's actually changed?'
'Only for the better,' replied Isis archly. 'Imagination is
one of humankind's greatest gifts.'
'If you say so,' Josh mumbled grudgingly. Right now his
imagination was promoting severe discomfort in the groin
area. He could not stop picturing Isis's naked body and
wondering what it'd be like to be thrusting into it.
They lapsed into thoughtful silence for a while, Isis star-
ing into her glass, her scarred face enigmatic; Josh slowly
sipping his scotch, and resisting the urge to wriggle in order
to relieve his throbbing erection.
'What about your imagination?' he demanded suddenly.
It was no good just sitting here aching; the pictures in his
head were getting too vivid . . . Wasn't it about time they
looked at her pictures instead?
'What about it?' She eyed him warily.
'Well, is it boosted or whatever? You've had "adven-
tures". Has your brain got extra networks and stuff?'
'Josh! What are you on about now?'
'I ... I was trying to find out what your fantasies are,'
he admitted shamefacedly, 'and whether you have the same
incredible ones that I have.'
'Nice try, Mr Mortimer,' she said with a soft, throaty
laugh, and Josh liked the sweet way her body shook in time
to it. In fact he liked everything about that body - whether
109

static or moving - although it had to be said that for some-
one who protested that she only wanted a business relation-
ship with him, her clothes seemed to indicate otherwise.
She'd changed her outfit since they were here earlier and
now wore a sleek black ensemble - quite similar in a way,
he noticed, to the one he was wearing. But her fine-knit
sweater clung faithfully to a chest that wasn't at all similar
to his. And the silky stuff it was woven from looked quite
lewd in the way it defined a pair of obviously unfettered
breasts. And her trousers were worse, if anything. No, they
were better ... Oh hell!
Did women know what jeans cut like that did to the men
who looked at them? Did Isis know? Did she realise that
the reinforced seam that ran between her thighs was almost
as masturbatory as the one that ran between his?
That double-stitched line - worked in satin in her case
- was so distinct, so come-and-get-it-it's-here, that Josh
was having a very difficult time restraining an urge to reach
out and run his fingers down it. Her cleft would be directly
under that join ... He imagined the heat and darkness;
the pungent, humid furriness. Then, parting the thick
puffy lips, the sticky yearning juiciness within . . . Oh, to
get his hand in, his tongue in, or best of all, his needy
twitching cock!
'Josh! What the hell planet are you on? You haven't
spoken for at least a minute . . . Are you all right?'
'Er . . . Oh yes, I'm fine. I was just thinking . . .' Josh
babbled, his augmented imagination putting the taste of
her lovejuice on to his tongue with a startling and groin-
wrenching reality. In that instant, his disorientated mind
flung him back to Rio and her stretchy leggings, then threw
him forward the next giddy, but logical step . . .
Did Isis masturbate? And what did she fantasise about
whilst doing so?
'You were going to tell me about your fantasies,' he
asked, knowing full well that such a childish trick had no
chance of working.
'I was going to do no such thing!' Isis retorted, nearly
killing Josh as she sat up straight, inhaled, and seemed to
110

offer her breasts even more blatantly to his gaze. 'And
anyway, you'd be grossly disappointed.'
'No way.'
'Don't be so sure, Josh,' she replied, taking a sip from
her glass. 'My fantasies are so average they'd sound boring
after Pleasurezone . . .'
'Try me.'
'Okay,' she murmured, rubbing her finger provocatively
around the rim of her glass, and bringing Josh almost to
the point of ejaculation. 'Okay. What I fantasise about,
Josh, is romance. All that mushy stuff - soft lights, candle-
lit dinners, champagne from my slipper and all that jazz.
Oh, I like to dream about a little screwing after that, but
to me the hors d'oeuvres are as important as the main
course. Disappointed?' She met his eye challengingly,
something almost combative in her own good orb.
'No! Go on.'
'I dream about a man who's gentle and gentlemanly,
who'd treat me like a lady, as if this didn't exist.' She
touched her face, putting her red leather glove against the
ruby-red cicatrix.
'But can't it be fixed?' Josh said, suddenly wondering
why Isis had to stay scarred. Current surgical techniques
were amazing.
'You don't understand, Josh, do you? This is "after",
not "before". They've fixed me up as best they could. I
had rejection problems. Grafts wouldn't take. I could've
had sterile plastiskin put on it, I suppose; it looks almost
real. But at least this is still me.' She patted the crumpled
tissue beneath her muddy eye. 'This is the best it gets.
Josh . . . For keeps.'
But it shouldn't matter, thought Josh, soaping his own
unblemished face.
He was in the shower now, an hour and a half later, but
he was still brooding about Isis, her dreams and her stigma,
and the lack of men who'd look beyond a few square centi-
metres of burned skin and see the gloriously sexual woman
111

it belonged to. He couldn't be the only one to whom the
scar didn't matter, could he?
I could give you the old-fashioned romance, Isis, he
thought as he lathered his body and wondered what hers
would feel like through a coating of fine, scented
bubbles . . .
Closing his eyes, he wished her into the shower with
him, and slid his hands over her soft, fresh skin. Growing
instantly erect, he cupped the lovely globes of her breasts,
then moved lower to ease his fingers between her thighs
and explore the soft silky thatch and the even silkier slit
within. Dipping deep, he took up some of her moisture
on his fingertips, and brought it slick and savoury to his
hungering mouth. What meal could taste more delicious?
And they would have wined and dined, of course. Cavi-
are, smoked salmon, the finest delicacies . . . Candelight,
moonlight, music, the whole bit. But nothing, not even the
finest vintage champagne, would compare to the flavour of
Isis's beautiful cunt.
As the water poured down, he explored the interior of
this extravagant fantasy, expanded and enhanced a pamper-
ing, old-fashioned indulgence that would blend inexorably
into luxurious and mind-bending sex.
He'd drink his champagne from Isis's body: lick it from
her breasts, lap it from her navel, slurp and slobber it from
her juice-sodden quim. He'd get drunk on her, get high on
her; gorge himself senseless on the luscious cocktail
between her long sleek thighs . . .
But wait a minute. What else was on the menu?
Aha! The caviare. I'll give you caviare, you gorgeous
woman! In the world behind his eyelids he looked down at
his hand: a hand full of sticky shiny fish eggs - a thousand
credits' worth - that he jammed, with enormous glee,
straight into her equally glistening cunt. He saw her writhe
in outrage, moan, then lick her lips and buck her body into
his messy black-smeared grip. The liquor from the tiny
crushed eggs blended with hers, and Josh's mouth was
awash with saliva as he bent to taste the brew.
Oh yes, he murmured, sucking and swallowing down.
112

Too delicious! Salt on salt on musk . . . Womanflesh . . .
Orgasm . . .
'Do you like caviare?' he asked her two nights later, when
they were sitting at the bar in La Selene.
'Caviare? Just what the hell are you up to, Josh Morti-
mer?' Isis demanded, sounding tetchy and looking narrow-
eyed. 'If you think you're going to get into my pants by
offering me caviare, you can forget it.'
The delicious irony of her words set Josh laughing uncon-
trollably for almost a minute, and even though he couldn't
stop chortling, he was aware that the frowning Isis was
decidedly unamused.
'Sat on a feather, have we?' she enquired tartly, shifting
on her seat as if in discomfort.
'No . . . no . . .' Josh managed when his mirth had sub-
sided. 'It's just that what you said reminded me of a rather
nifty little fantasy I've thought of . . . Can't do it with the
old box of tricks, though, because you were in it.' He shot
her a sidelong glance and surprised an expression of pain
creasing the unmarked side of her face. 'Hey, Isis, are you
okay?' Reaching out, he patted her hand, a hand clad
tonight in the finest black kid leather.
'Yeah, I'm okay,' she answered rather wearily, then
flashed him one of her skew-whiff smiles, 'and I'm sorry
for snarling at you like that. It was uncalled for.'
'No harm done,' Josh replied, still concerned by her
obvious unease. 'And that offer, caviare and stuff... it
still stands. No strings attached.'
'That's kind, Josh. But I'll pass, if you don't mind.' She
paused, thought, then grinned again. 'I'd love a glass of
mineral water instead, though.'
'You got it.' Josh signalled the barman - the seemingly
omnipresent blond - and ordered wine for himself and a
bottle of Astrapure for Isis. 'Are you sure you won't have
a real drink?' he asked as their order was being filled.
'No, thanks, Josh. I don't think it's wise.' And when the
barman returned, she addressed him as he poured her
water, 'Do you have any analgesic handy, Guido?'
113

The young man nodded, reached into a drawer behind
his bar, then dropped a couple of green capsules into Isis's
outstretched palm. With a grateful smile, she tossed them
between her soft, rose-glossed lips and washed them down
with a swig of her water.
There,' she said more perkily, Til soon feel better now.'
'What's wrong, Isis?' Josh peered at her worriedly. She
looked as beautiful as ever on her good side, and the scar
as always looked exotic and titillating, but studying her
more closely, Josh discerned some changes: she looked
paler, there were tiny lines of strain around her eyes . . .
and though she still looked svelte and delectably slim, there
was something vaguely ungainly about her. She looked -
and it sounded barmy to Josh even as he thought it - ever so
slightly too big for her skin. Everything about her seemed to
bulge a little, like a fully ripe fruit; and although it was
only to the minutest degree, her flesh looked puffy, her
breasts swollen.
'Is it . . . Is it your injuries?' he persisted when she
didn't answer.
'No, Josh,' she murmured, giving him a small wry smile.
'Nothing so radical . . .'
'What then?'
It was Isis's turn to laugh now, a short ironic chuckle.
'You'd think that in this day and age, when science can
take us to other worlds and even I can create a gizmo like
Pleasurezone . . . You'd think someone could invent an
effective cure for period pains, wouldn't you?'
So that was it. Considering his reply, Josh studied his
companion carefully, then felt a sudden and quite astound-
ing response. For some reason he couldn't explain, the
idea that Isis might be bleeding brought an intense stab of
arousal. He had a sudden flash vision of her vulva agleam
with blood - and his prick replied with a sudden, painful
leap.
'I . . . I'm sorry if you're hurting,' he muttered, ashamed
of his rather weird reaction. 'If you don't feel like . . .
Well, if you'd rather go home and put your feet up or
something, it's okay by me. Another night will do just fine.'
114

'No, it's okay, Josh. I'll struggle on bravely. I wouldn't
dream of denying you your jollies.' She toasted him with
her blandly innocent tipple. 'But thanks.' She hesitated,
vaguely embarrassed. 'Thanks for caring.'
But I do care, he wanted to shout. I more than care. I'm
falling under your spell, Doctor Isis, and I'm falling so fast
I'm frightened by it.
'I'll be fine in a minute anyway,' she went on, oblivious
of Josh's silent passion. 'That junk of Guido's usually does
the trick.'
'Are they dangerous?'
'Hell no!' Isis laughed. 'And anyway I'm taking them
under medical supervision, aren't I? I may be somewhat
"fringe" now, but I've never actually been struck off.'
'I was just worried about you.'
'Well, thanks again, Josh,' she replied, already visibly
brighter. 'But it's your welfare we're concerned with, isn't
it? Any thoughts for tonight?'
'Not really,' he lied, his mind full of Isis's cunt. In a
series of freeze-frames he covered it in caviare again, then
semen . . . and kisses. He had a million outrageous fan-
tasies to live with this woman, and yet, by her decree, none
of them could be re-created by Pleasurezone.
'I can't make you out, Josh,' she cried, tapping her
black-clad fingers exasperatedly. 'You strike me as such an
imaginative guy - especially now - and when you've got
the chance of a lifetime to use that imagination, you strike
out.' Turning from him, she glanced sharply across the
room. 'Never mind . . . here comes somebody who might
help. Two somebodies, in fact.'
Following her gaze, he saw that Tricksie had just entered
the bar, closely followed by the same steely-eyed character
she'd been with on Josh's first visit to La Selene. The red-
head, as before, looked magnificent, her curvaceous body
enticingly displayed in a scarlet leather bustier and mini-
skirt, with a bold broad-shouldered jacket in the same eye-
catching hide. It wasn't a very subtle look, Josh had to
admit, especially as her crimson hair was teased out into
the archetypal hooker's mane; yet for all her screaming
115

sluttishness, the woman still had class. And so, in an equally
unlikely way, did her companion, despite the fact that to
Josh's mind the stranger looked just as sluttish as the call-
girl beside him.
He's her pimp, decided Josh, his suspicions of last time
confirmed by Tricksie's almost deferential demeanour. The
impression was only strengthened by the man's equally
archetypal choice of clothes . . .
In almost every movie and holovid, the evil, unscrupu-
lous pimp wore a flashy white suit. Josh couldn't be sure
that Tricksie's pimp was either evil or unscrupulous, but
he certainly wore the uniform: a fluidly cut white ensemble
in a fine lightweight linen that draped like a dream and
seemed to float over its wearer's body as he almost danced
across the room. Josh had never seen anyone move so
sinuously and yet still look all male. The white-clad man
sashayed forward like an albino panther, and to his utter
amazement, Josh felt a faint reactive twinge in his loins.
Maybe I am bi after all, he thought, unable to look away
from the stunning stranger, and feeling the hairs at the
back of his neck stand on end. Flustered, he managed to
wrench his glance from the pimp and turn to Isis.
Who was watching him closely . . .
'Diabolo has that effect on people,' she murmured know-
ingly as the couple seated themselves some distance away
at the other end of the bar.
'What effect? What the fuck are you talking about?' Josh
demanded, rounding on her.
'You know.' Her glance flicked to his groin, and Josh
could've kicked himself when his eyes followed hers.
Actually there was nothing showing as such - his jeans
and briefs were tight enough to contain any incriminating
bulges - but Josh had an irrational suspicion that Isis had
super powers, and in this specific case, x-ray vision.
'No, I don't,' he snapped, 'I was looking at them both.
Hell, Isis, the guy's so obvious, anybody'd look at him.
That suit is just too much.'
'Or too little.'
Isis's comment was cryptic until Josh followed her eyeline
116

straight to Diabolo's groin. Unlike Josh, the pimp was
obviously not wearing underwear. His semi-erect cock was
clearly visible through the pale summer-weight fabric of his
trousers. Josh looked away quickly.
But not quickly enough. Out of the corner of his eye,
Josh saw Diabolo glance narrowly across at him from under
the brim of a snow-white fedora hat.
'He's clocked you, you know,' whispered Isis. That
weasel has seven extra senses. He can sniff out sex from a
thousand yards.'
'And how come you know so much about him?' Josh
demanded, turning to her and choosing attack as his best
- and only - form of defence.
'Because he's a colleague of mine,' she replied smoothly.
Josh's jaw dropped at the implications, and for a full ten
seconds his mind went blank. Then came the questions.
'Are you a procuress on the side then?' he sniped. 'Do
you run a brothel as well as a fantasy machine? I wish I'd
have known. It might have been cheaper for you to get me
a few whores instead of frying my willy and scrambling my
mind. You could fix me up with Tricksie for a start.'
'I'm sure it could be arranged,' Isis said coolly. 'Although
I'm not a madam . . .'
'I'm sorry,' Josh said grudgingly. 'But I'd still like to
know what a shark like that has to do with you.' He nodded
in the general direction of Diabolo.
'Well, I won't deny the ol' Moon Devil is a bit of a cold
fish - ' Isis smiled faintly, 'but I wouldn't go so far as to
say he's a shark.'
'Moon Devil?'
'It's just a nickname Tricksie and I came up with.' Isis
nodded then to the woman in question; who, having obvi-
ously caught her own name, was smiling across at Isis. 'The
devil bit from "Diabolo": a corruption of the Spanish and
Italian words for devil. And the "moon" - well, Tricksie's
noticed that whenever there's a full moon Diabolo always
wants to fuck her.'
'Oh.' Josh was puzzled. 'I always thought it was strictly
business between whores and pimps.'
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'Not this whore and pimp,' Isis said breezily, Tricksie
adores him. She's besotted. And as for Diabolo . . . God
knows. I don't know if he feels anything for anybody. He's
pure ice. But he's got a prodigious, if somewhat spasmodic
sexual appetite, which Tricksie is more than happy to
feed . . . when the moon's full, of course.'
There's a full moon tonight,' observed Josh, glancing
over his shoulder at the big picture window - and a full
and strangely oversized moon hanging high in the City of
Night sky. 'Looks like Tricksie might be getting an unpaid
fuck.'
'Or something,' Isis commented quietly.
The other couple were barely speaking, yet seemed com-
pletely absorbed in each other; and this gave Josh the
chance for some discreet observation.
Diabolo's facial features, skintone and hair all betrayed
his Latin heritage. His hair was blue-black, longish and
straight, framing an olive-complected face that was all fine,
handsome angles and knifelike Hispanic cheekbones. It was
the hardest, coldest face Josh had ever seen, yet the man
had a potent sexual menace that seemed to hiss around him
like a living flame.
Diabolo was also obviously quite phenomenally hung and
obviously didn't give a damn who knew it. As if on cue,
the man shoved one hand in his pocket and tightened his
thin white trousers across his groin, emphasising his half-
risen prick.
No wonder Tricksie's mad for him, thought Josh ruefully
as his own prick throbbed. A tool like that could split a
woman in two - even one who'd seen as much action as
Tricksie.
Don't think about it, he admonished himself, but was
helpless to stop his souped-up mind presenting him the
naked Diabolo. The man would be thinnish, yet strong,
his skin dark and gleaming, his body hair soot-black, his
prick long, purple, meaty and substantial. Appalled, Josh
found himself imagining what it'd be like to suck. How it
would feel to take that huge rod inside him. In his -
Oh God, please! What's happening to me? he begged
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silently. Moving uneasily on his stool, he imagined the
transceiver probe in his backside, then sobbed inaudibly as
his precocious imagination turned it into Diabolo's gigantic,
throbbing cock.
'Are you all right?' enquired Isis at his side.
Josh snapped gratefully back to reality. 'Yeah, I'm fine,'
he lied.
'You made a sort of moaning noise. It's not your time of
the month too, is it?'
'What?'
'You moaned and wriggled about. You looked how I feel,
as if you'd got the red rag blues.'
Josh took a pull of his drink and thought about Isis's
words and a lot of other things - in particular a certain man
in white. 'I almost wish I had,' he said quietly, giving in
to the relief of confiding in her. 'It'd make some of the
feelings I'm having more acceptable . . .'
'Don't worry, Josh,' she said softly, pressing her black-
clad fingers over his. 'There's nothing to be ashamed of.
There's nothing wrong . . .' She paused, seemed to con-
sider, then went on. 'I often have sexual feelings about
Tricksie.'
'You do?'
'Yeah. So I've done the logical thing. I've had sex with
her to see what it was all about.'
Josh's mind boggled and his crotch pulsated. What a
fabulous, fabulous concept. The most intriguing woman
he'd ever met, making it with the one who was probably
the second most intriguing - even though he'd never actu-
ally met her!
'And - and how is it?' he stuttered.
'Beautiful,' Isis replied simply. 'She's an accomplished
lover, with either sex.'
'That I can well believe,' replied Josh in a low, awestruck
tone, his attention on the crimson-haired whore now, rather
than her erotically dangerous pimp. His imagination put
up a panoply of steamy images: Tricksie and Isis entwined
and loving in every imaginable way, kissing, sucking,
fingering and stroking; using mouths, hands, dildoes;
119

giving pleasure and receiving it; blowing each other's
minds. He set them top to tail, and the vision was as
harmonious as it was sexy. Dainty red mouths nibbled at
dainty red cunts. Both were pale women, yet together they
were piquant: Isis's multicoloured hair shimmered like wat-
ered silk on Tricksie's white belly, while the whore's scarlet
curls were a fire-cascade between her lover's long, graceful
thighs . . .
'And do you . . . er . . . often? Josh offered tentatively,
his eyes struggling to focus on reality.
'From time to time,' Isis answered matter-of-factly.
'Usually when Diabolo's giving her a hard time, which is
what appears to be happening right now.'
'How do you mean, "hard time"? Does he beat her up
or something?' Josh followed her look, aghast at the
thought, yet unable to ignore his stereotypical ideas about
the sex industry.
'He doesn't "beat up" as such.' Isis's voice sounded
tightly controlled, under stress, and Josh wondered just
how deep her relationship was with both the parties
involved. 'But he does "hit" now and again.'
'Has he ever hit you?' Josh demanded in a sudden flash
of insight. Maybe this Moon Devil was more than just Isis's
colleague?
'No. But then again, the relationship between us isn't
quite that deep.'
How deep was deep?
'Have you ever fucked him?' asked Josh as acute jealousy
added itself to the stew of emotions churning his guts. The
feeling was fiery and for a moment quite all-consuming,
although he was at a loss to know exactly whom he was
jealous of. And which of the three - at this precise instant
- he wanted most, the whore, the pimp or the mad doctor?
'Yes,' she replied evenly, stunning Josh to the core yet
again. Because she'd resisted him, his ego had slyly been
telling him she didn't screw at all; and now in the space of
a minute, she'd calmly revealed not only an ongoing lesbian
relationship, but the fact that she'd had sex with a man she
herself admitted was a stone-hearted sadist!
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'Why?' he asked numbly.
'Because he's got a great big prick and he's a fabulous
lay,' she answered with an edge of cruelty, 'and - because
he's a misfit himself and he knows it. It never feels like a
pity fuck.' On the word 'pity' she turned to face Josh
square-on, as if to remind him graphically of what made
her a misfit.
He imagined them then, two outcasts fucking like stoats.
Elegant, intellectual Isis with her tragically flawed face, and
lean, volatile Diabolo with his criminally flawed personality.
It'd be like a clash of two ice gods: two characters who
were so cool and detached writhing in a white-hot physical
mesh. Two bodies, one pale and one olive . . . Cunt and
prick. Sloshing and stabbing. Coming . . .
'And is it "beautiful" with him too?' he demanded sav-
agely.
That's not exactly the word I'd use to describe it,' she
answered neutrally. 'And you know precisely why I can't
fuck you, don't you, Josh?'
The bitch had read his mind again. Or at least some of
it.
'Okay, already!' he snapped. 'But is it good with him
then?'
'Yes it is,' she said at length. 'In a purely technical sense.
He's been a male whore himself in his time - for both sexes
- so he knows everything there is to know about fucking.'
She paused again, then held Josh's eyes with her own good
one, 'But there's no emotional involvement, if that's what's
bugging you. It's just physical satisfaction on both sides.
Sweat and orgasms. Feeding an appetite. Scratching an
itch. Bodies - and minds for the stage direction - but no
real soul involved. I doubt if Diabolo even has one.'
'Oh,' was all Josh could manage. His mind was a mael-
strom of emotions and erotic images. He did have a soul!
And that soul, along with his hard-driving physical need,
was just one huge knot right now, an impossible ravelling
of himself and three other, quite singular, human beings.
He wanted sex and he wanted it soon and he wanted it with
some, if not all, of this remarkable triumvirate. Isis was
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adamantly locked out, of course, but tonight's adventure
must contain the whore and the pimp, although in what
combination, Josh still had no real notion.
'About tonight,' he began. The adventure. I . . .'
Isis glanced across the room as he spoke, and as Josh
followed her eyes, he saw Tricksie gazing longingly at her
white-clad companion. Diabolo was staring moodily into a
glass full of something clear and decidedly sinister-looking,
unaware, it seemed, of his companion's presence. When he
did look up however, she tossed her head and assumed a
mask of haughty indifference.
Tower games,' observed Isis, then turned back to face
Josh. 'Do you want some of that?'
'I dunno.'
'You could find out something tonight, Josh, if you've
got the bottle.'
'What do you mean?'
'I can run you a gay scene with Diabolo. And then you'd
know how you really felt about it.'
Josh felt his erection throb at the idea, but his atavistic
dread was stronger than the bizarre twistings of lust. 'I
don't think so, Isis,' he said, biting his hp and not knowing
if he was doing the right thing. 'I'm not ready for that. I
don't think I ever will be. I can't explain . . .'
'You don't have to, Josh,' she said, suddenly gentler.
'Pleasurezone is about doing what you want. I can't force
you into things you don't want. I was just suggesting an
option.'
'But I'd still like ... Oh God.' He pushed his hair back
from his face in utter perplexion. 'It's the same old story,
Isis. I really don't know what I want.'
'Don't worry, Josh,' she replied confidently. 'I've got a
good idea of what to give you tonight. An "F & F". Trust
me. I'll set some parameters to suit and give you free choice
within them. You'll be all right. You'll see.'
Josh looked into those eyes then, those strange odd eyes,
and knew he would be all right. And he knew he did trust
her. 'Okay then,' he said, his heart lighter than it'd been
122

all night, and his rod harder. 'I'm ready now. Can we get
on with my adventure?'
4You bet.' Isis grinned and rose gracefully from her stool,
her pain apparently gone. She led him towards the back of
the room and the red-baize-covered door.
'What did you mean when you said Diabolo was your
colleague?' asked Josh as he lay strapped to the treatment
table, his arse impaled on the transceiver probe.
During most of his preparation it'd been difficult to think
of anything or anybody but Isis. Her gentle hands had
readied his body, and stroked his prick to renewed stiffness.
Her soft husky voice had calmed his still-recurring colly-
wobbles over restraints and drugs. Her slender, white-clad
body had strengthened his erection just by being close to
it.
But as the fat bung had slid deep inside his shuddering
bottom, Josh's psyche had dragged him kicking and
screaming back to thoughts of the nattily suited pimp and
to what the invasive probe was so horridly reminiscent of.
He felt himself hovering on the brink of an orgasm, helpless
in the grip of an exotic full-sense vision of Diabolo bugger-
ing him. His own prick shuddered as he seemed to feel
Diabolo's penis remorselessly reaming his hole, its rigid
length and width stretching him to a delicious but eye-
watering openness . . .
'Oh God, Isis. Help me! I'm going to come,' he pleaded.
'Talk to me, tell me what you meant . . . '
'It doesn't matter if you do come, Josh,' she murmured
soothingly as he stroked back a few stray locks of hair,
clearing his brow for the mask, 'but all the same, I'll answer
your question . . .'
Folding back his soft yellow shirt, she began placing the
less intimate of the sensors, the one in his rectum and the
one at his cock-tip being already unequivocably in place.
'I refer to Diabolo as a colleague because he is one. Who
do you think looks after Pleasurezone's female clients?'
'Are you nuts?' Josh cried, struggling to sit up, realising
he couldn't, then gasping for air as he sank back even
123

deeper onto the probe. When he could speak again, and
Isis had wiped away the pre-come drooling from the end
of his prick, he went on. The man's a psycho, a sadist.
You don't mean to tell me you let him loose with naked
women trussed up like this?' He nodded downwards to his
obscenely spreadeagled body all festooned with its straps
and wires and sensors.
They're perfectly safe,' Isis said calmly as she primed a
hypo and then injected the hallucinogen so skilfully that
Josh barely felt it. Til admit that Diabolo isn't perhaps
completely "normal", but where Pleasurezone's concerned
he's the best man for the job. It's hard to explain. He's a
chameleon, a transformer. The Diabolo the lady clients all
fall in love with isn't the same man who slaps Tricksie
around. This is business to him; it's a separate compart-
ment. And he's a superb therapist, a natural. I should
know. Somebody has to prepare me when I try out the set
pieces . . .'
Not for the first time, Josh imagined Isis secured to this
very same couch, her beautiful naked body all aroused and
plugged and wired . . . Then, due to the drug he supposed
dreamily, the picture wavered and Isis's svelte shape
became Tricksie's more sumptuous one; the soft tabby hair
at Isis's groin became Tricksie's almost fluorescent scarlet
bush . . . and over it, attaching sensors with an artistic
delicacy, leaned the whip-slim form of the mysterious Diab-
olo. Jacketless this time and sans his stylish fedora, he'd
rolled up the sleeves of his blue silk shirt and loosened the
knot of the white tie he wore with it. His stark, Latin-black
hair gleamed cobalt in the diffuse lighting.
'She loves him, doesn't she?' Josh mumbled, already
drifting. 'He's a raving loony but she loves him. Tricksie
loves him . . .' He could hardly see anything real now; the
dreamscape was forming beneath the mask . . .
'Yes, she loves him . . .' a satin voice murmured nearby.
'You love him, sweetheart. You love him like crazy and
there's nothing you can do. You're his, Tricksie, all his . . .
You love him, Tricksie, my sweet. You love the devil
moon . . .'
124

7 Devil Moon
... the moon. The moon was so bright and hypnotising
tonight that Tricksie Turing blinked and wondered if she'd
fallen asleep while watching it rise.
'It's that ol' devil moon,' she sang softly to herself, shiver-
ing and burning in the same confusing moment. That old
devil moon in my cunt.'
Wishful thinking, Trix old love, she told herself. But she
still couldn't help hoping he was on his way now. The Moon
Devil. Diabolo . . . God how she hoped he was coming.
He was like a narcotic to her, a drug her body screamed
for. For Diabolo she'd do anything, or have anything done
to her. Anything - by, with or to anybody. No outrageous
or disgusting act was beyond her, just so long as it led,
ultimately, to him.
Whether she took a punter inside her, in her mouth, her
cunt or her arse, the man always thought he was the one
she screamed for, or groaned for, or came for. Oh God,
the poor deluded soul would think, a whore with orgasms.
She's fabulous. She's gorgeous. She's the best lay I've ever
had.
And back they came - the tricks that Tricksie tricked -
again and again and again. And pay they did, in ever-
increasing amounts, little realising that to Tricksie they
were completely transparent. She never saw them. It was
Diabolo's face she saw, his body she stroked or licked,
his prick she took into her mouth or her snug, drooling
vagina . . .
It was cold tonight and, feeling chilly, she cinched her
silk kimono more tightly around her. The luxurious robe
125

felt cool and sleek against her skin, and reminded her
potently of its giver. Diabolo was strangely generous given
the sterile nature of their relationship, and the brightly
patterned kimono was just one of many gifts. The fabric
was fine as cobwebs, and the design legendary: unicorns,
dragons and triple-headed tigers pranced, slithered and stal-
ked across her body, and Tricksie wondered, for the
umpteenth time, why her pimp gave back so much of what
he took, and how long this game of give-and-take had been
going on.
Tricksie had no recollection whatsoever of ever actually
meeting Diabolo. It was as if he'd always been there, and
that he'd tampered with her memory to make the
impression fit. Like a thief in the night he'd stolen her life
and made it fiction. It was an effort to remember her real
name.
Plagued by restlessness, Tricksie stared up at the full
moon, watching it ride serenely through a troubled sky. It
seemed bigger and brighter than usual. A sign, maybe?
Had she been right to hope he'd visit tonight? That he'd
decided to use her freely offered body, to slide between her
ever-open legs?
Maybe, maybe not. She leaned towards optimism,
though, because this pimp of hers had a peculiar affinity
with the moon. Both were unfathomable and silvery, and
both had control over women's lives. Especially this
one's . . .
But therein lay a snag. As if to emphasise her lunar
regularity, the muscles of her womb yanked her with an
agonising spasm and Tricksie knew she'd started bleeding.
He'll come now just to spite me, the pig, she thought
resignedly, reviewing her preparations for a full-moon fuck.
She'd cancelled a late client, bathed at great length, spent
hours taming her thick red hair. Perfumed and preened,
she'd sat down to wait for his lordship - and now this!
Diabolo, bugger him, was almost unbelievably pernick-
ety, which was peculiar, given the seamy world they both
lived in. The man was fastidious to the point of being
126

phobic, and Tricksie was astounded he'd even consort with
one such as her, a vessel who'd held so many . . .
But consort he did, and fuck. He'd screw her with a
blinding and beautiful ferocity, and after each coupling
he'd leave her a small, white satin pouch full of fragrant
dried herbs. These she'd infuse into a cleansing wash to
use after her clients' attentions, and before those of Diabolo
himself. She could feel its tingly freshness even now, being
slowly eroded by the inexorable slither of her blood.
Oddly enough, Diabolo had never said a thing about the
mysterious pot-pourri; it was as if he was allowing Tricksie
just this one curious thing to work out for herself. She kept
the mixture in a black lacquered box on her dressing table.
This pretty objet - with a silver inlay in the shape of a
peacock - was also something he'd given her one night
when she'd given him a particularly special item from her
repertoire.
She smiled ruefully. He'd hurt her. Holy Christ, he'd
half-killed her! But afterwards he'd been heavenly. He'd
returned for four nights.in succession, fucked her to obliv-
ion and back in a hitherto unknown phenomenon - and
Tricksie had worked far, far harder for his pleasure than
she did for even the best of her payers!
She ran her hand across the box, touching, remembering.
By night, Diabolo and his mouth, his prick, his hands; by
day, her own voluptuous devices. Lolling around the flat,
waiting, wanting and touching herself; fingering the cunt
that Diabolo had stroked and kissed and screwed; mastur-
bating like a mad thing, then coming and coming and
coming as imagination made her fingers into his.
But it couldn't last, of course.
After the fourth perfect night he'd said 'OK, back to
work,' then disappeared for several long agonising weeks.
Right now, it was four days since Tricksie had last seen
him. Or was it five? Her need for him could expand to fit
any given length of time. Kicking off her pom-pommed
slippers, she lay back on the bed and groaned. Sleep was
impossible, yet she couldn't do anything. She could barely
think. She'd got books, discs and holovid to amuse her,
127

but with only a fraction of her attention available, they
were useless. She lay still, inanimate, wanting Diabolo yet
too numbed by her craving even to attend to her own
seeping body . . .
Suddenly and shockingly, gooseflesh rose across the
whole surface of her skin. Her heart went be-bump be-
bump be-bump in her chest; then an invisible fist gripped
it, squeezed it and held it tight. Across the room she heard
the clicks of her digital lock.
Only one other person knew the combination. The door
opened and a figure moved into the shadows, turned back
noiselessly, and dropped the latch. The moon's light defined
a male silhouette, a slim form which spun to face the room,
then paused as if probing the darkness. Two steps forward
- into the shaft of radiance - and there he stood . . .
In the stark blue-toned glow his face seemed carved from
alabaster, and to Tricksie's besotted eyes he was everything
godlike. An icon of Latin hauteur, this enigma could break
her heart and churn her cunt with a single sharp glance.
And she wasn't the only one he dazzled. When they were
out together at La Selene, planning strategy, she'd seen
both the sexes gaping at him, ogling him shamelessly, lust-
ing for his pretty face and his lithe, sensual body.
And Diabolo, fully aware of his devastating looks, knew
precisely how to dress them up. A street dandy of spectacu-
lar flamboyance, he had a penchant for sharp suits, and a
cool, impressive way with hats. He carried himself like a
marquis and looked out upon his world and its denizens as
if they'd been created purely for his convenience.
But for all his style and sang-froid, Diabolo couldn't
resist going over the top - and flaunting himself to breath-
taking excess. He wore trousers cut from the finest cloth
available, with nothing whatsoever underneath. The poor
bewitched fools who perved at him didn't know where to
look first: his soul-catching face or the clear, insolent outline
of his rampant prick!
You're a slut, Moon Devil, she told him silently. A
shameless, flashing slut! In that suit you might just as well
be stark naked!
128

It was Diabolo's favourite ensemble: a pimp's cliche of
languid, lightweight linen that he wore with a snow-white
fedora hat. In the moon's light, his pale clothes made him
a phantasm, but Tricksie knew nothing could be further
from the truth. He was solid, real and deadly; far more
dangerous than any apparition, and a pure erotic temptation
she'd not a shred of strength to resist.
'What've you got for me, Tricksie?' he said softly, gliding
forward.
At the centre of the room, he halted. He wouldn't come
any further, because making Tricksie come to him was one
of his strategies. Twitching with excitement, she almost
wished he'd ordered her to crawl. The drug was at its
purest when she had to grovel. Rising to her feet, she took
her cache from the bedside drawer and said a silent prayer
that it'd be enough, and then another that she'd get her
reward. Oh God, please, yes!
Fighting her usual inner battie between pride and
delicious subservience, she curbed an urge to run and fling
her arms around him. This silent sexual war between them
turned her whole body into a huge naked nerve-end. His
cool look was like a caress flowing direcdy over her cunt.
Should she beg? Whimper for his touch? Abase herself for
his fingers, his hps, his prick? But instead, perverse as the
man himself, she walked slowly forward, then stood in
front of him. Waiting.
Tricksie and her pimp were nearly the same height; and
with her in her high-heeled slippers, they now stood eye to
eye. Stubbornly, she decided to resist him this time, defy
him by holding his gaze and not looking down. His brown
eyes narrowed minutely.
Oh God, I've done it again, thought Tricksie, recognising
a perennial dichotomy. His bearing, his body language, his
whole living aura implied that she should react as the classic
sexual slave, but she hadn't. Intimately conversant with
that scene, Tricksie could quite easily have assumed the
appropriate role.
But then she'd have tricked herself.
Because it would've made Diabolo despise her. It was
129

only real defiance he liked. One thing she'd learned over
the years was that he genuinely relished her pride, and
because of it, got greater pleasure out of its eventual subju-
gation. His idea of a good time was seeing Tricksie - the
empress of lust, who struck awe and trembling into her
customers - fall to the floor and keen like a hound for the
taste of his cock.
Tricksie had been so lost in her power calculations that
the first strike caught her unawares. Diabolo grabbed
roughly at the back of her neck, gripping it with one big
hand and immobilising her. A moment ago she'd challenged
him, but now her boldness was all gone. Something feral
glared out of those huge almond-shaped eyes and she tried
desperately to evade it.
But he wasn't having any. His fingers dug in, forcing
and pulling, and he made her mouth come to his. He was
slow and implacable, and when his lips took hers, her
whole body became loose and bendy, and her dribbling cunt
turned to pure liquid fire . . .
The kiss was his tour de force; he crushed her mouth,
chewed on it, bruised it. His free hand slid into her robe
and his fingers closed tightly on her nipple: pinching and
twisting, his lacquered nails cold and deadly. It hurt, it
really hurt, but hot need pooled like molten lead in her
belly: thick, low and voluptuously sinking. She felt fluid
stream freely between her thighs, and had no idea whether
it was blood or the cunt-juice this man caused so easily to
flow.
His nasty little cruelty took the last of her will, and
her struggles suddenly became stylised, just part of his
choreography. She tried to cry out but the sound tangled
around their tongues. He deepened the kiss, made it harder,
then harder still, heedless that he hurt his own mouth as
much as hers.
Tricksie fought to smile, liking the idea of his pain, and
knowing that in her own way, she was as twisted as he was.
And even though her mashed mouth couldn't form a grin,
she felt Diabolo react to the intent. He tightened his pres-
sure on her teat, dragging delicately and pulling the whole
130

breast into a tortured cone. Tricksie groaned and slavered
under his hps, wanting to open herself, rub her running
cunt against him, grind her stained flesh against that smooth
white cloth.
When he let her go she nearly fell. Smirking unpleasantly
at her weakness, he stood over her, waggling his long fingers
in a 'gimme-the-money' gesture.
Bastard, thought Tricksie, gathering her wits and holding
out the cash. He took it slowly, courteously; then his free
hand whipped out, grabbed her shoulder and pushed down-
wards.
A grip like death put her on her knees. She daren't
look up, but it was no great hardship. Diabolo's white-clad
crotch was almost touching her nose, the immaculate cut
of his trousers enormously disturbed.
Her tormentor released her shoulder but only so he could
count the roll of money. She could hear the notes flicking
above her head. He loved the feel of real currency and
insisted she accept only cash.
Would he be pleased? Would it be enough? Could she
resist the urge to press her lips against that straining bulge
and mouth his prick through the milk-white fabric? Diab-
olo's voice, quiet and menacing, halted her silent ramblings.
'Get it out.'
Obedient, she unzipped his trousers and eased out his
tool.
He was hard as life, his member rising from his crisp
white flies like a great red prong. The tip looked so hot,
and so velvet-slick, that Tricksie had to swallow a rush of
saliva. Gulping a second time, and a third, she felt her cunt
undulate in concert, anticipating the nether-taste of him as
much as her tongue did his flavour.
'Suck it.'
His voice was curt, businesslike, but the quaver in it
betrayed him. Tricksie smiled, and did as she was told.
Gotcha, mister. She couldn't see that glorious face but
she could imagine it. He adored this. He was a vicious
hard-nosed brute but he still fell down before her superb
expertise.
131

She pictured him now, sweetness and ecstasy floating
across his fairytale countenance, his face a poem of pacific
tenderness so completely at odds with his harsh, insensitive
words. Then, for one instant, she imagined something she
couldn't name for fear it would evaporate.
His searching fingers confirmed her mindview: a feather-
soft touch on her cheek, a slow, slow tracing of her jaw.
His thumb outlined her lower lip and brushed against his
own embedded flesji. . . Tricksie relaxed, let her mouth
be pliant and encouraging. His other hand cradled her head
and she felt the banknotes crinkling against her tangled
curls. It was Diabolo's instruction - take me deeper . . .
And she did. Her lips and throat opened in a welcome
of heat and moisture. She drew him in, worked on him
with her dainty, darting tongue, and wrenched a long, low
howl from the very heart of him.
Triumph! The money, so efficiendy counted, went flut-
tering to the floor. Diabolo stood in the centre of his whore's
boudoir with his cock in her mouth and his multi-credit
bills scattered all around her. And Tricksie - queen, whore
and slave - had conquered her sleek, felonious lover, as she
always did.
Her tongue flickered and he gasped. She hollowed her
cheeks, sucking and slurping without qualm or mercy, and
his magical, musical voice soared moonwards in a litany of
starded yelps and moans: chuntering broken-up phrases of
pleasure, excitement, abandon.
'Yes yes yes, baby, that's it. Go on go on go on . . .' He
was balanced on the pinnacle of his own orgasm. Inches
from Tricksie's face, his thighs were twitching and trem-
bling, and beneath her clutching fingers the muscles of his
perfect arse bunched and spasmed . . .
'Ayeeeeeee!'
He clawed at her, his fingers digging mindlessly into her
scalp. Tricksie embraced his slender body, exulting in the
force and savagery of his thrusts, praying to love that she
could take their depth and power.
'Mama, Mama, Mama,' he shouted, his hips jerking, his
body jumping like a demented puppet. Tricksie felt semen
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in her throat: first spurting, then slipping, trickling,
flowing . . . Diabolo's semen. Tricksie swallowed it convul-
sively, absorbing his essence into her, drinking down his
very soul.
For an aeon, they were motionless . . .
Diabolo was soft now, sated, and Tricksie let his prick
slide from between her lips. Her lover was a statue before
her, a scorched but frozen mannequin: his head tipped
forward, his eyes obscured by the deep brim of his hat, his
hands hanging nerveless at his sides. He made no attempt
to cover himself, and Tricksie took a tissue from her pocket
and gendy cleansed the stickiness from his wilted flesh.
Indulging herself, she dropped a tiny kiss on the silky
tip, then returned the source of her pleasure to its white
enclosure. Neatness and order restored, she rubbed the
tissue across her hps, crumpled it and flung it across the
room towards the wastebin. The missile hit its metal target
with a muffled 'patt' and the minute, barely audible sound
seemed to wake Diabolo from his coma.
Tricksie, Tricksie, Tricksie. You're somethin' else,' he
whispered, stroking her head as if she were a well-trained
pet. With a fluid shimmying movement, he squared his
shoulders then plucked off his hat and studied it thought-
fully for a moment. He nodded slightly, then, flicking his
lean wrist, sent the hat spinning through the air towards
Tricksie's old armchair.
'Gonna take a shower, babe,' he said as it landed. He
sauntered across the room, discarding his clothes as he went
and leaving a trail of designer tailoring on the floor behind
him.
Tricksie sank back on her heels and stared at the after
image of his already naked body. Uh huh, what am I going
to do now? He's staying - and I've got a quimful of blood.
And as if her body had heard her silent question, it
reminded her tangibly of its condition. Tricksie felt a hot,
slithery sensation in her vagina and in a panic she clenched
the muscles of her cunt and arse. If his lordship found her
in a bloody kimono it'd gross him out for sure. He might
133

hit her - which she didn't really mind - or perhaps freeze
her with the cold acid edge of the voice he used so sparingly.
Physical pain would be preferable, infinitely so. At least
when he slapped her it usually ended up in some kind of
sex. And even though she was bleeding, she of all people
knew ways to amuse without penetration or even without
touch. One of Diabolo's favourite tricks was to make her
lie on the floor while he stood over her, fully clothed, and
ejaculated on to her upturned face. He'd aim for her mouth,
then laugh softly when he missed. After that, he'd usually
zip up without a word and leave. Tricksie would remain
where she lay, licking her semen-coated lips and rubbing
herself to a furious, gut-wrenching orgasm.
But still, as she glanced idly through the window at the
high coasting moon, Tricksie realised that by some freak
chance this was the very first time he'd turned up while she
had her period. Tonight was an unknown ball game, an
undiscovered country. Would he still stay when he found
out she was bleeding?
The slipping sensation came again between Tricksie's
legs and suddenly things were crucial. Moving across the
room, her body crouched and her gait ugly and crablike,
she opened her dressing table drawer and pulled out a
large white linen handkerchief. Flipping open her robe, she
jammed the snowy cloth between her thighs and held it
wedged against her cunt while she wondered what on earth
to do next.
She was stuck in a classic Catch-22 situation. The smell
and sight of blood might well send Diabolo running, both
for cover and the cunt of a non-menstruating woman. Yet
the very same female function that effectively put Tricksie
out of action also made her unbearably and agonisingly
randy. The yearning, the physical need for sex, was acute.
Her surging hormones made her so sexy she could cry with
frustration; her clitoris seemed to scream for pressure, the
rougher the better. It was twitching furiously right now,
and she could remember many a time past when she'd spent
whole days with her hands plastered in blood as she worked
unceasingly between her own legs.
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Surreptitiously, fearing that any second now the bath-
room door might fly open, she began to rock the wedged
handkerchief against her sensitive membranes. Sinking to
the carpet, she braced her back against the sturdy dressing
table, and tucking one end of the makeshift pad under her
bottom, started scrubbing her clit in earnest with the other.
Through half-closed eyes she peered at the trail of expensive
clothing that straggled towards the door, and as the pleasure
massed in her crotch she imagined the strange, coldly
beautiful creature who had so recently been inside them.
Try as she might, she couldn't remember a time when
she hadn't hungered for Diabolo; and as she glanced down
at her cunt, and the impromptu sex-aid moving rhythmi-
cally over it, she thought of all the ways he'd used and
demeaned that cunt in the course of their long and peculiar
relationship.
For instance, a client had expressed a wish for a particu-
larly 'juicy' woman, and so, prior to the appointment, Diab-
olo had simply pulled Tricksie into a barely private alcove
in the Mall outside La Selene, thrust his hand unceremoni-
ously into her panties and quickly frigged her to the
required state of wetness.
It hadn't taken long - just the sight of him made her
slippery, never mind his touch - but people were passing
by them all the time, and one tiny sound would've adver-
tised the fact that a young woman was being brutally mas-
turbated in a completely public place. Tricksie had had to
bite her lip to keep in her groans while Diabolo had expertly
pinched her clitoris and worked it up and down between
his finger and thumb, digging delicately into it with his
nails so the knifelike pain just prevented her from coming.
Juice had been dribbling down her legs as far as her knees
by the time she was eventually 'presented': a fact that filthy
beast had acquainted the punter with in crudely graphic
detail. Not only had he described exactly how it'd been
achieved, he'd also invited the delighted client to insert his
hand into the liquid evidence right then and there in the
bar!
On the same juice-loving client's next visit to the City,
135

Diabolo had used a different ploy; although this time,
thankfully, the moistening had taken place in the privacy
of Tricksie's flat. Lying on her back she'd been forced to
remove her knickers, pull her knees up tight against her
chest, and ensure that the whole of her slit was completely
exposed. Then, not deigning to stimulate her in any way
whatsoever, Diabolo had simply pulled out his dick,
wanked himself vigorously, and had spunked copiously and
with deadly accuracy straight on to her naked pink vulva.
Once again she'd been dripping all down her thighs for the
paying customer.
Yes, the Moon Devil had a thousand different ways to
bring his charge to heel; whether it be for her clients' benefit
or purely for his own warped entertainment. Shockingly,
thoughts of his various methods of subjugation were inten-
sifying the sensations between her legs. She moaned, in the
grip of a slight precursing spasm, and let her mind flow
back over some of his more recent outrages.
Always one to inflict casual pain, Diabolo had decided
one night that it'd amuse him to spank her. At his instruc-
tions, she'd dressed in one of her most chic outfits: a tailored
suit, a hat with veil, and close-fitting gloves. But no sooner
was she clothed than he'd issued a curt order that she strip
off every stitch from the waist down.
'How elegant you look,' he'd drawled, forcing Tricksie
to look at herself in the mirror.
Standing behind her, regarding their images balefully in
the glass, he slid his hands around and took hold of her
high, round, linen-clad breasts.
Tricksie didn't think she looked elegant at all. She looked
indescribably lewd, her primly covered top half accentuat-
ing the obscenity of her naked loins and thighs. Reluctant
to see the even grosser sight of juices beginning to dribble
from her lush vermilion bush, she'd looked away, only to
feel her breasts excruciatingly crushed and a bulging erec-
tion being jammed against her bare bottom.
'Look at yourself,' he snarled, shoving her knees apart
with his own to exhibit her more shamefully.
They stood like that for five long minutes. Tricksie stared
136

transfixedly at their reflection while Diabolo continued his
cruel gouging of her breasts - at the same time delicately
licking the soft skin of her neck and humming a familiar
little tune to himself. Her cunt was drooling by now, love-
juice hanging in heavy silvery strings, her flesh almost
burstingly aroused; but she daren't touch herself for fear
of incurring his wrath.
At long last he pushed her away, strolled over to a
straightbacked chair and sat down. An imperious gesture
brought her to him, and as she stood waiting and trembling,
he'd stripped the glove off her right hand, then arranged
that hand meticulously over her own slimy crotch - very
carefully positioning her middle finger directly on her clit-
oris. Thus readied, he'd ordered her to he across his lap,
with her hand still between their two bodies. His last
instruction was that she rub herself continuously, without
a single second of let-up, while he administered a prolonged
smacking to her pale, shivering rump. Within moments she
was coming - violently and repeatedly - as Diabolo turned
the whole of her exposed backside into a mass of flaming
agony . . .
One consolation, however, over the long, painful hours
that'd followed, was that the punishment had made Diab-
olo's right hand sore too - and Tricksie had had to take his
penis in her own hand to wank him to his climax.
Reliving that memory, and almost feeling that stiff, yet
velvet-skinned rod beneath her fingers now, Tricksie was
suddenly whirled into orgasm. The delicate pulsing contrac-
tions tore furiously through her cunt, and a vivid down-
pushing squelch sent blood and sexual juices streaming out
into the handkerchief. She moaned as her clitoris fluttered,
then eased the cloth away to watch the wild beating of her
own glistening bud. The blood was red on red, scarlet on
scarlet as the tiny organ jumped in time to the steady
pounding of her heart . . . Pressing the cloth against herself
once more, Tricksie rolled silently on to her side and lay,
breathing slowly and returning to earth, as her spasming
body grew still and her menstrual flow oozed out on to the
fine white handkerchief. Diabolo's handkerchief . . .
137

The spanking had been just one occasion amongst many.
Almost sleepily, she recalled an instance three weeks ago,
when Diabolo had decreed she take a night off to spend
watching holovid with him,
A cosy evening in front of the box?
Sort of. Diabolo had watched a pornographic film, a
boxing match and an episode of a popular soap, while
Tricksie spent the whole evening on her knees, with Diab-
olo's prick in her mouth and her finger lodged up his anus.
He ejaculated seven times in the course of his viewing -
although the last few comes were virtually dry - and Trick-
sie ended up with cramp in her finger and tongue, and such
an appalling ache of sexual frustration that she finally broke
down and wept. Only then, and with no discernible
acknowledgement of her tears, did Diabolo quickly and
roughly frig her to orgasm.
Tricksie knew she ought to get up, and do something
about herself. But the recollection machine was running
now, and she was helpless in the grip of her beloved's past
cruelties, the cruellest of which occurred when they weren't
even together. When Diabolo plunged his cock into another
woman's cunt, he first made sure that Tricksie knew full
well it was going to happen. And knew to the precise instant
when it was going to happen, so she could eat her heart out
as she imagined the scene.
Yes, Tricksie was so familiar with his demonic perversity
that she knew beyond doubt that if Diabolo said he would
be penetrating a woman at a certain moment, he would be.
She could look at her chrono and know that at that very
instant he would be pushing his tool between some lucky
woman's sleek, glossy labia.
His most notable atrocity of recent months was to screw
the only woman Tricksie could possibly count as a friend.
She'd rationalised the event since, but at the time it'd
seemed a double-handed blow. Not only was Tricksie jeal-
ous of Isis being fucked by Diabolo, she was also jealous
of Diabolo for screwing a woman she herself had had sex
with.
Yes, it'd been a dark green hour when he'd left Tricksie
138

alone in La Selene with the knowledge of where he was
going. Yet she couldn't blame her friend Isis, because when
he'd made his mind up, Diabolo was completely irresistible:
to women, to men, and even to those who weren't quite
sure!
It'd also helped to kid herself that Diabolo was merely
bonking Isis as a favour, because, being badly scarred in
an accident, she couldn't pull a sex partner in the normal
way.
Which, Tricksie had to admit, swigging down Campari
after Campari, was a complete bunch of crap. Because scar
or no scar, Isis was gorgeous. Not only was she slender,
elegant and charismatic, she was also deeply mysterious,
dazzlingly intelligent and involved with Diabolo in some
kind of exotic business enterprise to which Tricksie had
not been made privy.
And on top of that, the generally all-round amazing Isis
was also sensational in bed. Inventive and graceful, the
scarred woman had, perhaps, the prettiest cunt Tricksie
had ever seen. Or tasted . . .
Yes, Isis was a delicious lady, and with her taste on his
lips, Tricksie suspected Diabolo would be quite a different
man. Because Isis was a lady, he'd most likely be tender
and respectful, and make love to her with the sort of con-
sideration and delicacy he didn't waste on his whore. Yes,
that was it! He'd make love to Isis. Not shag, fuck, poke,
or screw - the terms best employed to describe what he did
to Tricksie.
Not that she'd even get those when he found out she was
bleeding.
Dropping back into herself, Tricksie realised that the
shower had stopped running, and with practised efficiency
she brought herself to a quick but fairly automatic orgasm.
The physical throb relieved some of her distension but it
was a far from transcendental experience. With no stage of
hazy repletion to go through, she made swift calculation
and squinted across at the door . . .
All clear. Time to check out the state of her cunt. . .
Surprisingly the handkerchief was only slightly bloodied.
139

After a quick rummage in her knicker drawer, Tricksie
pulled on a pair of red stretch-lace panties to keep it tempor-
arily in place, and, safely padded, she set about retrieving
and folding Diabolo's scattered clothing . . .
And now the water was no longer running, she could
clearly hear that most curious and unlikely sound - the
king of stone-faced cool singing his heart out as he towelled
himself dry. When his ablutions were over, there wouldn't
be another such sound out of him, so Tricksie made the
most of his strangely harmonious voice while it was avail-
able; and wondered, as she often did, why Diabolo had
never become a rock star. If he'd been a singer instead of
a pimp, they might've had a more normal relationship . . .
When silence finally fell, she waited a couple of moments,
then pushed open the door to the bedroom.
Diabolo was lying stretched out on her bed, stark naked
and relaxed, his lean olive-skinned body an exotic graven
image against the ivory satin quilt. As ever, he was bright-
eyed and wide-awake, and his current occupation was the
study of his long, slim hand and its slow, rhythmic move-
ment between his legs . . . Tricksie's eyes widened. Wrap-
ped around his thick dark prick was the pale pink raw
silk camisole she'd shed earlier and left draped across the
bed . . .
'I was tidying your clothes,' she murmured, anticipating
a query over her tardiness. Smoothing her robe securely
across her front, she walked towards the bed and met the
neutral gaze in Diabolo's large brown eyes. He appeared to
be listening to her, quite intendy in fact, yet his smooth,
deliberate masturbation remained uninterrupted. His prick
was already almost fully erect, towering out of the crumpled
silk, its chunky knob glistening with his carefully spread
juices.
'Is that a fact?' he murmured absently, in a tone that
could have implied anything but at least wasn't overtly
angry. 'Care to join me, Trix?' With his unoccupied hand,
he patted the space at his side . . .
For a moment, Tricksie found herself stunned to immo-
bility, transfixed both by the physical beauty of the man
140

before her and by the unexpected gentleness of his invi-
tation. Diabolo was never this benign. Orders were what
she usually got, and this languid, laid-back amenability was
almost as scary as it was unexpected.
And the timing was lousy.
Tricksie felt like breaking something. For the first time in
all the years she'd known him, Diabolo seemed dangerously
close to being nice. And just when she should've capitalised
on this, and been able at last to enjoy lovemaking instead
of cold, contemptuous copulation, she was lumbered with
her period. It was no bloody wonder they called it 'the
curse'.
T . . . I'll... I won't be a minute. I need to wash,' she
stuttered, too stunned by malicious irony to make proper
sense.
'I thought you'd be clean already, babe,' he said quietly,
and Tricksie whirled around, anticipating his censure.
But Diabolo merely smiled a small, contemplative smile
and continued to slide her delicate, lace-trimmed garment
over his prick.
Til be as quick as I can,' she replied, trying to sound as
unconcerned as he did.
'No problem,' he murmured, sinking back into the bed's
softness as his hips began to lift in time to the regular
stroking movements of his silk-covered fingers.
But I'm afraid there is a problem, thought Tricksie in
the privacy of her bathroom as she tried to achieve the
impossible - an immaculate, blood-free cunt to present to
Diabolo. Her orgasms seemed to have stemmed the flow a
little; but there was still a slight trace of red when she
passed a cloth between her thighs. She was dainty, exquisite
and perfumed in all other respects, but the scarlet stigma
lingered depressingly on. There was nothing to do but go
back in there, admit it was the 'wrong time of the month'
and accept his lordship's decision. There was always a
chance he'd deign to be sucked off, or wanked ... or even
that he'd simply ejaculate over her as he so often did.
Allowing herself one final sigh, Tricksie jammed a couple
of tissues tight between her labia, slid the red pants snugly
141

into place and put her robe back on. Then, with a deep
breath, she drew herself to her full height and prepared to
return to the bedroom. Okay, so tonight was probably a
complete screw-up, but she was still Tricksie Turing, the
queen of whores, and she had one hell of an image to
maintain.
'What's up, babe?' Diabolo enquired, his fine eyes nar-
rowing as she approached the bed. As usual nothing was
escaping his seemingly omniscient notice.
In the split second of framing her reply, Tricksie
observed that her lover - if she could ever call him that -
was no longer erect.
Had he come? she wondered, then decided he most likely
had. There was a lacquerlike sheen to the surface of his
belly which suggested that the semen had skipped the now-
discarded camisole and landed there on his smooth brown
skin. He'd probably massaged it deep into his pores and
threaded it through the glossy black hair of his pubis . . .
What do you want me for then? she felt like shouting,
but knew she never would or could. He'd mark her if she
sassed him, and he'd probably be ready for sex again in a
few seconds anyway. He was capable of several orgasms in
fairly quick succession, and it wasn't unusual for him to
have at least half a dozen in a night. His powers of recuper-
ation were about as inhuman as the rest of him.
'What's bugging you, Trix?' he persisted in the face of
continued silence.
Tricksie made as if to turn away, but Diabolo like light-
ning, reached out and grabbed her robe. The slippery sash
unwound itself and the silky garment fell open to reveal
her lush breasts, her slim waist and thighs, and, where her
usually naked cunt was, the flimsy crimson lace panties.
'What's with these?' he asked, his voice cool as he pulled
her down on to the bed beside him and began to play -
ominously - with the fine elastic that spanned her belly. 'I
like to see your snatch, babe. I like you available.'
Tricksie tried to pull away and escape the long probing
fingers, but Diabolo's arm was like an iron band around
her waist.
142

'But I'm not available,' she said, turning in his hold.
Scared, but still proud, she looked straight into those enor-
mous, unfathomable brown eyes and said her piece. 'I don't
think you'll want to fuck me tonight, Diabolo. I've got my
period. My cunt's full of blood.'
It was almost impossible to quell her trembling, but she
managed it, and waited, motionless, in his arms for what
seemed like a lifetime.
His long black eyelashes flickered once or twice, but
otherwise the perfect face betrayed no trace of emotion.
Finally, Tricksie lost her nerve.
I'll do anything else you want, though,' she breathed,
reaching out boldly to touch his cock.
Expecting rejection, and possibly a violent one, she was
shocked to the core when his fingers closed gently around
hers and encouraged a familiar motion. His flesh stiffened
immediately.
That's cool, baby,' he murmured blandly, sliding her
slender fist smoothly over his still-moist tool. 'Let's just see
what happens, shall we?'
A million questions rose to Tricksie's lips but she ban-
ished them all. Don't ask, she told herself silently. Just take
what's on offer. You might never get a chance again . . .
Still slowly masturbating him, she pressed her mouth to
Diabolo's lips and slid her tongue between them. He
remained strangely quiescent under the kiss and the
manipulation of his cock; falling back, he let his hand slip
away from hers, and his mouth relaxed to allow a complete
exploration of its soft, wet interior. For the first time ever,
his tongue didn't fight her, but lay deliciously submissive
and teasable . . .
Feeling a sudden, primal excitement, Tricksie gorged
herself on him, tasting, plunging and ravaging as her fingers
moved on his rigid, velvety cock. It was unbelievable that
he was allowing this, but there was no time to wonder
why . . .
After a few moments, Diabolo inevitably took control
again, but in a new and oddly tender way. Gently disengag-
ing her fingers from his erection, he slid off Tricksie's
143

kimono and ran his hands quickly but lightly over her
longing body. He hesitated at the panties, seeming to exam-
ine the fragile texture of the lace; then, muffling her protests
with their still unbroken kiss, he eased the minimal garment
down her thighs and completely off her body.
'No,' she protested into his mouth as she felt him pluck
the tissue out of her cleft and fling it away.
'Yes,' he replied, then pushed his tongue deeper into her
mouth, and his fingers into a well of blood and pungendy
scented juices.
This can't be happening, thought Tricksie wildly as her
body told her in a thousand ways that it was. Her hips
writhed of their own accord as he caught up the rich sticki-
ness from her vagina and spread it carefully up onto her
unsheathing clitoris. She moaned in her throat, blessing
her tormentor's name as he slowly and delicately caressed
the lubricated bud, circled it and rocked it in a motion
Tricksie knew would soon bring her most sublimely off.
Thrashing her head like a madwoman, she shook away
his kiss and screamed 'Diabolo!' at the top of her voice as
the whole universe fell blazing though her loins and her
pulsing womb sent blood pouring out onto his possessively
enclosing hand . . .
It was several minutes before she was conscious enough
to worry about the mess, although she was fully aware all
the time of his warm fingers still pressed soothingly against
her vulva.
Looking down at last over their entwined bodies, Trick-
sie shuddered at the gory state of them both: her pale thighs
were slashed with bright bands of red, and Diabolo's right
hand was just one shimmering mass of blood. Struggling
to rise, she wondered frantically where to begin the
immense task of cleaning up, aware, as the silk sheet clung
to her thighs, that it too was daubed with her flow . . .
Take it easy,' he said quietly, pinning her easily where
she lay. 'Where's the fire?'
'We're all messed up,' she mumbled, hiding her face
and clenching her thighs in a futile attempt to contain the
bloodiness. 'I'd better get a towel or something.'
144

There's no rush for that, Trix.' Pressing his smeared
fingers to her face, he made her look at him.
'But - '
'But nothing.'
Slowly and deliberately, he brought his crimson-coated
fingers to his lips and sucked each one with a bizarre show
of relish.
Oh God, what kind of kinky game was he playing now?
This was the hyper-fastidious Diabolo and he was lapping
her menstrual blood as if it were the finest heather honey.
'My ... my blood . . .' she stuttered, her mind bog-
gling.
'Yeah,' he murmured, licking the tip of his little finger
and regarding it thoughtfully. 'Okay babe, on your back.
I'm gonna drink from the spring.'
Uncomprehending, Tricksie let him push her on to her
back. It wasn't until he scooted his slim body down the
bed and crouched between her red-streaked thighs, that
she deciphered what he'd said.
'No! You can't!' she cried, attempting to close her legs.
'I can,' he observed as he held her open effortlessly.
'Believe me, Trix, I can.' He laid his hand fleetingly over
her mouth. 'So let's keep this closed and these . . .' He
trailed one finger between her blood-covered labia, 'and
these wide open.'
Before she'd time to protest further, his unsullied face
was pressed between her stained thighs, and his tongue was
seeking her trembling clitoris. In an instant he was sucking
furiously where before only his finger had pleasured . . .
and Tricksie's disbelieving horror had turned to the most
voluptuous of pleasures. Her sticky thighs and hips flaunted
into the rhythm of his suckling mouth. Diabolo had never
been a great one for cunnilingus at the best of times, but
that he should do it now was almost as unthinkable as it
was fabulous.
Within seconds she was beyond reason, beyond thought,
and well beyond fathoming the enigma feasting on her
bloody crotch. In raptures, she wrapped her legs around
his head and dragged her heels convulsively over his strong
145

brown back - as for the second time in half an hour, he
brought her to a long, massive, flaming-scarlet orgasm.
Coming and coming and coming, she was a rag-doll who
existed only to do his bidding; her cunt was still palpitating,
and her mind unfocused, when she felt him slide himself
up her, hooking her long legs as he went, and almost
double her supple body under his. Caught in this vulnerable
flexion, with her vagina offered to his demanding tool,
Tricksie opened her eyes and saw a blood-smeared face
hovering over hers, smiling slighdy.
'Relax, baby,' he murmured absently as his prick went
slip-sliding deep into her trembling hole. 'Relax for Papa.
This is what you want. This is what you've been waiting
for.'
Pleasure piled on pleasure as her oozing flesh fluttered
around his sure, stiff rod. It was what she wanted, what
she'd always wanted! Hurling her bleeding body into his
thrusts, she exalted in the audible squelch of cock and cunt,
the ancient liquid joining of man and mate. In this at least
he was hers, and weeping with joy, she drank her own
blood from his kissing hps and surrendered all her senses to
a pure uncomplicated ecstasy. Through its mind-numbing
haze, she felt Diabolo's sudden violent plunge, and her
vagina, already awash, received the heavy pulse of his
semen. The whole universe echoed with his high inarticu-
late cry, and with it they were lost, together and one in a
magic blood-stained maelstrom ...
When next Tricksie opened her eyes, she stared down-
wards over the bodies of two painted savages. Long crimson
daubs adorned both Diabolo's lean frame and her more
sumptuous one. She hardly dare look him in the eye, this
man who shared her ruined sheets.
Yet when she did, he returned her gaze steadily, and
then reached out to rub gendy at her lower hp. Removing
her own stain, no doubt, absorbed through that long
orgasmic kiss.
'We need a shower,' he said, 'but I'm too bushed to get
one just yet. . .'
Tricksie had all she needed, in spite of her messy state.
146

Being held so comfortingly was completely unprecedented;
Diabolo usually rolled away immediately after pulling out,
and yet now he was actually cradling her in his arms . . .
as if he really cared for her.
'So am I,' she whispered, cautiously edging closer. Her
heart thumped happily when he didn't push her away.
Why? she thought blissfully. Why? She allowed her mind
to ask the question but wouldn't let it spoil the moment.
'I saw a man die today,' Diabolo said suddenly, as if he'd
heard her silent query. 'Killed by an old-style projectile
weapon. The bullet missed me by inches. I could've been
the one who bought it.' His voice quavered, and Tricksie
realised that this too was unprecedented. Ice-cool emotion-
less Diabolo had been and still was scared. He went on
almost absently, as if working out his own feelings rather
than simply recounting a happening. 'There was blood
everywhere. Blood . . . and he died ... It could've been
me.'
He said no more for the moment, but Tricksie felt his
hand move lightly on her hair . . . and heard the words he
hadn't spoken.
That was what all this was about. The silence was more
eloquent in its way than any of the few sparse utterances
this man had ever made. He'd nearly died . . . and he'd
come to her, Tricksie, for the ultimate affirmation of his
continued existence. He'd seen the blood of death
today ... but with her he'd found the blood of life.
'Kinda makes you think about what's important,' he
began again cryptically; yet to Tricksie the message was
loud and clear.
She was important to him. He'd turned to her rather
than any of the other women he must surely have . . .
'Some shuteye now, babe,' he muttered, touching her
hair again as she felt his body relax against her. 'Then
we'll have that shower . . .' Was this another first? Was he
actually going to sleep with her?
Glory halleluiah, it's true, she exulted behind sealed lips
as within seconds Diabolo began to breathe steadily and,
miraculously, was fast asleep.
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So you're human after all, Diabolo, Tricksie mused
drowsily as she followed him down into slumber. Not a
demon, not a spook or a zombie . . .
You're a man, my love. Not a Moon Devil at all. Just a
lovely man . . .
i a r»

8 Intermezzo III
... a man . . . Just a man ... a lovely lovely man . . .
'Of course you are, Josh. Of course you are,' said a voice
that didn't sound a bit like Diabolo. It didn't sound much
like Tricksie either . . .
So who . . . What?
Take it easy, Josh,' Isis said kindly, and in an instant
Josh knew who, what, where and how.
'Sheesh! That was an incredible trip,' he mumbled, sit-
ting up and rubbing his eyes to get rid of some bizarre
after-images. Red splodges hung in his vision, and made
him feel quite peculiar. Looking down, he sighed with
relief. He was half-naked still, but at least there was no
blood on him.
'Look at me, Josh. Look into my eyes. Let's make sure
you're back in the real world,' Isis ordered crisply. Still not
quite with it, Josh meekly obeyed.
Her scar made him panic for a second - its red-purple
whorls looked far too gory for comfort - but then he remem-
bered that was a mark that could never be showered away.
This is wild, thought Josh as Isis handed him a blanket
and he wrapped it around his exposed hips and thighs.
He'd woken in the lounge again, so she must already have
cleaned him up - but obviously he'd come to before she'd
had a chance to settle him on the settee.
I wonder if they're in the shower yet? he mused, then
shook his head again.
This is driving me nuts, he thought, grinning at the
wacky internal paradoxes of 'adventuring'. 'They' existed,
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but the just-finished episode had never happened to either
of them.
Tour boyfriend is one helluva guy,' he observed to Isis
as she put a glass full of a familiar amber fluid into his
hand.
'So is my girlfriend.' She winked impishly, an action that
looked positively weird with her odd eyes. The weirdness
made Josh shudder and feel good - both at the same time.
'As you're probably well aware . . .'
'God, yes,' he said with feeling, and took a long pull at
his drink.
The transition from woman to man had been cleaner this
time, had taken mere seconds, but it was still dangerously
easy to 'feel' as if he was Tricksie. Her larger-than-life
persona, and her mature, animalistic sexiness were far more
vivid in his mind than memories of young, virgin Layla.
It's probably because she's real and I've seen her in the
flesh. He sipped appreciatively at his whisky, considering
the difference between seeing and being.
'Isis?' he began tentatively.
'Yes?'
'Is what just, er, happened a true picture? Are Tricksie
and Diabolo really like that?'
'It's possible. Diabolo helped compile the database, so his
personality will have been pretty accurately incorporated.
And,' she paused thoughtfully, smoothing her finger along
a crease in her crisp white smock, 'and I should think the
"Tricksie" I gave you was pretty close too. She doesn't
really know much about Pleasurezone, but there's been
plenty of input on her from both me and Diabolo.'
Between them, they probably know everything about
her, Josh thought ruefully after Isis had left him to relax.
In a flash of deja vu he didn't really know who to be most
jealous of: Tricksie for having had Isis, Isis for having had
Tricksie, or that moody bastard Diabolo for having had the
pair of them.
There was no getting away from it; Pleasurezone was
incredible, but it was gradually shaking up his mind. One
minute he was a man, the next a woman; one minute he'd
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the hots for a cool mean pimp with an outsize tool, the next
he was going crazy over a mad but unfuckable doctor.
She'll be as randy as hell tonight, thought Josh, exploring
his new enlightenment. Menstrual hormones were known
to soup up the female libido; he'd read it in books. And
now he'd felt their effects for himself. Isis was ripe for
fucking, blood or no blood, and that same flow would make
her hot, wild, and easy to slip into. Just the way Diabolo
had slid into h-
'Get your head straight, Mortimer,' he snarled aloud,
snatching up his clothes and stalking into the bathroom.
But how would Isis deal with her enlarged sex drive? he
pondered, unable to stop taunting himself. Was it worth
another crack at her?
No, he decided regretfully. Her willpower was probably
as steely as her body was sexy.
Maybe she'll fix herself up with Mister Iceman, thought
Josh sourly. The all-fucking, all-slapping, all-belittling
Diabolo. At least that way she's sure of a great lay. Trying
out the idea of Isis with Diabolo tonight, Josh cursed him-
self for being a jealous idiot and great big sentimental old
softie. If the truth be told, he rather hoped the pimp would
be servicing his whore tonight. . .
Back in La Selene, it occurred to Josh that Isis too might
have a boyfriend waiting somewhere; some guy she was
free to fuck because he'd got nothing whatsoever to do with
Pleasurezone. There were several men drinking alone, and
Josh eyed them all suspiciously. Any one of them could
soon be enjoying the one thing he couldn't get from his
orgasmic 'adventures' ... the privilege of sliding between
Isis's long, slim and utterly glorious thighs.
And as he sipped moodily at his drink, his sixth sense
suddenly told him those thighs were approaching, even as
he lusted for them.
Sure enough, when he turned from the bar, she was
making her way towards him, weaving elegantly through
the tables and drawing admiring glances from each male
she passed, in spite of the purple stain on her face that she
was so convinced was hideous . . .
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'Hi again,' she murmured, slipping on to the stool beside
him and settling herself comfortably. He made to order her
a drink, but she was already reaching out to catch Guido's
attention. Josh felt a fresh jolt of arousal as her silk blouse
tightened across her slightly swollen breasts. The thin blue
cloth formed to the stiff outline of her nipples, and Josh
could almost taste their budding heat. Oh God, she was in
fabulous shape. Her body was just bursting with sex.
Looking around, Josh wondered where her more regular
bedmates were.
But... no Tricksie. No Diabolo. Were they together
after all? Making love instead of poking, fucking and screw-
ing? For the red whore's sake he hoped so.
'How are you feeling now?' he asked Isis, suddenly realis-
ing she seemed a thousand per cent more relaxed.
'Shouldn't that be my question?' She smiled over the rim
of her wineglass, and Josh realised something else too. It
was wine she was drinking ... so obviously she wasn't
planning on taking any more of her heavy-duty painkillers.
'Oh, I feel great,' he murmured, half lying and half
telling the truth. 'I was just wondering about - ' he flicked
a glance at her belly. And the soft vee where her black
velvet trousers encased her groin, 'Well, I was just wonder-
ing if your painkillers had worked. You don't seem quite
so uptight.'
'I'm fine now, thank you, Josh,' she replied with a slow,
rather smug little smile. 'The painkillers help, but. . .
Well, I've taken a more effective remedy.' Her voice tailed
off mysteriously and Josh's prick tingled as his suspicions
ran riot.
'And what would that be?' he enquired, wondering
whether he'd get an answer.
'Having an orgasm.'
He watched the smooth undulation of her throat as she
swallowed her wine. And imagined her arching,
groaning . . .
'But when - how?' he stuttered, knocked sideways by a
tidal wave of lust. He felt faint with a need to see her, to
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see this luscious woman climaxing, by his efforts, or her
own.
Tor a sophisticated man, Josh, you're very naive,' she
drawled, placing her glass neatly on the coaster in front of
her. From beneath her long black lashes, her good eye
twinkled mischievously. 'I diddled myself, didn't I?'
'But when?' Josh took a healthy swig of the fine single
malt he'd indulged himself with - and hardly tasted a thing.
'Just now?'
'Not exactly.'
'When?' His voice went hoarse as a delicious churning
in his balls told him he already knew the answer.
'While you were dreaming.' Isis's voice was faint too,
barely more than a whisper. And beneath the livid scar she
was actually blushing.
Josh's spine went to syrup and suddenly he'd an iron bar
in his pants. He wanted to know how and where. He
wanted the details.
'Were you near me?' he asked, his voice controlled as he
reached out and grabbed her hand, hurting her with his
nails yet barely aware of it.
'Quite near.'
'How near?' he demanded roughly, resisting her attempts
to shake herself free. 'Tell me!'
For a moment they locked eyes, glaring at each other
like boxers in a clinch. But Josh felt full of power, and for
once, in ascendance over her. And Isis, ever the tactician,
succumbed.
'On the stool in the treatment room,' she replied, her
voice absolutely level and quite clinical in its lack of
expression. 'Almost a metre from your erection, I'd say.'
'Go on.' Josh's tone matched hers even though jungle
drums were pounding in his crotch. It was an effort to sit
up, to hold Isis's hand and his own glass. The riot in his
penis was at that second the single greatest sensation in his
life. His flesh need handling, touching, caressing, just as
Isis's body had needed the healing stroke of her own fingers.
How excellent it'd be to unzip and ease out his aching tool,
to expose that stiff veiny rod and then draw her slim leather-
153

covered fingers to his body and make them minister to his
need - at first delicately, then, as the fever rose, with a
furious jerking brutality.
Isis stared at him, her eyes as round as a scared fawn's,
her breasts heaving with the effort of confrontation. Josh
marvelled at the peerlessness of her shape, the perfect,
gravity-defying curves that scorned the support of any bra.
Her nipples were so clear to his eyes and so hugely dis-
tended that even the thin silk of her shirt was probably
acting as a discreet stimulation. They'd be so sensitive right
now, so vulnerable to pleasure. He wondered urgendy if
she could make herself come just by touching them?
'Go on,' he repeated.
Her rosy mouth opened as if to protest, but Josh silenced
her with a look.
'You won't fuck me. At least give me this!'
For a moment she was utterly silent, her tongue peeking
out, touching her full lower lip . . .
'Isis, please!' Domination turned to desperation and the
transformation worked.
'Okay. Where do you want me to start?'
'Wherever. Just start.'
'Well... I always feel horny at this time. Which I guess
you'd know all about after tonight.' She shot him a sideways
glance. 'And it's not easy to be ethical when you feel hot
for a guy . . She paused on Josh's indrawn breath of
protest. 'Okay, I know you think I resist you just out of
cussedness, but I do believe I'm right to. Anyway, I was
feeling randy as hell to start with and then seeing you
strapped to the couch, with that great body of yours half-
naked and your cock reaching for the ceiling . . . Godam-
mit, Josh, you're one helluva sexy sight when you're
wired . . .'
'But if you want me so much, why - '
'No, Josh, and you know why.'
'Okay. I'm sorry. Please, go on.'
'It just got too much, unbearable ... I had to touch
myself. Then. There. I had a little plug in of course, but
I could feel the juices oozing, the glands working overtime,
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the tiny ones just on the outside . . . My clit was so hard
and high it was killing me. I tried a sneaky rub through
my clothes, my smock and my panties, but it was no good.
I need lots of direct contact, hard action right on the tip of
my clitoris . . .'
Oh God in Heaven, Isis, I could give it you, Josh howled
silently, gnawing on his lip to keep lustful protests to him-
self. If he interrupted her at a crucial moment, his chance
might never come again . . .
Isis stared at her gloved hands for a moment while Guido
answered Josh's summons for fresh drinks; but when the
barman had served them and was safely out of earshot, she
shook herself free of Josh, took her second glass of wine in
both hands, sipped deeply and went on.
'I could see you were settled and stable and that every-
thing was going smoothly. You were muttering things too
and that made me feel even sexier. So I decided I'd do it
properly, frig myself to orgasm while you were safely out
of the world.
'I got off the stool for a moment and took down my
panties. I knew there'd be lots of time to put them on again
before you came round. I climbed back on to the stool with
my skirt rucked up. The leather felt nice against my
bottom. Just the way the couch does, Josh.' For the first
time she looked him in the eye, and he felt an even greater
pang of lust. There was so much fire in that lop-sided
face ... so much sex. 'I could feel my juices trickling on
to the seat, so I eased myself to the edge, spread my legs
more. That way I could get my fingers right into my fanny.'
The picture formed in Josh's mind and his cock twitched
wildly, his own juices oozing just as hers must've done . . .
That white smock, Isis's long sleek thighs, the furry patch
between, her clever fingers seeking . . . entering . . . rub-
bing in a sweet, fast rhythm.
'And then?' he demanded impatiently. His excitement
was on a knife-edge. She couldn't stop now!
'Josh, I -'
'Go on,' he pleaded.
'Then I touched myself.'
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'How?' he persisted, even though his imagination was
already directing the action. He saw the glossy mat of
reddish-brown curls, her labia quite clear through the hairs,
plump and swollen as her long fingers dove between. Even
her hands were sexy to him now; in spite of her scars, she
kept them beautifully, with nails painted and the flawed
skin exquisitely soft as if she creamed it several times a
day.
'I ... I rubbed my clit,' she stammered, her whole face
pinkening. Josh wriggled in ecstasy on his stool, her embar-
rassment like a caressing hand on his aching rod.
'Fast or slow? Hard rubs or just teasing?' Detail! He had
to have detail! And he'd drag it out of her even if it meant
the pair of them coming right here in La Selene.
'All right,' she hissed at him, her eyes going narrow and
hard. Josh shuddered under her fury, biting hard on his
abused lip to stop himself climaxing there and then. The
danger spiralled higher when she clomped her glass back
on the bar and twirled her fingers with the obvious intention
of illustrating her account with gestures . . .
'You asked for this, you bastard, so here it is. First I
slip this hand between my thighs.' Lifting her right hand,
she set her thumb at a wide angle, 'I'm a left-handed
wanker, by the way, Josh, so I use my right hand to spread
myself open, to part my pussy-hair and hold the lips apart.
It's pretty slippery down there, but I manage . . .'
Josh was acutely and intimately aware of her sudden use
of the present tense. He'd no idea if this was a true account
of what'd happened while he was under, but as she con-
tinued in a low, red-hot voice, he no longer cared.
'I hold my labia as wide open as I can, Josh. I like to be
able to look down and actually see my clitty. See it there,
all red and wet, like a juicy little berry ready to be sucked.
I wish sometimes that I was a contortionist, a gymnast who
could bend double and eat my own twat. I'd like to lick
my own clitoris, Josh, especially when there's a hunky big-
pricked man strapped to a table next to me. But he's asleep.
He can't see what I'm doing to myself. What a shame. He
can't see me looking down at my own snatch, watching as
156

this finger,' she raised her left hand directly in front of
Josh's almost-crossed eyes and waggled her middle finger
lewdly, 'as this finger dips into the gel-pot, takes up a nice
gluey load and then slips neatly between my cunt lips and
straight on to my clit.'
Between Josh's thighs, the situation was critical. His balls
were tight up against his body and he could feel his orgasm
speeding towards him in a shimmering cometary mass. His
penis was a pole of fire compressed agonisingly into his
tight pants ... It felt absolutely fabulous.
He daren't move. He hardly dared breathe. The slightest
agitation and his tortured rod would yield itself up insicie
his stretch-silk underpants. He suppressed a sigh, imagin-
ing the sticky and mortifying state he'd soon be in, sitting
in a pool of his own spontaneously ejaculated semen . . .
'I like the first touch to be hard, a long hard press . . .
no motion, just pressure. Testing the limits. Assessing.'
Josh's knuckles were white now, his nails digging pain-
fully into the edge of the bar. It was either that or hold his
crotch, with the instant and inevitable consequence . . .
'And when I know what I need, that's when the action
really starts. The gel feels nice. Cold and slippery and kind
of soothing. But I like to use my own juices too. It feels
less mechanical that way, more like an art. Makes it love-
making, not just a reflex ... Do you understand that,
Josh?' Her eyes, both sound and spoiled, blazed into his,
and Josh nodded with extreme care.
'So I slide my finger down to my hole and scoop up some
more liquid ... Of course when I've got my period I just
flick around the edges, take it off the little lips . . . but
when I haven't I stick my finger right inside myself, right
into my vagina to get the thickest hottest juices. By then,
my clit's all swollen, really big, out of its hood. So I bring
up that load of love juice and massage it in. Rub it in and
in and in until my hips start pumping and I - '
'Oh God! Oh God!' Josh doubled over his tormented
body as his own hips tried to mimic her words - and his
penis pulsed helplessly inside its prison. Tears squeezed
out from his closed eyes as his loins erupted in an exquisite
157

volcanic rush and the crotch of his silk briefs was filled
with a warm slippery wetness. For the first time since
adolescence, he'd come in his pants . . .
Dazed, Josh bowed his head almost to the bar counter,
and just sat there, hunched and gulping in air, for several
long moments. Isis had blown him away, all over again,
and he sighed as she laid a gentle stroking hand on his
shaking back.
'Are you okay, Mr Mortimer?' enquired a male voice and
Josh looked up into Guido's concerned face.
'I . . .' Josh began, with not the remotest idea how to
continue.
'Is it that headache again, Josh?' Isis intercepted
smoothly. Josh could only nod, then cover his eyes once
more; he wanted to kiss her and strangle her at the same
time.
'Could we sub a couple more of those painkillers of yours,
please, Guido?' she went on, then touched Josh's back
again as the barman retired in search of more pills.
'You just climaxed, didn't you?' she said softly, her fin-
gers moving lighdy on his shoulders, soothing and mass-
aging.
'I sure did!' he snapped, whirling and straightening up
in one jerky movement. 'Why did you do that? You won't
go to bed with me but you're quite happy to make a damn
fool out of me in public, talk dirty to me until I spunk in
my pants like a horny kid! What kind of pervert are you,
Isis? Do you get off on tormenting men like this, working
them into such a state that they can't control their own
pricks?'
Isis held her ground, uncowed by the fury that shocked
even Josh himself.
'I said what I said because you asked me to,' she replied
calmly, meeting his glare, her scarred face impassive.
'I'm sorry,' Josh said softly as his anger dissolved into
awe. Again. What was it about her? She had him around
her little finger ... Or was it the middle one, he thought,
eyeing her gloved left hand as his reviving prick gave a
158

tiny spasmodic lurch. 'Was it true? What you, what you
said . . .'
'Yes,' she replied evenly, as she too studied her hands.
'It's what I did while you were under. Exacdy what I did.'
Josh believed her, and went on dwelling on the revelation
for the rest of the fairly subdued evening. Nothing more
was said - on either side - about Isis's masturbation or the
need that had initiated it. Very litde was said on any topic
aside from the time of Josh's next appointment. They both
spent much time in silent contemplation of their respective
drinks.
Their parting was sparsely worded, but when he reached
the door, Josh paused, suddenly deciding he did have more
to say - even if he didn't know precisely what it was.
But when he turned and looked towards the bar both the
stools they'd occupied were empty. Like the mystery she
was, Isis had already disappeared.
From the bar maybe, but not from Josh's mind. And as
the hours passed, he realised, more and more, that the good
doctor Isis was now a permanent resident in this upgraded
imagination of his. Both Isis and the crazy dreams she took
him through, were his constant mental companions during
the fast elapsing days of his furlough. Not that he objected
to having Isis in his mind, but the resulting and almost
continuous state of erection sometimes made him long for
the damped-down torpor of Libidox. It was hard work
being rampant all the time, wanting a body he couldn't
have . . .
There was no let-up. If he saw a veiled woman across
the Mall, he felt like charging across to her, ripping open
his pants and screwing her then and there. If he heard a
voice in a crowd that sounded even remotely similar to
Isis's husky provocative drawl, he felt like racing to the
nearest men's room and wanking himself off to a solitary,
sobbing climax.
Jumbled into this obsession were fragmentary visions of
his 'adventures': pictures of Suleiman and Layla, Kenny
and Rio, vague yearnings for the voluptuous Tricksie, and
159

finally and most disorientating of all, a real desire to relive
the encounter with Diabolo. The dodgiest thing about this
being that he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to be
Tricksie . . .
He could answer all this via Pleasurezone. In the crypto-
reality of 'adventuring', he could finally - once and for all
- settle the suspicions that'd niggled him since his one
teenage encounter with homosexuality.
A gay trip would be the answer, but it all seemed dis-
tinctly unappealing beside his red-blooded craving for Isis.
In spite of his submission and her ordering him about, his
prick seemed to shout every time he thought about her . . .
It was yowling now as he walked into La Selene at the
appointed time. Cock, heart and spirits lifted as he saw her
familiar face and body, and then drooped, all three, when
he saw she wasn't alone.
What are you up to, he thought furiously. She was com-
pletely oblivious of his arrival and deep in conversation
with a - well, with perhaps the most sexually undefinable
creature Josh had ever set eyes on. With a conscious effort
he shortened his usually long stride and almost crept across
the softly carpeted bar. Anything to give him time to take
in the strangeness of Isis's new companion . . .
As he drew closer, the strangest thing of all was that Isis
and the unknown 'person' seemed, in a rather subtle way,
to resemble each other. In the best split-second reconstruc-
tion job he could do, Josh subtracted the scar from Isis's
fundamentally exquisite face, and found that her underlying
features and those of the peculiar newcomer were indeed
incredibly similar.
To confuse him even more, they were even wearing the
same sort of clothes, although Isis's trousers, shirt and
waistcoat looked - as ever - almost sinfully feminine, and
her companion's immaculate pin-stripe suit was sharp-tail-
ored to the point of severity.
The closer Josh got to the pair, the more his reaction-
shock-fascination grew. He was seeing Isis and yet not-Isis,
and consequently he experienced the coiling attraction he
already felt for her, combined with an atavistic revulsion
160

for the complete 'otherness' of her companion. He was just
about to turn and make an unnoticed getaway when Isis
called out.
'Hi, Josh! Over here. There's someone I want you to
meet.'
With a thrill of dread Josh closed the distance between
them, becoming more and more aware, as he approached,
of being intensely scrutinised by the weirdo at Isis's side.
And when he at last stood between the unlikely duo he
almost lost his nerve altogether. Isis's 'someone' was smiling
at him with a blatant and thoroughly undisguised sexual
interest. Large hazel-gold eyes, so similar to Isis's one good
eye, checked out Josh's jeans and leather-clad person; then,
with a unmistakably lascivious glitter, locked on his
already-swollen crotch.
'Josh,' said Isis, breaking what seemed far too much like
a spell, 'I'd like you to meet my cousin, St Etienne.' She
gestured at her ambiguous relative with a purple suede-
covered hand.
More snazzy gloves, thought Josh inconsequentially as
he held out his own naked fingers for a handshake he really
didn't want. 'Ett, this is Joshua Jordan Mortimer. You
might say he's an associate of mine.'
'Pleased to meet you,' Josh muttered grudgingly, then
was surprised to find his hand gripped in a firm, brief and
unexpectedly pleasant-feeling hold.
'Charmed,' replied St Etienne in a light, yet melodiously
husky drawl that had much in common with 'his' cousin's
alluring voice, and seemed at odds with such a strong,
assertive handshake.
'Ett's my only living relative, Josh,' said Isis chattily.
'We often meet here for a bevvy . . .'
'Ah yes, Ice my dear, we "outlandos d'amour" really must
stick together. Don't you think so, Mr Mortimer? I'm
deeply concerned, sometimes, to think of my cousin living
alone in the City . . .'
Josh nodded a vague assent, not quite sure what Isis's
painted cousin was on about, but fascinated all the same.
Close up the family likeness was striking, and although St
161

Etienne had straight hair, styled in a heavy blocky fringe
that skimmed the eyebrows with the rest gelled back aus-
terely and caught in a tail at the nape of the neck, it
appeared to be more or less the same unusual multicolour
of Isis's luxuriant waves. They certainly both had the same
clever hand with cosmetics even though St Etienne of
course had no awesome scar to deal with.
'May I get you a drink, Josh?' asked the sartorial one,
entirely unabashed by Josh's just-short-of-horrified stare.
'Hmm. Josh. That is what Ice called you, isn't it? Person-
ally, I think "Jordan" sounds far more distinguished, but
of course it's not up to me is it?' Josh's mouth dropped
open in amazement as the other one placed a long lacquer-
tipped hand on his arm, and accompanied the gesture with
a brazen fluttering of long black mascara-ed lashes.
Josh's heart did a somersault, and then seemed to drop
through the pit of his belly, as, to his appalled astonishment
he felt his prick reply with a loathsome throb.
It's because he looks like Isis, godammit, he shouted
inside. It's got to be! He could almost accept fancying a
brutally masculine type like Diabolo, but to get the hots
for this nancified oddball? Oh no. Oh no no no . . .
'Behave yourself, Ett,' Isis admonished lighdy, smiling
at both of them. 'Didn't you say you were waiting for
Bobbie?'
'Yes, and she's late again, the little bitch. If she doesn't
get here in the next five minutes, I'm going to ask Guido
out instead,' St Etienne said in mock petulance, smiling
coyly at the barman who'd just come up to take orders.
For Josh, shock piled on shock as, instead of the expected
disgust, he saw a flare of positive response in the young
blond's eyes.
My God, he's one too, thought Josh as he slid further
and further out of his sexual depth.
'What will you have, Josh?' asked St Etienne again in
the face of Josh's continuing and flabbergasted silence.
'Josh?' prompted Isis, grinning at him, with what seemed
like unwarranted mirth.
'Yes. Er . . . thanks, I'll have a white wine, please.'
162

'Guido, sweetheart, a botde of your finest, if you will?'
St Etienne reached out to stroke the barman's cheek affec-
tionately, then hopped off his stool and pulled up the one
beyond. 'Here, Joshua, sit between Cousin Ice and I.' And
when Josh was established on the plush-covered and faintly
warm seat, he continued rapturously, 'What a glorious pro-
file you've got, Josh. I could just die for a nose as straight
as yours.'
'Don't be so silly, Ett,' Isis chastised as the wine arrived
and was poured. 'You've had yours fixed twice already, you
surely don't want to change it again.'
The banter continued in this teasing vein for some time,
but Josh contributed next to nothing. He was acutely aware
of sitting in the heat so recendy emanated by St Etienne's
trim backside, and the sensation was uncomfortably
delicious.
Yet confusing as at first the whole scenario seemed, while
Josh sipped his wine and observed the two cousins' inter-
play, he recorded several at first comforting, and then
downright arousing facts . . .
St Etienne and Isis had even more in common than
was initially apparent: the same slender elegant neck and
throat... the same narrow delicate wrists . . . And when
St Etienne gracefully half turned and reached across the
bar for a cocktail titbit, the fine cloth of a close-tailored
waistcoat stretched across the same lusciously rounded
curves!
Isis's flamboyant cousin wasn't an effeminate homosexual
at all . . . She was a woman! And a thoroughly desirable
one, in spite of her cross-dressing and her outrageous man-
nerisms. More than that, she seemed a genuinely likeable
soul too: with a wicked, yet utterly contagious sense of
humour and a concern and affection for her scarred cousin
that was writ in letters too large to ignore.
Within minutes, Josh found himself positively fancying
St Etienne, despite Isis's potent presence at his other side.
The two cousins shared the same brand of sexual charisma:
in St Etienne it was atrociously blatant, and in Isis more
subtle and mysterious. In Isis their charm gleamed softly
163

and tantalisingly, while St Etienne blasted it out like a
multicoloured searchlight that rather nonplussed those it
fell upon . . .
'Oh, I'm so sorry, my dears, I'll have to leave you,' the
bright one said at length. 'There's Bobbie over there . . .'
She gestured grandly in the direction of a rather odd-look-
ing young woman who'd just entered: a pallid punkette
with a black bird's nest of hair and even more elaborate
make-up than St Etienne's. 'And she's pouting. I'd better
go and pacify her. Cheerio, Joshua, divine to meet you.
We must get together some time . . .'
Intrigued, Josh watched St Etienne make her way across
the crowded room towards what was presumably her girl-
friend. Many sets of eyes followed her, and it was clear that
some of them were as puzzled as Josh had been. Isis's
cousin had a fine, bold walk that could easily have been
assigned to either gender, and the clean pure lines of her
face made her an attractive member of either sex. The
whole signal was even further scrambled by the kiss she
gave the very obviously female Bobbie.
The unknown girl appeared from a distance to be rather
worked up about something and on the verge of tears; and
as St Etienne began to comfort her, Josh turned back
towards Isis and caught the tail end of an arch little grin.
'Okay, I admit it.' He reached for his drink, 'She had
me foxed there for a minute. I really thought she was a
man, and that you were setting me up for a gay trip.'
'Would I do that?' Isis's voice was pert and her good eye
twinkled roguishly.
'Probably.'
'Yes. You're right. It'd crossed my mind to see if I could
trigger you into a homosexual "adventure" for your own
good. But believe me, Ett isn't part of the plan. She just
happened to be here.' She raised her glass to her already
moist lips and Josh's lurching prick suddenly reminded
him which cousin it was he really wanted to screw. He
watched the undulation of Isis's pale throat as the wine
went down, and imagined her swallowing his come . . .
'Josh! Are you listening?'
164

'Sure,' he said honestly. He was actually listening to
her; it wasn't his fault that his mind was showing him so
graphically what could've happened if things were different.
Shifting slightly on his stool, he tried to manoeuvre his
engorged cock into a more comfortable position. Tell me
about your cousin. Does she always dress like that? What's
she - well, what's she into? Is she a lesbian or what?'
'All right, here goes. Ett started cross-dressing in her
teens, about the time she abandoned her Christian name.
She's Mary-Rose St Etienne, by the way, but she absolutely
hates it. And as far as I know, she's omnisexual. She's had
boyfriends, girlfriends, and various other "friends" who
were hard to put labels on. I don't know precisely what she
does with all these people, but I suspect everything would
be a fair bet. She's very arty; she writes novels, and her
imagination is unlimited, both in bed and out. Oh, and
in case you hadn't guessed, she's got a scene going with
Guido . . .'
'What? When she's not seeing Bobbie?'
'Oh, no. At the same time, I gather.'
'What kind of a manage is that?' Josh's imagination
instantly supplied several lurid images; and most of them
sped directly to his already-trembling tool.
'Who knows? Sex isn't algebra, Josh,' said Isis blandly.
'The equations don't always have to balance. Ett's never
described the actual plumbing of her sex-binges, but,
believe me, knowing her, the possibilities are limitless.'
'Yeah,' breathed Josh, his mind's-eye seething with gym-
nastically entangled bodies, contorted limbs, sweaty
arrangements of mouths and genitals ... He jumped and
almost spilled his drink when Isis gently touched his hand.
'Pleasurezone could make you a part of it, Josh,' she said
softly. 'If that's what you want?'
'You mean theyS he nodded to the still-talking St Etienne
and Bobbie, 'they could be my adventure?' He looked down
at the suede-clad hand on his arm, centred his spirit on the
slight contact and wished. Hard.
But when he looked up again, Isis was shaking her head,
165

despite what he took to be a tinge of regret in her mismatch-
ing eyes.
'With my cousin, Josh. And her friends. That's all I can
offer.'
'Okay, then, Boss Lady,' Josh answered decisively,
draining the last of his wine. 'I'll take the deal. Give me
an adventure with St Etienne and Co. One of your famous
F & Fs. If I can't have you, I'll have your kinky cousin.'
'Have St Etienne?' she enquired with a smirk. 'You fuck
St Etienne? Haven't you been listening to me at all, Josh?'
'How do you mean?' Josh demanded. 'No offence, but
I was assuming we'd be following the usual modus oper-
andi. A sort of "you let me see her, then I dream about
sucking it up her" scenario?'
Isis chuckled behind her suede-covered fingers and stud-
ied him impishly over them, her good eye sparkling with
mirth.
'Joshua Mortimer, you don't seriously believe that after
all I've told you about her, my cousin is into boring old,
two-dimensional bog-standard intercourse, do you?' She
nodded in the direction of her be-suited relative and the
now starry-eyed Bobbie, who were just leaving the bar with
their arms around each other's waists. 'This isn't a spread-
your-legs submissive female you're dealing with here. Get
in the sack with Ett, Josh, and she's the one who'll be doing
the screwing.'
'Doing the screwing . . . Doing the screwing . . .' burbled
Josh, feeling exquisitely out of it as the hallucinogen made
its presence felt.
'You okay?' Isis enquired over her shoulder as she pre-
pared the final calibrations.
'Absolutely divine, ducky,' Josh giggled, quite giddy now
that the various inhibition-busting drugs had loosened him
up.
In more ways than one.
He wriggled down on to the probe, opening both his
mind and his fluttering anus to its possession. He did get
off on it, he did! He loved being filled, and stuffed, and
166

stretched . . . and that mad woman, St Etienne, could
probably do things that felt even better. She could use . . .
Oh God, oh God! Yes, that would be even better . . .
'Even better,' he moaned, smiling like a ninny and
watching his tool bob in its restraining transceiver cuff.
'Pardon? What's that? Are you sure you're all right,
Josh?' Isis was bending over hirii now, checking his pulse,
pupil dilation, temperature. In her white smock, Josh
thought she looked a streetwise tattooed angel, a piece of
heaven on two legs and - as his vision wavered - extraordi-
narily like her bizarre cousin.
'Will cousin Ett do stuff that's better than this?' he bur-
bled, bouncing on the probe, then squealing as the sweet
sensations churned in his arse.
'Look, Josh, are you sure about this? I've another pro-
gram all backed up and ready to run. I think you'll like it.
It's one of my own but it's a bit special.'
'Nope, I've made my mind up,' whispered Josh dreamily,
nodding to the mask that Isis was clutching with less than
her usual decisiveness. 'I'm gonna boldly go where I've
never been before.'
'All right, Josh, so be it,' she said, gently positioning the
velvet-lined mask. Josh smiled, enjoying the soft purr of
her voice. In the utter blackness it seemed so rich and
sensuous it was almost solid. 'This time you're still yourself.
Just lie back, relax and let it all happen. This is you, Josh,
and my cousin can be anything. Absolutely anything . . .
and everything. Just remember that she likes to play. It's
all a game to her, Josh, and you're going to play it with
her . . .'
'Yeah . . . Play . . . That's it ... I like it.. . It's
funtime . . . Time to play ... Playhour . . .'
167

9 Playhour
. . . Jordan shook his head. What? Oh God, had he blacked
out for a moment?
Where on earth am I? his befuddled mind demanded, as
his body started answering questions he hadn't yet asked.
He felt hot, sexy and hungry, yet he didn't know why and
he didn't know who for. All he did know was that he
wanted action. Lots of it.
I want some fun, he told himself indulgendy. I want
something different and I want it now. He started to get a
grip on his memory.
Well, a partial grip . . .
He didn't just want something different, he felt different.
Maybe that was why he'd said 'Jordan' when the stranger
had asked his name? It wasn't the one he usually used.
'New scene, new name,' he said quiedy, trying to work
out if he'd had too much to drink. Or not enough. Yeah,
he was Jordan tonight all right, but how the hell had he
arrived at this place?
Looking around the subdy elegant room, though, the
blanks started filling in. The soft lighting reminded him of
the bright lights of a club . . . flamboyance all around him,
outrageous sights and colours wherever he looked. The
discipline of classical music, lilting quietly in the back-
ground, took him back to a pounding overload of sound.
Hi-energy retro sounds from the 20th century, classics from
Bronski Beat, Erasure and the Pet Shop Boys, combined
with hot new fuck-music like the Kenny Jayston Krew and
Red Cat and the Slaves; all of it loud, sexy and heavy with
bass ... He was alone, now, but he remembered being
168

crushed in the centre of a crowded dancefloor, a vibrating
handkerchief of sprung wooden boarding that contained
the weirdest bunch of people Jordan had ever set eyes
on . . . Men dancing with men. Women dancing with
women. Straight couples in the bentest of clothes. Leather.
Vinyl. Rubber. Moulded metal. Lace and chains. Males in
frocks. Curvy girls in crucial suits . . .
Oh, God yes! Women in pinstripes, severe tailoring,
waistcoats . . .
Now that is a turn-on, old son, isn't it? he thought with
feeling. His prick went 'yow' as he remembered exacdy
whose flat he was in . . .
'Hey, Jordi, you haven't got a drink yet. What can I fix
you?'
Jordan flinched, suddenly and fully back in reality. Lost
in his musings he'd never noticed her soft-footed return,
but his breath left his body as he looked up at the one
he'd soon have sex with . . . 'Whisky, please,' he croaked,
feeling a silky shiver in his gut.
She'd changed her clothes, got into something a litde less
comfortable.
'Great! I've got a Hebridean single malt that you'll just
adore,' his new friend answered in an arch drawl, seeming
to ignore his confusion.
Jordan had felt uncomfortable at first around the cool-
eyed, be-suited woman who'd picked him up so confidently.
But some time during the evening - he didn't know pre-
cisely when - there'd been a curious shift in his perception.
He'd stopped being surprised by her husky, seductively
domineering voice, her brisk expansive gestures, and her
immediate and unthinkable intimacy. It seemed like blind
fate that St Etienne should touch his body so freely. Touch
parts of him other women would have touched only in the
bedroom.
Yeah, it'd been shocking. Hackle-raising. Then, sud-
denly and crazily, it'd started being fabulous. Unbearably
exciting. His groin had turned to throbbing agony, and
he'd found himself playing up to her every outrageous
169

utterance. Wanting those touches. Flirting and
seducing . . .
Thank you,' he said softly, 'But anything will do. Have
you . . . have you phoned your friends?'
'Sure,' replied St Etienne with a smile that teased and
promised, 'They'll be over in a few minutes. They don't
live far. But in the meantime, why don't you and I have
that drink and get more comfortable?'
Jordan wondered again just how comfortable it was possi-
ble to be in those clothes of hers. There was certainly no
scrap of ease for him!
He studied her as she crossed to a small built-in bar and
began to mix drinks with an almost scientific precision.
When he'd first seen her, earlier this evening, he'd stiff-
ened immediately, intrigued by her immaculately tailored
English wool man's suit. But now, his groin throbbed mer-
cilessly, his prick goaded by her new and frankly erotic
clothing . . .
Buttersoft leather. Everywhere. Fashioned into a cut-off
vest and jeans-cut trousers, the living fabric was so tight it
went beyond the usual cliche of 'sprayed on'. Far beyond!
St Etienne's leathers looked as if they were electrostatic-
ally bonded to her body; they were a sheer black animal
film that floated obscenely on the surface of her skin. Her
bare arms and midriff looked stark white in contrast, their
smooth pallor thrown into high relief by the raw aggression
of a heavy, studded silver-buckled belt and short, close-
fitting fingerless leather gauntlets. Her boots were low, soft
and slouch-style, their menacing workmanlike quality far
more erotic, somehow, than the classic needle-heeled stil-
ettos.
It was the first time Jordan had been this close to a
'leather goddess' . . . and he knew, all over again, that St
Etienne was exactly what he'd been looking for . . .
He'd set out tonight determined to find sex in a kinky
new package. That 'something different'. And Peacock
City, the nightclub, had been the perfect place to find it.
Heaving with party-people, the venue's name was particu-
larly apt; it'd been stuffed to capacity with people dressed
170

to the nines, the tens and beyond, as well as those men,
women and various indeterminates who, like Jordan him-
self, appeared fairly conventional, at least on the outside.
St Etienne wasn't anything remotely like conventional
and had entranced him from the very first second. A one-
off in both dress and manner, she was, to his newly opened
eyes, far more beautiful than the usual type of woman he
went out with.
Tallish, just a little short of Jordan's own height, she'd
caught his eye as athletically built, but beneath her waist-
coat, jacket and shirt, quite deliciously curvaceous. From
a distance, and through the crowds, he'd thought her an
effeminate man - and been shocked by his own genital
response. But up close, he'd soon perceived the delicacy of
her bones, the finesse of her wrists and throat, the luscious
thrust of her breasts beneath fine grey suiting. And now,
as she turned towards him, Jordan saw, once again, a face
that was powerful, yet exquisitely sculpted, and a body that
surpassed both its early promise and Jordan's wildest flights
of masturbatory fantasy.
'Here. Try this,' St Etienne said, crossing the room, her
stride purposeful and sensuous. Giving Jordan the drink,
her hand lingered on his, half-caressing, wholly exciting,
and as he took the glass to his lips, his prick trembled
precariously. Jordan gulped the whisky far faster than the
smooth brew deserved. Never, ever had a drink been so
needed.
'I saw you eyeing the leather brigade in the City. I
thought this —' She ran one finger slowly along the inside
of her leather-coated thigh, and right up into the vee
between her legs, 'might appeal to you.'
'I . . . I . . .' Jordan couldn't speak. St Etienne's lewd
gesture had quite stunned him; she'd touched her own cunt
through the wafer-thin hide, let her finger point to the hot
place he wanted so much.
'Don't be scared, little Jordi,' she said suddenly, her
voice strong yet kind. 'We'll look after you. It's the first
time you've done this sort of thing, isn't it?'
What sort of thing? Jordan nodded, still struck mute.
171

'Don't worry. You'll be all right with us.'
St Etienne sank gracefully on to the settee beside her
prey. 'We know what to do, Jordi. We'll make it good for
you. Very good. Better than you could possibly imagine.'
She took the empty glass from Jordan's frozen fingers, put
it with her own on the coffee table, and leaned forward
with unmistakeable intent.
Jordan just let it happen. Through the course of the
evening he'd swung from an initial shock at St Etienne's
casual unsolicited caresses - a touch of the cheek, a stroke
along the back of the hand, a long, assessing glide along
his thigh to his crotch - to actively desiring them, and
manoeuvring his body so they were inevitable. But this was
the first time she'd gone so far as to kiss him . . .
And once kissing, St Etienne assumed complete and utter
control. Her hps were like the rest of her: a heady combi-
nation of softness and power. She opened Jordan's mouth
with her tongue and pushed moisdy inside. And as she first
probed, then sucked, nibbled and grazed on his hps, face
and throat, her hands began travelling over his hot, unre-
sisting body . . .
Jordan had shed his jacket on arrival and his fine lawn
shirt was little hindrance to her strong, assured fingers. The
caresses were gende and tantalisingly skilful, tracing the
contours of Jordan's chest and back, pinching his nipples
through the ultra-sheer fabric of a very costly shirt. He'd
dressed so carefully for tonight . . .
Suddenly a hand closed over his sensitive groin and he
was shaking again. The kissing stopped, but the hand
stayed where it was, its hold as light as silk yet infinitely
promising.
'Easy, baby,' murmured St Etienne against his ear. 'I
know this isn't what you're used to, but just relax, sweet-
heart. Go with the flow ... I only want it to be nice. For
both of us.'
'I'm sorry,' muttered Jordan, unconsciously pressing his
crotch into her fingers, 'I've never ... I usually . . . I'm
not sure.'
'Be sure,' St Etienne answered, her own sureness com-
172

plete. 'You just did thisV Her hand rotated ever so slighdy,
answering Jordan's thrust, Trust your body, Jordi, it
knows what it wants.'
'But the others, St Etienne. I've only ever made love one
on one . . .' He stopped short, embarrassed by his own
naivete. As if in answer she squeezed lightly, and as Jordan
squirmed, the words came tumbling out: 'I've only ever
had sex with one person at a time.'
'Don't worry, Jordi. Bobbie and Guido are like minds,
sensitive. They understand. They know it's your first time
in a group . . .'
Jordan didn't know whether to feel better or worse at
this, but his fears seemed to melt as St Etienne's hand
moved beguilingly. It was so sweet to give in, to relax . . .
forget responsibility, let another make the decisions, give
the pleasure ...
All through his adult and sexual life, Jordan had felt the
burden of having to make things work. The initiative had
always been his and though power had sometimes been
thrilling, he'd longed, oh, so often, just to lie back and let
somebody else take control . . .
As St Etienne had taken it now.
Jordan moaned as gentle but determined fingers explored
him through the denim of his jeans. He was examined - it
was the only word to describe her methodical approach -
along the whole length of his trapped, aching shaft; then a
grip of quite piercing delicacy enclosed the head of his
cock, more intense through the rough fabric, perhaps, than
it would've been on his bare flesh.
'Oh God, Jordi, you're beautiful,' St Etienne whispered,
her light voice more husky now, more male-sounding as
she rose into the role Jordan had prayed she would.
'I've been dreaming of your prick since the first moment
you walked into the club, Jordi. I've been going crazy for
you. Wanting to touch you, bare you, lick you ... I wanted
to do nutty things to you, Jordi, real nutty things ... I
wanted to strip you naked right there on the dancefloor.
Expose you and exhibit you to everybody. To all the cruis-
ing nymphos and cock-hungry queens and say "Hands off!
173

This is mine!" Then I'd show them just what I could do
to you. Pd stroke your prick. Lick your beautiful balls.
Bring you off and drink your luscious cream, then, while
you were still sobbing, I'd slide my fingers deep inside your
arse and fuck you with them right there and then in front
of everybody.'
Fire lurched through Jordan's blood-gorged prick, and
as it pulsed uncontrollably, spewing semen, his legs turned
to water. Like a sex-hungry kid, he'd climaxed from the
sheer power of St Etienne's dirty, evocative words. He
whimpered, burying his face against the smooth leather of
her vest and unconsciously pressing his blushing cheek
against her nipple. 'I'm sorry.'
'Hush, baby, hush,' she soothed. There's nothing to be
ashamed of. I wanted it to happen. You'll take longer to
come later. We'll be able to do more. It'll be much, much
better.'
Jordan felt a great tide break inside him, a deep singing
joy at submitting, at last, to his fate, and to a power far
greater than himself. He snuggled closer, feeling peace and
a deep and novel eroticism at being held in St Etienne's
strong, musk-scented embrace. Nimble fingers moved at
the nape of his neck, and suddenly the tie that held his hair
slid away and St Etienne's hand was running through his
thick black curls.
'Such lovely hair,' she murmured, pressing her lips to
Jordan's brow.
The moment was electrifying. The kiss, the nearness of
their bodies, and the sticky heat inside his shorts were a
combination so intoxicating that Jordan almost fainted. He
wanted to fall to the ground and abase himself before St
Etienne's magic. He wanted all the things she'd described
so vividly . . . and more. He wanted to be a plaything;
pure flesh to be served, used, entered. He wanted to be
naked and feel her fingers and her flesh all over him. Her
presence against his mouth, his loins, his arse.
'Please,' he whispered, gazing up into the fine painted
face and the glowing gold-brown eyes, ^s his mind sought
a new lexicon. 'Please . . . take me.'
174

'I shall, my sweet. Very soon.'
'Oh God, St Etienne! I want it . . . you . . . now.' New
life flooded into his cock, and as it stiffened, he was sharply
aware of his bottom too: a raw 'needing' sensation in the
hole itself and an increased sensitivity throughout the whole
surface of his backside. He imagined her gentle hands fond-
ling him, cupping the cheeks, moulding, parting ... He
moaned, soft and low, almost torn apart by the urge to
reach round and manipulate his own rear . . . then froze
like a startled animal as the bell-like tones of the door alarm
cut through his fever.
'They're here,' St Etienne said quietly; then, touching
her finger to her rose-stained hps and transferring the
imprinted kiss to Jordan's mouth, she gracefully disengaged
their tangled limbs and went to answer the door.
Jordan slid back weakly, stunned into reality for a
moment as he realised he'd been wound around St Etienne
like a vine, clinging to her like a frantic love-lorn girl.
What's happened to me? It seemed so right, so true. And
now, out of her immediate orbit, he felt lost, adrift and
confused. Had he blown it? Lost his nerve . . . misjudged
his own needs?
Soft voices refocused his attention, and he looked towards
the door and the couple who'd entered. One dark, one fair,
one female, one male, they both exchanged kisses with St
Etienne, and the depth and blatant sensuality of those kisses
made it obvious to Jordan that unlike himself, they were
completely at home in this strange erotic milieu . . . Group
sex and gender confusion weren't different or strange to
them - they were the accepted norm. And as the newcomers
approached him, he realised they were both vaguely fami-
liar, as if he'd seen them somewhere but they'd never actu-
ally met.
St Etienne led them forward.
'Jordan, this is Guido.' She nodded to the clean-cut tall-
ish blond in jeans, vest and a black suede waistcoat. 'And
this is Bobbie . . .'
Bobbie was shorter and darker, and so dissimilar it was
almost breathtaking. A slender slip of a girl, she was dressed
175

in the fashionable neo-Japanese yuppie-punk style: baggy
cotton jacket, similar trousers, and a tab-collared shirt, all
in a muted off-black grey. Her face was pale as milk, her
hps and eyes painted scarlet and black respectively, and
her hair a bushy back-combed soot-black mass.
Jordan, to his surprise, found them both strangely
unthreatening. He made to rise, but St Etienne stopped
him with a strong downward pressure on his shoulder; and
when Jordan tried to resist this, he felt his own body fail
him. Inexplicably, he was as weak as a kitten.
'Bobbie, Guido, this is our new treasure. This is Jordi.'
The restraining hand slid from Jordan's shoulder to his
face, and in a lightning, perfumed moment, his hps were
engulfed in a wet, demanding kiss. And as St Etienne's
mouth subjugated him completely, his head was forced
back, his bare throat arched, and he felt the hand of pos-
session cup his excited genitals.
She's showing them what I am, thought Jordan, dissolv-
ing, mortified, his hips bumping wildly against her grip.
I'm just a helpless slave, a sex toy, an available fuck. The
idea made his prick shudder and his arse go loose and open.
Then, as suddenly as it'd all begun, her mouth was gone.
But the cradling hand remained, and as Jordan fell back,
gasping, he felt more exposed than if he'd been nude and
spread-eagled, his whole body available to all. Unable to
stop himself, he met the eyes of his two observers in turn,
and saw excitement blazing in both their faces.
'Isn't he beautiful?' St Etienne said smugly, taking her
hand away as if to show her friends what she'd done to
this, their new toy. Jordan was acutely and humiliatingly
aware of the many, many tell tales: his tousled, unbound
hair, his flushed face, the rumpled state of his shirt, his
pungent sweat. . . and his grotesquely bulging groin.
'Lovely,' murmured Bobbie, dropping to her knees, her
blacklined'eyes riveted to the straining zip of Jordan's jeans.
Pale, perfectly manicured fingers reached toward the prize,
yet tantalisingly, didn't touch it. 'Lovely,' she repeated.
Guido wasn't so reticent. He gave Jordan's erection a
rough but friendly squeeze, then kissed him long, deep and
176

hard, his tongue probing and diving as if searching for the
lingering taste of St Etienne . . .
Jordan felt faint. Not only had he just been brought to
orgasm at the hand of a true-blue leather-clad dominatrix,
he was now actually enjoying being kissed by a man.
'Hey, break it up, you two.'
St Etienne's voice was firm but amused as she hauled her
friend bodily off Jordan. Even in his dazed state, Jordan
was struck by the strength that particular feat would
require. Guido was tall, well-muscled and no mean
burden . . . and St Etienne was, when all was said and
done, a slender and rather fine-boned woman, despite her
hard-edged fetishisdc splendour . . .
And splendid she was. Unequivocally. Beside her Jordan
felt like a sleazy, shagged-out male slut . . . The hot clinch
appeared to have had no effect on St Etienne whatsoever,
and as she rose smoothly to her feet, she made something
go flip in the pit of Jordan's belly. No crease or wrinkle
marred the perfection of her black leather garments; her
strange red-blonde-brown hair was still secure in its sleekly
gelled ponytail, and her razor-straight fringe still kissed the
line of her finely-plucked brows. She looked unruffled and
unruffleable, and Jordan felt a discreet thrill of challenge.
Could he be the one to blow that total and unassailable
cool?
'Let's take this into the playroom, shall we?' St Etienne
said archly, already pulling Jordan to his feet.
'The playroom?'
Bobbie and Guido were grinning at Jordan's befuddle-
ment.
'A special place where we can all get loose,' St Etienne
went on, 'through there.' She nodded in the direction of a
closed and unmarked door. All the other rooms in this
apartment were open-doored and clearly accessible; this
door screamed of mystery.
'Guido. The drinks, my dear. You know best,' St Etienne
murmured, nodding in the direction of the well-stocked
cabinet; and as the blond moved to comply, Jordan realised
why he seemed familiar. Guido was a barman somewhere
177

- somewhere Jordan frequented and yet irritatingly couldn't
remember the name of. Perhaps he'd met Bobbie in the
very same bar? The question faded as he felt his hand
enclosed in St Etienne's.
'Come into my parlour,' she said, smiling flirtatiously as
she led Jordan towards the playroom.
It was a big area - a room that probably ran the whole
length of the flat - and yet strangely cozy. Subdued, flame-
effect lighting flickered from wall fittings; the carpet was
thick and soft and the only furniture seemed to be two or
three low tables and a scattered selection of vari-sized
couches, each upholstered in a different shade of red velvet.
At the focus of the room - the exact centre - stood one of
boiling, blood-orange scarlet.
It was to this couch that St Etienne led Jordan, although
she didn't encourage him, as yet, to sit.
Jordan stared dazedly around him, his whole body throb-
bing with awareness even while his mind was floating. Had
he been drugged, fed some mind-bending aphrodisiac? He
felt like throwing off his clothes, doing a wild dance, posing
himself on the blood-red couch and adopting the lewdest,
most obscene positions he could think of to excite and
titillate this woman and her sexually sophisticated friends.
He had an intense urge to masturbate furiously in front of
them ... To hold open his own buttocks and beg one of
them, any of them, all of them, to probe him. He moaned,
trying to rub his crotch against St Etienne's slender, black-
covered thigh . . .
'Patience, baby,' she soothed, stroking the tangled hair
back from Jordan's brow. 'I know you want it. . . and we
do too! But there's no need to rush. Playhour lasts all
night.'
Slim fingers moved over Jordan's face, exploring and
caressing, then hovered at his mouth before entering and
encouraging him to suck. Jordan did just that, but with
little idea why. He suckled madly on St Etienne's first and
middle finger for about thirty seconds, wetting the leather
that covered them to the knuckle, and gradually realising
he wanted them to be more intimate flesh. Knowing this
178

he slurped harder than ever, bumping his crotch in time to
his sucks, smearing himself against St Etienne, searching
for the soft answer to his own hardness.
'Oh God, Jordi, you're amazing,' she gasped, no longer
sounding quite so self-possessed. 'So responsive. You're
pure sex. A perfect whore. I think I'm in love!' For a
moment she seemed to melt into Jordan's own heat, then
abruptly she pulled away, shaking her head as if to clear
it. 'Hey, you little sexpot, go steady. It's time we had you
nude . . . What do you think, my dears?' she enquired of
Guido and Bobbie, both of whom, Jordan realised, were
watching the exchange with close attention.
And now they both nodded, their eyes bright with antici-
pation. Jordan's fingers went shakily to his shirt buttons.
'No, no, no!' cried St Etienne, taking both Jordan's
hands in hers. 'We'll strip you. We like to unwrap our
treats ourselves.' She released her grip, yet Jordan still felt
imprisoned, held by her darkly glittering eyes.
'Guido, will you do the honours with the drinks? You
know what we all like. Jordi will have whisky, with a little
dash of ginger ale and some ice. Bobbie, come here and
help me undress Jordi.'
Jordan half expected her to snap her fingers. Click click
click. St Etienne's orchestration of this drama was total,
and her two friends slid so easily into their roles that it was
obvious this'd all happened so many times before. Breath-
ing slowly, trying to calm himself, Jordan knew instinc-
tively that he was only the latest of many they'd initiated
into their alternative world. He felt irrationally jealous.
But not for long.
In the blink of an eye St Etienne was kissing him again,
holding his face between her two hands as she raped his
mouth. The kiss was bruising, ache-making, all-encompass-
ing; yet even as he almost choked on St Etienne's stabbing
tongue, Jordan was aware of other hands working on his
body.
His feet first. Totally passive, he stood on first one foot
then the other as Bobbie took off his shoes and socks.
Jordan moaned under his breath as St Etienne released his
179

face, then slid one hand behind his head to keep up the
crushing pressure on his mouth, and used the other to strip
off his shirt with ruthless efficiency. Bobbie, meanwhile,
was working on his lower half.
Jordan was fighting for breath, his jaw on fire, as his
jeans slid down and he felt gende urgings to step out of
them. Then, suddenly, as if the knowledge that her prey
was now dressed only in a pair of thin underpants was some
kind of signal, St Etienne broke the punishing kiss and
looked first at Jordan's throbbing mouth and then down-
wards.
Following the gaze, Jordan blushed throughout the whole
of his body; there was a rampant bulge pushing out the fine
blue cotton and an obscene spreading dampness from his
recent ejaculation. Bobbie and St Etienne exchanged con-
spiratorial grins, and the latter nodded very slighdy.
Obviously this was a pre-arranged part of their ritual.
Obedient Bobbie fell to her knees and, to Jordan's delicious
horror, pressed an open mouth to the wet patch on his
underpants. He whimpered as her serpent-like tongue
flicked his thinly covered tool. And he cried out again, long
and pitifully, while she licked at the stain as if savouring
the recently shed semen lodged in the cloth.
Jordan's hips had just begun their shameful involuntary
pumping when St Etienne cuffed her young friend lighdy
on the head and pushed her away from her feast.
'Get off, you greedy littie tyke. Didn't your mummy ever
tell you? You take the paper off before you eat the lollipop.'
Bobbie smirked up at them both, pure devilment shining
from beneath her heavily mascara-ed lashes.
'Now let's get a move on, shall we? Please proceed with
your task, Bobbie dear. Jordi will feel much more comfort-
able without these nasty spunky panties.'
As St Etienne continued her lecture Jordan realised that
despite his own feelings of humiliation and weakness, he
wasn't actually the only submissive present. . . Bobbie was
patendy in seventh heaven when St Etienne ordered her
about; the slight, black-clad girl was almost shaking with
ecstasy as she shuffled forward on her knees to obey.
180

Simultaneously, St Etienne made a tiny gesture and
Guido held out a tinkling icy drink in a heavy cut-glass
tumbler. As he watched it being passed from hand to hand,
Jordan felt Bobbie's cool fingers sliding away his briefs.
He kept his eyes steadfastly on the glass, fighting for
some small scrap of poise; any second now he would be
naked, his erection exposed like meat on a slab, while his
three companions were still fully clothed.
'Quickly now, Bobbie,' St Etienne rapped out, and in
one swift, graceless jerk the briefs were around Jordan's
ankles. Like a pre-programmed puppet, he stepped neatly
out of them, his cock bouncing as he moved.
He ought to have felt more comfortable now, out of his
clothes, his swollen organ freed from its constriction. But
he didn't. His lower belly cramped furiously and his cock
felt like a great rod of lust, dragging heavily on his groin
and balls. He looked down, then instantly away, appalled
by his own slick-tipped hugeness . . .
'Oh my!' Bobbie whispered, and Jordan moaned at the
impact of the young woman's breath on his red-hot shaft.
'Holy shit!' Guido gasped huskily.
St Etienne, for once, seemed robbed of speech; her large
eyes sparkled moistly and her painted mouth noiselessly
formed one word.
Beautiful . . .
The silence lasted for what seemed like eternity, and
Jordan closed his eyes, accepting his erotic martyrdom. He
sensed St Etienne moving, then felt her bare arm snake
around him from behind, and a hand splay on his naked
belly to draw their bodies close together.
I'm going to die, thought Jordan wildly, his cock scream-
ing for the soft-skinned fingers and leather-clad palm that
lay lightly across his abdomen.
'Please ... my prick,' he pleaded, gyrating his hips,
then realising with a sweet thrill that his behind was mass-
aging the slight, tender bulge of St Etienne's sexual mound.
He heard her faint sigh, then sighed in echo, moulding
himself closer and fondling his captor's crotch with the
cheeks of his own bottom.
181

'You angel,' gasped St Etienne, pushing herself against
the offered crack, her thin leather trousers barely a barrier
between them. Jordan's heart leapt, and in the midst of his
powerlessness, he felt strong. Moving rhythmically, loving
the swing of his own cock now, he thrust backwards in
time to St Etienne's forward lunges, exulting in her low
grunts of excitement, revelling in the hard press of her
nipples against his back, the soft yielding texture of the
flesh they crowned. Her breasts, lush and unbrassi&red
beneath her leather vest, were caressing him through the
thin creamy hide. He made a noise of hunger and appreci-
ation, and shimmied determinedly against her, rubbing his
bare back against those two deliciously stiffened points.
'Oh no you don't, you little devil,' exclaimed St Etienne
after a moment, swinging Jordan around and on to her hip,
out of harm's way. 'I don't plan on coming just yet.' She
paused a moment. 'Here you are, Jordi, sip this like a good
little boy.'
Jordan felt the frosty glass against his lips, and, realising
he was parched, he began to drink. The whisky and ginger
mix was perfect; and having it fed to him like this was both
gorgeous and demeaning. Happy tears squeezed between
his closed eyelids, and he was sipping slowly and obedi-
ently, lost in his own submission, when another sensation
impinged suddenly and shockingly on his consciousness.
His cock, surrounded by warmth and wetness, taunted
by a voluptuous suction . . .
The glass was taken from his hps so he could look down.
So he could watch . . . The tears blurred his vision, but
nothing could blunt the pleasure in his aching loins. His
prick was deep in Bobbie's rapturously gobbling
mouth ... he was being sucked off, his erection reduced
to an amusing piece of stiffness for the entertainment of his
companions.
'Drink again, baby,' whispered St Etienne in his ear as
Bobbie's tongue seemed to be everywhere at once.
'I can't! I can't! It's . . . I -'
'Yes, you can . . . Now sip slowly . . .' The glass was at
his lips again, and unbelievably, he was swallowing whisky,
182

his throat moving in time with Bobbie's as the girl seemed
intent on swallowing him whole!
And now, somehow, the drink was gone and St Etienne
was murmuring babytalk endearments as she nipped and
nibbled at Jordan's ears and neck. Delirious, yet feeling
everything with pin-sharp clarity, Jordan shouted hoarsely
as Bobbie's tongue dug at the tender spot just under his
glans. His hips bounced crazily and he seemed to float,
suspended between St Etienne's embracing arms and Bob-
bie's feverish grip on his thighs. The dark girl was like a
terrier; no amount of kicking and writhing could break her
suckling hold on his prick. In fact the more Jordan strug-
gled, the deeper Bobbie seemed to engulf him, massaging
the whole surface of her victim's tool with the moist interior
of her mouth and throat.
'Oh God! Omigodomigodomigod!' screamed Jordan as
another sensation joined the torment. Someone was deli-
cately stroking his arsehole with a single moistened finger.
Opening his eyes, he realised Guido was kneeling beside
Bobbie, reaching underneath . . .
'I can't! I can't! Please! Oh God! Yes!' The finger ceased
its cautious tickling, and began to push determinedly into
his body. Jordan whined in bliss and horror as the digit
slid through the stretchy membrane and into the rectum
itself. He felt it waggle impishly inside him, just as Bobbie
drew back to enclose just the tip of his cock and flick
rhythmically at the hypersensitive groove beneath the
head . . .
'Unngh! Unngh! Unngh!' The sounds were crude and
ugly, and spitde rattled uncouthly in Jordan's throat as
white-hot ecstasy rode the entire length of his engorged
shaft. Fire seemed to backwash his whole belly and groin,
and he wept and drooled as his semen pumped convulsively
into Bobbie's waiting mouth.
And all the time, St Etienne was whispering brokenly
into his ear. 'My angel ... my little angel. . . sweet, sweet
litde angel. . .'
As the storm in his body ebbed, Jordan felt both mouth
and finger withdraw, and at least two pairs of arms lift him
183

on to the velvet couch. Only half conscious, he enjoyed
feeling his skin being wiped with a damp, fragrant cloth,
and someone very tenderly smoothing back his sweaty hair,
then kissing him gently on his closed eyelids . . .
What the hell have I let happen to me? he mused, not
unhappily, as his mind slowly regained its function. I'm
just a toy ... A body for them to play with. All of them,
he thought, shuddering and reliving the feel of Guido's
intrusive finger. Behind his still-closed eyes, he created a
picture; himself, half-fainting in St Etienne's arms - with
Bobbie's mouth glued to his crotch and Guido's finger up
his bottom . . .
'Lovely,' he said, as laughter bubbled inside him. Almost
purring with contentment, he wriggled luxuriously on the
couch, loving its smooth, plushy texture against his back
and arse.
'Do you feel good, sweetheart?' murmured a familiar
voice as a familiar hand stroked his face.
Jordan opened his eyes, and it seemed the most natural
thing in the world to take that hand and kiss it passionately.
'I feel marvellous,' he replied, pressing his open mouth to
St Etienne's palm, licking her soft skin slowly and sensu-
ously. 'I've never felt better in my life. Thank you. All of
you,' he finished, looking at the three who'd just made love
to him.
'Thank you,' answered St Etienne, ever the spokes-
woman, as she ran a hand down Jordan's naked flank.
'But I didn't do anything,' Jordan said puzzledly, shaken
more than anything by the renewed twitching in his prick
- his response to St Etienne's fleeting touch. I've had two
orgasms in the space of thirty minutes, he told himself.
How can I be getting hard again so soon?'
'You three,' he went on shakily, 'you three made me
come . . . but I haven't . . . haven't done anything for
you.'
'Not yet,' said St Etienne, pausing to let Jordan absorb
both the implications and the fact that she and her two
friends were far less dressed now.
Jordan's prick leapt again at the sight of St Etienne half
184

naked. She'd stripped off her skimpy vest and beneath it
were a pair of proud, delicately rounded breasts that looked
both natural and yet strange when set above the gleaming
silk-soft hide of her leather trousers. The whole effect was
far more titillating, somehow, than total nudity, and Jord-
an's fingers itched to fondle her as she sat down on the
couch beside him.
Guido was completely naked. He was sitting a few feet
away: back resting against one of the other couches, legs
splayed, eyes closed, happily and unself-consciously mas-
turbating. There was a dreamy smile on his face as his cock
thrust chunkily between his fingers. Bobbie, bare from the
waist down - her loins a contrast of white belly and black
snatch - was watching her friend intently. As Jordan
watched, she popped out her red, pointed tongue and ran
it round her mouth as if relishing another feast.
'Bobbie would live on spunk if she could,' observed St
Etienne matter-of-factly, 'and it might actually be feasible,
come to think of it. She gives the finest head in the whole
City, to either sex.'
'She's wonderful,' said Jordan without thinking.
'That's right,' replied St Etienne, 'but what about you,
Jordi? Wouldn't you like to show me how wonderful you
are?'
Jordan looked into eyes that glittered with challenge.
'How do you mean?' he asked.
'Eat me out, Jordi. Give me some head . . . What's the
matter, don't you think you can thrill me?'
'Yes! I mean . . . No! I -' Confused, he couldn't formu-
late a proper answer. He loved the taste of cunt, and his
mouth watered profusely at the thought of the woman at
his side, but if she'd been muffed by the matchless Bobbie,
what impact could he hope to make on her?
Suddenly a harsh groan speared both their attentions.
Jordan sat up like a flash and he and St Etienne stared rapt
at the spectacle of Guido's climax. The blond had climbed
backwards somehow, and with his body arched out crablike
from the couch, his pelvis seemed to hang in mid-air sus-
pended from Bobbie's gulping mouth.
185

Jordan swallowed too, in pure amazement. Guido's pubic
hair was jammed against Bobbie's hps and there was no
doubt he was ejaculating deep in the girl's slim throat.
Impossibly deep. Bobbie's eyes were bulging, her jaw pain-
fully stretched and the muscles of her neck were
rippling . . . but even so, while supporting her slight
weight on one hand, she was managing to frig herself furi-
ously with the other one. And just as Guido seemed about
to flood her gullet with come, Bobbie herself started to
climax; her slender hips bucking in time to the savage
action of her fingers.
Stunned, Jordan turned away; but not before he'd seen
Bobbie's throat undulating like a snake as it released the
head of Guido's prick. 'I . . . I couldn't do that,' he stam-
mered, his own mouth and neck aching sympathetically, as
if he'd endured the act too.
'Nobody's asking you to,' said St Etienne gendy, placing
a forefinger under Jordan's chin and making him look up.
'Deep-throating takes years of practice to perfect. And
young Bobbie's been doing it far longer than she ought.
But -' she hesitated, and her eyes seemed filled with fire,
'what I want isn't so tricky, Jordi. A simple licking out will
suffice . . . although I expect you to work hard, sweetheart.
You understand that, don't you?'
It was an order, and for a moment Jordan couldn't speak.
St Etienne kissed him gendy on the corner of the mouth,
'Come on, Jordi, don't let me down now,' she whispered.
'I'm hot and juicy . . . And the others will do something
nice to you at the same time . . .'
She hasn't come yet, has she? thought Jordan, feeling
guilty. I've come. Guido's come. Bobbie's come. But not
her.
'Please, oh God, yes. I want to suck you. I'll do anything
you say,' he said, excited even as he said it. He tried to
imagine what she might taste like. He wanted her to know
- now! - he was hungrier for St Etienne than he'd ever
been for a woman in his life.
'Oh God, you're a jewel!' she gasped, then kissed him
deep and hard, 'Oh God, Jordi, do it! I want it now . . .'
186

Urgently, and with less than her usual grace, she scooted
along the couch a little and spread her long, lithe thighs,
'Kneel between my legs, darling,' she ordered, and as
Jordan complied, a great shudder ran through St Etienne's
sylphine body, 'I can't wait to feel your mouth on me , . .
Unzip me! Now! Do it, baby, do it!'
Kneeling, Jordan stared numbly at the apex of St Eti-
enne's thighs, and the soft vee defined there. There was a
succulent delta beneath that fine leather - a place to feed
and suck. A place to pleasure and be pleasured at . . .
'Jordi, baby . . . Please!'
The novelty of it - St Etienne actually pleading - galvan-
ised Jordan to action. Fixing his eyes on her face rather
than her groin, he slowly and carefully undid first her heavy
metal-trimmed belt and then the sleek-running zip of her
trousers. White silk was visible in the created gap - delicate,
womanly clothing beneath the brutal leather.
'That's it, Jordi. Now undress me,' St Etienne whis-
pered. Taking her weight on her arms, she tilted up her
pelvis, and Jordan was able to pull both her trousers and
her silky undergarment - a minute lace g-string - down
over her long sleek thighs, past her knees and bunch the
whole lot inelegandy around her ankles. She panted and
flung her belt out of the way, then pressed her booted feet
together and edged her bottom towards the edge of the
couch. Leaning back, she seemed to offer her cunt as a
luscious, naked, anointed morsel for Jordan's
delectation . . .
'Dear heaven,' whispered Jordan, overcome by the
beauty of the sight before him: the glossy, tightly trimmed
fuzz of pubic curls, the fat blood-filled outer lips, the soft
rose-dark contours within . . .
She was the boss lady here, the tough power queen in
her rough-house leather . . . but in the moist, fundamental
place between her thighs, St Etienne was all soft, yielding
woman. And to Jordan, this glistening patch of rumpled
female flesh was a pure reassuring familiarity in a world
that was so radically strange . . .
Suck me! Lick me! Devour me! it said, the palpitating
187

folds and rich musk-hot aroma reaching out like grace to
ensnare him. Jordan bowed blissfully to obey its command,
but within tbngue-touching distance of St Etienne's swollen
clitoris, he paused . . .
She was special and remarkable. Sensual and magnificent.
Caught in the web of his own lust, Jordan wanted to give
this goddess something worthy of her greatness.
Beautiful sex. Endless orgasm. Stunning cunnilingus that
would rock even the mighty St Etienne in her tracks.
And yet how could he achieve his goal? She'd been ser-
viced here by the very best ... the most accomplished
cunt-lickers in the City, including, almost certainly, the fey
dark young woman who was even now resting from her
labours over Guido.
Wetting his lips, Jordan reviewed Bobbie's comprehen-
sive skills, then studied the delicate inflowing topography
before him, the deep wine-red flower with its sweet crinkled
petals that huddled beneath the tight hard bud of woman's
utmost pleasure.
But even as he hesitated, the cunt before his eyes came
flaunting towards him in a wanton thrust.
'Suck me!' she commanded, sliding long fingers into the
creases of her groin to lift and separate the plump outer
labia. 'Get your mouth on me now, you fuck, or I'll die.'
Jordan obeyed, half dying himself as he stabbed his
tongue direcdy on to her clit. And as the lady lay back,
released her own flesh and grabbed his head roughly in
both hands, then proceeded unashamedly to hump his face,
Jordan realised that gendeness and virtuoso subtlety were
not her current requirements.
'Eat me,' she shouted as he threw his mouth into the
musky oceanic maw of her slit and licked and sucked and
slurped as if his life depended on it.
No cunt had ever tasted or smelt so delectable . . . Never
had juices flowed so freely over his laving tongue . . . Never
before had the flesh beneath his lips so quickly begun to
flutter and pump in orgasm.
She howled in ecstasy, smashing herself against him.
'Chew me! Suck me! Drink me!'
188

Jordan complied, swallowing hard on the great tumble
of slippery nectar that oozed and bubbled from her spasm-
ing hole. Liquid trickled over his chin and jaw as he
mouthed and pulled on the hard, exposed bead of her
clitoris. He was vaguely aware that she was smacking him
deliriously about the shoulders and head, but he felt no
pain as he supped at her lusting fountain of life . . .
Subdued by her own pleasure, St Etienne seemed to settle
suddenly into a gentler more accepting response. 'Oooh
baby . . . baby, you angel,' she cooed, as her hips wafted
gently beneath Jordan's slobbering mouth. 'Oh, Jordi, my
Jordi . . . You're beautiful . . . You're killing me, baby,
you're killing me . . .'
Jordan was lost now to everything but St Etienne: her
cunt, her flavour, her spongy yielding heat. The veins that
throbbed beneath the silky fruitlike cleftskin, the pulsing
tip of her clitoris, the juices that seeped so freely . . .
Intent on giving, the whole of Jordan's consciousness
was centred in his mouth and his hands as they clasped her
thighs . . . Only gradually did he realise that Guido and
Bobbie were both now very, very close . . .
The others will do something nice.
He heard the promise over again now inside his mind
and, feeling the warmth of two more bodies right next to
him, he was more than ready when a pair of hands began
to caress his buttocks. Which of them was doing it, he
couldn't tell. All he knew was the touch was gentle yet
firm, and that the cheeks of his bottom were being moved
and moulded in time to the beat of his own hungry sucking.
The action was wickedly reciprocal, and the unknown
fondler followed every tiny nuance of Jordan's mouth and
tongue . . . Every push, every twist, every determined and
delicate twirl. Each was echoed in the manipulations of his
tingling rear, making the excitement he received feed the
excitement he gave . . . Three fingers rode his anal crack,
taunting and rubbing, doubling his delight in St Etienne's
slit. His tongue danced over the silken flesh, revelling in its
texture and liquidity and the rising tremble of yet another
orgasm.
189

Triumph howled its siren song in Jordan's brain, and
somewhere in the loop between mind, mouth and arsehole,
he realised his cock had stiffened like iron. I'm hard again,
he marvelled as he felt St Etienne pulsing against his mouth
and hard fingers sawing ruthlessly at his anus. I've come
and come and now I'm ready all over again. He bounced
his bottom at the probing fingers, using the hole itself to
beg for more, because his drooling mouth was full of St
Etienne's puffy labia.
'You want something in you, don't you, baby?' she
gasped, her voice distorted by pleasure. 'You want some-
thing in your arse, don't you, darling?'
Jordan grunted around the hot flesh in his mouth, wag-
gled his bum furiously. Yes! Yes! Yes!
'Grease him, Guido,' ordered St Etienne hoarsely, pulling
herself away from Jordan's mouth, then lifting him up so
she could kiss where her cunt had been. 'I'm going to take
you, Jordi my love,' she murmured, licking at Jordan's lips
as if savouring her own taste there. 'I'm going to make love
to you, sweetheart. I can do it . . . I'm going to open
your lovely bottom, and thrust and thrust until we both
come . . . I'm going to fill your arse, Jordi. Rape you.
Take you. That's what you want, isn't it?' She drew back,
stopped kissing with her mouth, and kissed Jordan's eyes
with her burning gaze . . .
They held the shared look for what seemed like a lifetime
and then St Etienne turned to Bobbie and ordered imperi-
ously: 'Get it, Bobbie! You know what I need . . .'
Jordan could only wait. To speak his submission aloud
would be too much. If he said the word 'yes' now, he'd
come all over the couch and carpet. And he hardly dare
think of what 'it' might be . . . although his boggled brain
was already showing him a graphic picture.
With no will of his own, he let St Etienne drape him
forward over the red velvet, then lift his hips slightly for
Guido's ministrations. He felt something cool and slippery
applied to the boiling groove of his bottom, then bit his
Up, fighting orgasm, as more and more of it was worked
deep into his trembling hole. A hand took his and held it
190

supportively, and he turned and looked into Bobbie's
painted face. Her eyes were gende, her expression both
understanding and encouraging.
'You'll be all right, Jordi,' she whispered, 'you'll be
fine . . . You look beautiful.'
'Thank you,' Jordan mouthed, still unable to speak
aloud. He felt indescribably rude like this: his arse offered
up, the lovehole exposed and the passage open, gluey and
slimed in readiness. He tried to relax even more . . . Any
second now . . . Any second now . . .
Expecting to be taken from behind, he grunted with
surprise when Guido half lifted, half pushed him over on
to his back, laying him on the red couch with his bottom
hanging over the edge, anus hovering in mid-air, prick
waving, rigid and helpless . . . Totally vulnerable, he
watched in wonder at the most extraordinary spectacle of
his sexually active life.
St Etienne had finally stripped to the buff, and with one
long dancer's leg canted elegandy up, the foot resting on a
low couch, she was inserting one end of an artfully formed
double-ended rubber phallus into her copiously moistened
vagina. He saw her gasp as the giant faux penis slid in,
watched her eyes close ecstatically as her half of it sank to
its hilt.
And then, even though the dildo was lodged between her
thighs and sticking out proudly like an ersatz erection,
Jordan marvelled at the pure feminine beauty of her body.
Nude, St Etienne was supremely female, her breasts high,
her hips out-curved, her waist almost breathtakingly slim.
She looked flowerlike, halfway to fragile . . . and yet the
rubber penis was hugely gross and intimidating. Looking
at it, Jordan shuddered, wondering how much pain there'd
be. It seemed so long since that single, brief penetration in
his teens, and even then the man hadn't been as big as this
monstrous replica.
'Don't be frightened, Jordi,' St Etienne said quiedy,
moving over him, obviously aware of his fears. 'You can
take it. I'll be as gende as I can, Jordi, but God knows,
it'll be a struggle with a body as tempting as yours . . .'
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Graceful, yet urgent, she dipped, took Jordan's ankles in a
firm grasp and placed them on her own shoulders - one on
either side of her neck. Then, no longer seeming in any
way frail at all, St Etienne slowly rose up again and Jordan
felt his arse canting up off the couch, his hole offered
and in perfect position to be fucked. His own living prick
quivered as the dildo touched him and rested motionless at
his entrance. The whole of his life and sanity seemed to
teeter on a precipice . . .
'Oh God, please,' he heard himself say.
'Yes, my beauty,' murmured St Etienne, and Jordan felt
pressure building on the membrane and his entire body
being folded under the woman's almost supernatural
strength. 'Give in to me, Jordi. Relax. Open up. I only
want to love you!'
To love you . . .
That did it. Jordan moaned in wonder as his anus opened
like a sea-anemone and St Etienne slid into him with per-
fect, pre-ordained ease. There was a moment of re-arrange-
ment - their limbs remeshing - then St Etienne was climb-
ing up and over him, forcing the clublike rubber cock even
deeper into Jordan's bowels.
'Oh no! Ooooh! Oh! Please, no!' Whimpering in girlish
distress, Jordan felt his guts churn rebelliously.
'Take it easy, darling,' St Etienne crooned in his ear.
Did she know the feeling herself? Jordan wondered, trying
to imagine St Etienne being fucked in her tight womanly
arse.
'Relax, Jordi. It won't happen,' St Etienne went on
sofdy, pushing even deeper, 'and even if it does, it doesn't
matter. It won't be the first time.' She chuckled throatily,
and Jordan gasped, feeling the mirth transmitted right
through his possessed backside. The urge to defecate flared
wildly, peaked in unthinkable delight, then subsided just
as suddenly.
St Etienne, acutely aware, whispered. 'There . . . that's
better, isn't it?'
'Oh yes . . . Oh yes,' sobbed Jordan, feeling only beauty
now: a voluptuous heat and fullness that brought tears of
192

joy to his eyes, and made him kiss and caress every part of
St Etienne he could reach. There was a great sensation of
distension, an unrelenting swollen-ness . . . Was it his own
body or the pressure of the bung inside him? There seemed
to be no boundary between them. They were two sets of
loins entangled and touching at every point, possible and
impossible. He pushed back boldly and knew, joyfully, that
in a bizarre turned-about way he was thrusting into St
Etienne's hot cave of a cunt. Aware of her pleasure, Jordan
felt its echo in his prick - an organ that was warm and safe,
twitching blissfully and sandwiched between his belly and
St Etienne's . . .
'You're beautiful, Jordi,' she moaned, starting to move
now, her strokes strong and sure as the fuck began in
earnest. 'God, that feels fabulous. It's right in me . . . I'm
fucking you and it's fucking me. Oh God, Jordi, I'm in
heaven!'
So am I! screamed Jordan inside as St Etienne crushed
his mouth in a kiss. Pierced by both tongue and dildo, he
slid his hand into the sweaty cache between their two bodies
and curled his fingers around his own throbbing tool. St
Etienne swirled her hips, as if in approval, and Jordan
began to wank himself in time to his partner's relentless
thrusts. He wanted to shout and wail. The pleasure was
like nothing he'd ever known; molten bliss flowed through
his arse and prick in an endless cycle until he was one great
ball of ecstasy from the waist down. Sobbing like a child,
he surrendered to a huge spasm and felt his tortured cock
leap, then disgorge semen all over his fingers, and his own
and St Etienne's belly.
'Oh, my lovely Jordi,' St Etienne cried, pressing closer
to the pulsing organ as if trying to caress it with her abdo-
men. 'It's so beautiful! So beautiful! Oh God, it feels so
good.' Jordan didn't really know what she was praising -
his arse, his prick, the spunk or the dildo - but he was
beyond caring. He was as much a woman as she was now;
he was a hole, a languid swimming rectum whose only
purpose was to submit to his lover. Already adrift in his
own afterglow, Jordan let his body react instinctively. His
193

hands roved freely across St Etienne's sweat-sheened skin,
pausing and retracing his path each time he heard a gasp
of pleasure.
By letting himself go utterly loose and pliant, Jordan
soon found he could reach into the tangle of their bodies
to caress St Etienne's cunt and the crucial nub of flesh
within it. He swirled a fingertip right on its throbbing
peak . . . and was almost deafened by St Etienne's long
howl of response.
Simultaneously, he was rocked and pounded by a series
of percussive lunges that threatened to crush his pelvis and
almost tear him in two. St Etienne wailed on and on like a
banshee, and Jordan felt a great heat welling deep inside
him, and more liquid spurting from his prick as the rubber
phallus battered rhythmically on his sensitive prostate.
St Etienne's climax seemed to last several millennia, even
though Jordan's half-blown mind said it was just mere
moments, and her spastic jerks transmitted themselves
remorselessly to his innards. But eventually she fell into
stillness. Squashed and folded beneath her slumped body,
Jordan found the discomfort strangely pleasing and lay
perfecdy still, unwilling to disturb St Etienne's blissed-out
exhaustion.
4You little fool,' St Etienne mumbled at last, starting to
lift herself off Jordan's awkwardly bent form. 'I'm smother-
ing you, baby. Why didn't you say something?'
'I'm -' Jordan began, then groaned hoarsely as her move-
ments jostled his bruised rectum. 'I'm fine,' he said through
gritted teeth as he felt the dildo pop out of his abused anus.
'You're not,' she said sofdy, standing up, then leaning
over Jordan and edging him tenderly into a more comfort-
able position on the couch. 'It's hurt you, hasn't it?'
Jordan nodded, trying not to move too much. His arse
was really very sore indeed, and the rest of him seemed to
have been in a wind tunnel for a fortnight. Suddenly very
exhausted, he sighed sleepily, then smiled to himself as he
heard the small plopping sound of rubber leaving cunt and
the thud of a substantial object hitting the carpet. Seconds
194

later St Etienne slid on to the couch behind him and cud-
dled him close.
The sensation of being cherished was quite wonderful,
and seemed even more so when a voice whispered in his
ear . . .
'You were beautiful, Jordi . . . The best. I think I love
you . . .'
Jordan said nothing. He couldn't. Snuggling back against
the soft, sleek body of a most incredible woman, he shivered
under her stroking hands, breathed deeply of the scents of
sweat, cologne, cunt and semen, and savoured the feel of
a damply sticky pubis pressing into the back of his thigh.
Sheer heaven. In spite of his aches and pains, Jordan
began to drowse, only to be awakened after a couple of
minutes by the sounds of frantic movement and grunts and
moans of uninhibited pleasure.
'Just look at them!' murmured St Etienne in his ear, and
obediently Jordan opened his eyes.
A couple of yards away, Bobbie and Guido were fucking
like minks.
Jordan watched the scene blearily, too exhausted now to
get turned on, despite the raw eroticism before him. Guido
had mounted the gentle submissive Bobbie from behind and
was ramming into her small delicate cunt without mercy or,
it seemed, any degree of finesse.
But Bobbie didn't seem too bothered by the lack of
gendeness. As she flailed and bucked against the onslaught,
she was chanting Guido's name repeatedly and almost
gnawing the carpet in ecstasy.
'Would you like to do that next time?' St Etienne asked
quietly, stroking the side of Jordan's face.
'Do what?' he asked, feeling intensely sleepy in spite of
the inflaming sight in front of him.
'I don't mean fuck Bobbie, Jordi ... I want to know if
you want to fuck me?'
'But she said
Who'd said what?
Jordan suddenly felt utterly tired and utterly confused.
195

Memories hazed. Someone had laughed when he'd said . . .
Said what?
'Jordi? Answer me, sweetheart. Would you like to fuck
me?' St Etienne's voice was starting to sound strange too.
Still soft and husky . . . but different somehow and more
familiar than it ought to have been.
'Answer me . . . Come on, Josh, speak to me!'
Josh?
Who ... It was all very weird now, but one thing at
least was sparklingly clear.
'Oh yes,' he whispered. 'Oh yes, darling, I'd love to fuck
you. I'd love to. Love to fuck you . . . fuck you . . . fuck
you . . .'
196

10 A Little Something on Account?
. . . fuck you . . . fuck you . . . fuck you . .
'Very nice, Josh, I'll take it as a compliment. But will
you please try and wake up now?'
What? What did she mean? Josh felt as if he were in
limbo, floating in greyness, waiting for sounds and colours
to start meaning something. They were all there - his senses
seemed to be working - but he couldn't put anything
together. Nothing added up. Or if it did, the sums were
coming out wrong.
'Come on, Josh, open your eyes,' encouraged the voice
that wasn't quite what it should have been.
Delicious lethargy still held him in thrall, scrambling all
signals; even the pleasurable ones. He was adrift in a warm
bath of sex, his prick exquisitely tingly and his arse loose
and hot and stretched.
His arse? Oh God! Ohgodogodogod!
In a split second, Josh came awake, the bath turned icy
and he was Josh again. The Josh who'd always believed he
did the fucking . . .
Believed! What a joke. His subconscious ... his 'Jordan'
had just proved otherwise ... and the visceral revulsion,
the yearnings he'd always fought like hell, rose up to taunt
him. His arse, his tight man's arse, had been opened and
taken. He'd been fucked. He'd been well and truly shafted.
'Josh! Are you all right? Open your eyes!'
Couldn't she leave him alone? Still half on auto, he tried
to strike out and found he couldn't. Struggling wildly, he
opened his eyes. Saw the treatment room, the couch, the
197

restraints . . . Saw Isis - the scarred flipside of the woman
who'd just fucked his arse - and hated her.
'You bitch! Let me loose,' he screamed, wrenching at
his bonds and murdering the white-coated woman with his
eyes. 'What have you done to me?'
Suddenly, oh horror, oh fabulous horror, he felt a slow
sliding sensation in his bowel . . . The thing that stretched
his bum and felt so good was sliding out, its exit as gorgeous
as its ingress.
'St Etienne . . .' he hissed, longing . . . Then caught a
flash of white out of the corner of his half closed eyes.
Isis. She'd done this! She'd tricked him! She'd promised
there'd be nothing gay, then given him something that was
virtually the same . . . and in front of an audience.
'I'll kill you!' He jerked rabidly at the velvet-lined bonds
and tried to throw himself up off the couch. But there was
no point. Isis was already at his side. Poised ... He felt a
sharp pricking pain in his upper arm.
'I'll kill you,' he murmured, then felt a soft dark weight
pressing down on his mind. 'I'll . . .'
Then the pain, the room, the raging fear - and Isis -
were all lost in blackness . . .
Josh woke up.
Again.
And felt much better. He was still naked, but when he
flexed his legs and arms, he realised he was free.
'Here, drink this,' said a familiar voice. Someone who
was exacdy who she should be this time, someone he really
didn't hate at all.
Josh opened his eyes and sat up, then took a long thirsty
pull at the glass of water Isis held to his lips.
'How do you feel now?' she asked quietly, putting the
glass aside. Josh shuddered, looking into her hideous yet
beautiful face and remembering two different yet equally
disturbing dreams. One bizarre and delectable; one that
terrified him.
'Better,' he answered sheepishly, 'and I'm sorry for what
I said before. I don't know what got into -' He stopped
198

abruptly and grinned. 'Let me rephrase that. I felt weird.
I was scared and angry. I'm sorry I yelled at you. I don't
know why I said those things . . .'
'I do.'
As Josh swung his legs so he could sit with them dangling
over the side of the couch, Isis came and sat beside him.
He was acutely aware of her heat, and the fact that her
lovely body was just inches away from him. Astoundingly,
his cock flicked slightly in response; and though a wave of
joy accompanied the phenomenon, he concentrated on the
nervous twisting of her pink-lined fingers to take his mind
off it. He wanted answers now, not another erection.
'What do you mean?' he enquired, sliding his hands
discreetly down his thighs to block her view of his crotch.
'It's my fault you went wild when you first came round.'
Isis paused as if trying to decide what came next . . . and
whether she dare speak of it.
What the hell's she done? thought Josh. The white smock
rustled evocatively as Isis' uneasiness manifested itself in
fidgeting and shuffling her trim backside on the couch. Josh
eyed the extra inches of creamy thigh this revealed, then
crossed his wrists over his own thighs to try to hide the
inevitable.
Luckily Isis was unable to look him in the face. Or the
crotch. 'Well,' she began again, 'you're probably the best
and most reactive client I've ever had, Josh. I promise you
I've never actually "gone under" with you, but I can tell
by what you say, and by the readouts, that when you're
experiencing a re-creation, it's all absolutely real for you.'
She glanced at him then, and Josh nodded. It was real.
'Anyway . . . seeing as how you responded so well, I
thought I'd see if I could improve on that. So I did a bit
of retuning to see if I could upgrade the "reality" even
further for you.' She smoothed her palms down her skirt
as if she were swee^'ng. 'But it looks as if I might've gone
too far. You had about a dozen orgasms this time . . .'
'Good God.'
His groin was starting to hurt again now, the stiffening
triggered both by her female proximity and her extra-
199

ordinary revelation. Surely, though, he hadn't come that
many times in St Etienne's playroom?
'It sounds as if my body was having an even better time
than my mind,' he observed, grinning broadly to reassure
the worried-looking Isis.
'Oh yeah,' she said, lacing her fingers, still nervous, 'the
response was excellent. But I took you so deep that it
knackered up the return to "real" reality. The transition
was too abrupt and it threw you into shock. I'm sorry,
Josh, I'll have to retune for next time. Try to find a happy
medium . . .'
'Don't worry. I'm okay now, aren't I?'
Isis nodded, clearly not all that convinced.
Josh decided to convince her. 'At first I was shit-scared.
Being buggered ... it felt so fabulous, more than the dead
straight "het" in me said it ought to. That's what made me
go nuts.'
'But why shouldn't it feel good? It's a very sensual experi-
ence, whatever your sex or persuasion. And if you're
worried about being gay, Josh, I really don't know why.
Most people are bisexual anyway, when it really comes
down to it.'
'You're probably right there, Isis,' he said, unfolding his
forearms out of his lap. 'Because I sure as hell still fancy
women.' With a resigned laugh, he looked down at the
fleshy crimson tower rising out of his groin. He was fully
erect again, seeping pre-come as if this was the night's first
hard-on, not at least the dozenth. And this time, he knew
exactly why his tool was waving . . .
He wanted this strange, clever woman at his side. He
wanted Isis more than he'd ever wanted anybody, male,
female or even someone with aspects of both, like St Eti-
enne. 'I'm sorry. I can't help it,' he said, flashing her a
grin.
'You randy bugger.' She was laughing now, but obvi-
ously reassured. 'You never give up, do you?'
'This never does,' he replied, tapping his swaying erec-
tion. 'But I'm going to have to, aren't I?' he went on
quiedy, 'unless you've changed your mind, which I
200

seriously doubt. I want you, Isis, but I'm obviously not
going to get you. And anyway, I'm superstitious!'
'What on earth are you yattering on about?' enquired
Josh's old imperious Isis, hopping off the couch and making
him ache even more as a long expanse of shapely thigh was
revealed in the process.
'Didn't you say I'd had twelve climaxes tonight?' He
followed her off the couch, prick bouncing obscenely as he
landed. 'If I come again, it'll be unlucky.'
'Go and get dressed, you idiot,' Isis chuckled and turned
towards her computer console. 'I'll meet you back in the
bar and we'll have a drink and decide where you go from
here.'
Easier said than done, decided Josh later, back at his flat.
He and Isis had had their drink and their chat, but it'd
been strangely unilluminating. Isis had been charming, yet
her real thoughts had been as veiled as her face often was.
Josh had suspected she was still concerned about his post-
adventure outburst, and behind her peculiar bi-coloured
eyes, the scientist had already been at work on a
solution . . .
'And she probably still is,' Josh muttered to himself as
he got into bed and pulled the sheet across his naked body.
Although she'd never fully explained how the sensory re-
creator worked, Josh had formed the impression that a
good deal of complex programming was involved; and while
he was here, relaxed and comfortable between the crisp
cotton sheets of his double bed, she was back in the treat-
ment room, hunched over her computer console, squinting
at a screen full of arcane figures . . .
The trouble, Josh realised, turning over restlessly, was
that his own mind was now just as puzzling to him as Isis's
screen would've been. Only wanting her remained constant;
otherwise his hormones were in utter turmoil.
He'd been heartily glad earlier on that St Etienne and
Bobbie hadn't returned to the bar. It had been difficult
enough to look Guido in the eye. There was no way the
blond barman could've known the contents of the latest
201

'adventure', but Josh had the weirdest feeling Guido was
somehow aware of what had 'taken place'. He was a man
who worked among a lot of sexy people, after all, and no
doubt he was well versed in the art of observation. He
was probably picking up vibes Josh was hardly aware of
exuding . . .
I hope to God he doesn't fancy me, thought Josh, turning
over yet again, then thinking of how attractive Guido's
muscular, long-limbed body was, and how incredible he'd
looked in Bobbie's mouth.
'Stop it,' he shouted out loud to himself, sitting up and
switching on the light. 'For Christ's sake think about
women!'
Which brought him back to Isis.
Who on earth did she fuck? She had to get satisfied
somehow or where; she was mature, sexy and vital. She
had all her juices flowing, and inevitably she'd need some
action.
And he couldn't imagine her being short of suitors, in
spite of her bitter comments about guys with Phantom of
the Opera fetishes and suchlike. He pictured her humping
some anonymous but lucky young stud, and his groin
pulsed insistently.
Face it, Mortimer, you're hooked, he told himself resign-
edly. Easing down more cosily into the bed, he retuned his
mental picture and replaced the faceless youngster between
Isis's thighs with an image of himself.
The clarity of it all was frightening, pin-sharp and almost
as real as an 'adventure'. Delicious frissions played up and
down his tool; he could taste Isis's mouth as he kissed her,
smell her perfume, feel the feminine solidity of her body
as he rocked his pelvis and plunged into her moist,
engulfing heat. Closing his eyes and sighing, in the real
world, his hand drifted to his crotch . . .
It was almost noon when Josh reluctantly woke up, and he
lay still for a few minutes, trying to decide whether he felt
properly rested or still a bit out of sorts. His body felt
sticky and distinctly grungy, and his penis faintly sore. A
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long hot shower followed by a herbal body rub sounded
enticing. Better not be too vigorous around some parts of
his anatomy, though. Not after last night. . .
It'd been nice though.
Refreshed, soothed and revived by shower, body rub,
and a mug of strong coffee, in that order, Josh strolled at
last into his small but elegant lounge, only to have his hard-
won sense of wellbeing shattered by the red 'priority one'
code flashing on his answermachine.
'Damn,' he growled, cinching his robe around him and
taking a seat before the computer monitor. Personal callers
couldn't engage this particular code, so it couldn't be any
of his usual friends trying to reach him.
What about Isis? His spirits and his cock leapt when he
realised that with her computer knowhow she could prob-
ably callifudge just about anything out of any system.
But both prick and hopes deflated when he punched in
de-scroll and a familiar logo unfurled on the screen.
solarcorp mining executive.
priority to j j mortimer - senior engineer
phobos facility . . .
The gist of it was, Josh thought glumly as he sipped his
cold coffee some time later, that at midnight tonight he'd
be at City Field hopping a shuttle to take him back to
Phobos. There'd been a massive explosion at the mine and
his expertise was required to set things right. Mercifully,
there'd been no serious injuries, but the blast had damaged
structures on which the whole camp depended; so, until
repairs were effected, miners' lives were in jeopardy.
Josh sighed. He'd have answered this call even if he
hadn't been obliged to, but having already signed up for
his next tour because of the outrageous financial demands
of Pleasurezone, an early recall was standard operational
procedure.
He couldn't lay the blame at Pleasurezone's door. Not
really. Yet as he weighed the Libidox capsule in his palm,
his mind screamed 'no!' and his groin cramped in protest.
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He checked the chrono. Yes, there was time. Pleasure-
zone owed him. Isis owed him. The whole wild thing had
cost so much he owed it to himself.
A little something on account, that's what he'd have. A
last pleasure-splurge before Phobos. One last chance to get
his rocks off before the placidity of temporary chemical
gelding. Whistling a tune to himself, he started punching
in the code . . .
At seven o'clock, almost wishing he had taken the Libidox,
Josh finally got fed up of There is no one here to speak to
you, please leave a message . . .' In between making his
departure arrangements, packing his bags, and making
other calls, he knew for a fact he'd tried to call Isis on
seventeen different occasions. The computer had logged his
attempts: seventeen connections, then seventeen tedious
repetitions of that frustrating message.
'What the hell is she doing?' Josh switched off the screen
in disgust, grabbed his leather jacket and was out on a
travelway almost before he realised what he was doing.
'Mountain to Mahomet and all that stuff,' he muttered to
himself, drawing a curious stare from a fellow traveller.
Five hours left to take-off. He'd get that 'something on
account' from Isis, even if it killed him.
And yet, as he patted his hair and checked his 'look' in
La Selene's mirrored foyer, a still, small voice at the back
of his mind subversively informed him it might be enough
just to see her . . .
But she's not forced to be here, he told himself, pushing
open the door to the main bar; and his heart sank as he
scanned the sparsely filled room. Sevenish was early for a
place that really lit up only around midnight . . . and he
was only playing a hunch. Glancing towards the back of
the room and the red baize door, he knew there was no
way to pass through it without the correct entrance code.
Then, directing his attention back to the bar, the heart
that'd sunk bounced up again.
Right in the corner, hard by the wall and half in shadow,
there she was!
204

Perched on a stool and deep in thought, Isis was studying
a thick sheaf of papers that spilled across the counter before
her. As he watched, she took a sip of coffee from a cup at
her elbow, then re-adjusted the granny glasses perched on
the end of her nose, frowned, and made a swift annotation
on the top sheet of her stack. The lady doctor was clearly
hard at work, and judging by the fact she appeared to be
mouthing curses, having her fair share of problems.
'Hi!' said Josh brighdy as he slid onto an adjacent stool.
'What are you doing here? You're booked for Thursday,
not tonight.'
'Charming. And it's nice to see you too, Isis,' replied
Josh crisply, squashing his disappointment. Her lack of
welcome hurt him, but, strangely, made him want her even
more. She was imposingly sexy when she was fierce, and
a scowl did incredible things to her scar. Frowning her
displeasure, she was a pagan devil-goddess, a totem who
could consume him alive as easily as look at him.
'What do you want, Josh?' she went on, ignoring his
facetious greeting. Pulling off her glasses, she smoothed an
errant lock of hair out of her eyes. The movement was
slight and unstudied but it tautened her thin white shirt
across her breasts, and made Josh's groin twitch like an
obscenely displaced heartbeat. She was casually dressed
tonight: plain shirt, jeans - and when Josh looked down -
scuffed trainers on her slim, elegant feet. These were prob-
ably the reason she'd tucked herself away like this. La
Selene had no dress code as such, but its clientele were
usually clad in the height of current fashion.
'I . . . I just wondered whether you could fit me in
tonight instead,' he began, and then, in the face of her
continuing silence, he outlined the details of his recall.
Isis's disapproving expression softened as the account
progressed, and as it did so, her whole demeanour became
more sympathetic, and more sensual. Aching with need,
Josh watched the subde shift of her thighs as she relaxed
on her stool. Oh God, how he longed to nestle there! The
snug jeans clung to her fine curvy hips and slim waist; Josh
205

followed the direction of that overstitched centre seam he
loved so much . . . His mouth went dry, his penis wept.
'So you see,' he concluded, 'this is my last chance to
party before Libidox makes me a temporary eunuch. I
wanted to go out with . . . well . . . something other than
being fucked in the arse as my last sexual memory.'
'Yes, I see your point,' said Isis slowly, picking up her
pen as she did so and chewing its end contemplatively.
Josh nearly groaned aloud, hardly able to believe what that
absentminded gesture did to him. He saw - and felt! - her
small red mouth enclose his aching prick . . .
'And under any other circumstances, Josh, I'd have been
happy to oblige.' She abandoned the unappealing pen and
nibbled her full bottom lip instead. 'But I've spent most
of today overhauling the system, reconfiguring just about
everything so you wouldn't get the screaming abdabs next
time you wake up. It's all in bits, Josh. I only slipped out
for a coffee break. I've got to go back in there now and put
the entire shebang back together again . . .'
She cares! thought Josh exulantly. She really cares! The
joy of it almost drowned his frustration.
Almost but not quite.
'Isn't there anything you can do?' He hated the whining
tone in his voice almost as much as the patent fact of being
a slave to his own screaming cock. God, he'd have to have
something soon, even if it was only a trip to the lavatory
to wank! 'What about that "something special" you had as
a back-up? You know, last night.'
'It won't work, Josh. I'm recalibrating the whole system.'
You could let me fuck you instead, thought Josh sav-
agely. Empty my balls into you . . . it'd do just as well.
But what he said instead was, 'You owe me something,
Isis. It's Pleasurezone's fault I'm obliged to go. At least
you could give me something on account.' He turned away,
more angry with himself than her, and signalled to Guido
for a drink.
When the drink arrived, he sank half of it, and stared
moodily at the remainder as he listened to the scratch of
Isis's swifdy moving pen.
206

He was just about to drink off, make his goodbye and
leave, when he felt a soft and uniquely feminine touch on
his arm. The writing had stopped, he realised, and when
he looked down, Isis's long, delicately scarred fingers were
pale against the dark leather of his jacket.
There might be a way,' she said in a low voice, her odd,
glowing eyes offering hope but only tentatively. 'It might
be a bit rough around the edges, not quite as "real" as
usual, but I might be able to wangle something. It'll mean
some jury-rigging, Josh, but I'd like to try.'
'So would I,' he replied, halfway to heaven just from the
pressure of her fingers.
'Let's go then. You haven't got much time.'
And it was the swiftest transition from bar to treatment
room he'd ever made. No dawdling over erotica, no mental
foreplay with books, tapes or artwork ... A few essential
minutes in the bathroom, a quick half-strip, and he was
climbing on to the white leather couch, his cock swinging
eagerly.
Isis didn't waste time either; she went straight to her
computer in jeans and workshirt. As Josh settled himself
into the now familiar mouldings, her fingers fairly flew over
the keys, pulling up whole wodges of data, cancelling and
rekeying, and blaspheming frequently and colourfully as
she did so. Josh knew he should be scared, but his cock
was an iron-hard column of need and he'd never been
randier in his life.
She was still preoccupied when she moved swiftly around
him, fastening the various straps. Josh could almost see the
calculations taking place behind her eyes. She's so brilliant,
he thought in awe, then laughed out loud, realising that
the very idea of her dazzling intelligence had made him
stiffer than ever. If only he could be the man to blow that
incredible mind. He laughed again, remembering that he'd
longed for something quite similar with the 'adventurous'
version of St Etienne!
'What's so funny?' she enquired, turning to press a key.
'Nothing,' replied Josh shakily as the cleverly placed
leather covered ridges began to open his arse in readiness.
207

Swiftly and impersonally she lubricated him, then, with
another keystroke, sent the probe sliding into his rectum.
'Ooh yes,' he hissed, bearing down hard.
Penetration ... he loved it. There was no hiding the
fact. The phallus felt cool, and, though quite inert,
reminded him vividly of St Etienne and her amazing arti-
ficial penis.
Relaxing into the delicious sensation, Josh tried to ignore
the sounds of agitation coming from the direction of the
console.
Isis knew what she was doing, didn't she? Josh told
himself not to worry and had no problem obeying. Revel-
ling in a well-stuffed arse and a rigid and gloriously tingling
tool, he closed his eyes and let all questions float from his
mind. Passive, yet trembling slightly, he felt Isis return
and give him his shot, then place the softly lined eyemask
carefully in place. Next it'd be the cuff on the tip of his
penis . . .
Josh felt himself drifting away, cocooned in warmth,
exquisite stimulation and total darkness ... He smiled
behind his mask, completely unconcerned. She'd said it
would be different this time, but she had promised him
pleasure and he trusted her completely.
Tap tap tap . . . Her genius fingers still flowed busily
across the keys.
'You stupid fucker!' An angry voice. Another wild fusil-
lade of keystrokes . . .
Isis?' he queried blindly, not worried for himself but
saddened to hear her self-recrimination.
'Don't worry, Josh, you'll get your adventure.' Sounding
very odd now, a combination of defeat, resignation, and
spinemelting erotic mischief, she continued, £In fact, it's
about to start any minute!'
This was a very peculiar state; half in, half out of the
Pleasurezone. He still couldn't see, but he knew something
special was happening . . . The 'something special'? Visuals
would cut in soon, and his electronically deluded mind
would take him flying free of the bonds that held him . . .
Or would they?
208

Hovering in the warm, dark peacefulness, Josh sensed a
presence beside him, heard soft rustlings and breathing . . .
The dream lover was close now, very close, caressing his
face, his belly, and - ooh! - his cock ... It was the weirdest
adventure yet, he observed in a fragment of lucidity, but
there was nothing to complain about. A pair of bare thighs
were suddenly and delightfully astride his own. He couldn't
see a single thing, but his cock said a hot sex was suspended
above him like a sizzling vapour.
There was a long sigh, sweet and breathy in the empty
air, and simultaneously he was engulfed! His tool was sunk
upon by warmth and wetness, enclosed in a grippy sleeve
that hugged every trembling millimetre of his flesh and
rippled around him like a heavenly syncopated wave.
The ultimate cunt.
'Oh God!' he crooned, untroubled by either darkness or
his bonds. The unseen caressor had him in paradise, wher-
ever or whatever that might be. Simmering on the edge of
an orgasm, Josh neither knew nor cared.
'Not quite,' said a familiar but flustered sounding voice,
and Josh laughed out loud again.
In triumph . . .
The woman above ground her body on to him in ever-
decreasing circles ... a tricky-bitch attempt to distract him
from what he now already knew. Then with his arse speared
and cock about to explode, he felt her lean forward and
unfasten his hands . . .
'Go on,' she murmured huskily, 'you might as well take
the mask off . . . Although you'd be doing yourself a favour
if you didn't!'
'No way,' said Josh, groaning in a fight for self-control.
Some diabolical inner muscle was massaging the head of
his cock, and the strong thighs that flanked his hips were
rocking him gendy on the probe. His cock jumped wildly
in its sheath, but he bit his hp bloody, pushing back the
inevitable for just a little longer. He'd see a face when he
came! And he'd see her seeing it.
Limbs twitching, his body at war with a violent urge to
come, Josh reached up and slowly tugged off the mask.
209

Eyes still closed, he flung it away. The moment of revelation
was nigh, yet he savoured the torture of anticipation.
When his eyes flicked open, the first thing he saw was
the juncture of their loins: hair tangled together, a mesh of
his jet black and her red-gold-blonde. She was more auburn
below, he noted wonderingly, fiery like the liquid flame
that licked his smothered cock.
Teasing himself, he panned up over an ever-so-slighdy
rounded ever-so-very kissable belly, the tender erotic dink
of a navel . . . then sighed at the sight of her ripe, lace-
covered breasts. Mentally stripping off the sheer fabric, he
cruised on and up the slim column of the loveliest throat
he'd ever seen till he reached a beautiful, wryly smiling face
- a face with an orchid-cunt scar and glittering, unnervingly
disparate eyes.
'Sorry. It's kinda beauty and the beast time,' whispered
Isis, leaning over to stroke Josh's cheek before touching
her own. She still had on her thin white shirt, and its open
panels brushed his chest as she moved.
'I see no beast.' He ran his fingers across the cups of her
flimsy bra, lingering over the hard tips beneath, and smiling
as she gasped. 'Be naked for me, Isis. Please?'
Her face clouded a littie, then she shrugged and shucked
off her shirt. Josh reached up and unhooked the bra's tiny
front clasp, and she slid the garment away with a grace that
left him speechless. A few hair-fine pink scarlines criss-
crossed her arms and trunk - obviously the cause of her
frown - but her breasts were perfect, with high, delicate
globes, creamily opulent and crowned with puckered,
berry-brown nipples. Josh's tongue ached to caress
them ... his lips to suck ... his teeth to nip gently . . .
He put up both his long hands and rubbed her, then fought
for breath as she wriggled in response, swivelling herself
mercilessly on their double impalement.
'You witch,' he hissed, loving the voluptuous agony of
it. 'Trust you to find a way to fuck me too.'
'Neat trick, eh?' She shimmied again, and Josh moaned,
his fingers closing roughly on her breasts. He'd wanted to
be so gentle if this'd ever happened, but she was driving
210

him crazy. Squeezing his cock with her incredible innards
and at the same time raping his arse with all the power her
cousin had ... in dreamtime.
Isis grunted, covering his hands with hers as she tilted
her body slighdy and mashed her clitoris against him.
'I wanted this all along, you know,' she said, breathing
unevenly now. 'I wanted it the first moment you came into
La Selene. I was watching you from the shadows. I told
myself I was nuts! I couldn't get over the idea of climbing
on top of you . . . Just like this . . .'
Then why didn't you do it before?' he demanded, tears
springing to his eyes at the incredible sensations.
'You know why,' gasped Isis, fucking herself silly on his
rod, pushing her breasts at him for further mauling. 'Oh
God, I love that,' she keened as he pinched her. 'Shall . . .
shall I unfasten your feet?'
'No! Leave 'em! I like it . . .' His fettered ankles gave
him purchase as he arched his pelvis up off the probe, and,
grabbing Isis summarily by the hips, slammed her cunt
down hard on his cock. It was like being in her up to her
throat, and with a great shout, Josh felt his cock convulse
and spew out its tribute deep in her body . . .
'Isis! Oh God! Oh God!' he bellowed, yowling at the top
of his lungs as she matched his action and jammed him
back down onto the phallus.
White lights burst sofdy behind his eyes, and his loins
entered another universe . . . Never . . . never before like
this . . . His semen poured like a molten river inside her,
bubbling between his flesh and the shimmering walls of her
climaxing cunt, oozing between their bodies, soaking the
mingled hair ...
From a great distance he heard, 'Josh Josh Josh' like an
incantation and felt her nails score cruelly into his arms.
'Ooh Josh! Ooh God, I'm coming,' she wailed, her distorted
words making far less sense than her boiling, thrashing
body.
Then nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Over-
loaded nerve-ends tumbled Josh into a dark soothing void.
211

He slept . . . but in the soft black nothingness he knew
there was still an Isis . . .
'Was that a mercy fuck?' he enquired drowsily sometime
later.
They were in a bed together at last, tucked away in Isis's
pocketsized living quarters which opened off the Pleasure-
zone suite. Josh had never even known of the place's exist-
ence, but now he acknowledged it as a miniature paradise.
And he smiled, thinking of how they'd stumbled, dazed,
naked and sticky, from the fateful white couch and its banks
of electronic wizardry to the plain uncluttered simplicity of
this tiny room.
'I might ask the same of you,' replied Isis, sitting up and
giving him the straightest look she was capable of. Josh
saw small bruises marring her peerless breasts, and, feeling
faintly guilty, raised himself up to kiss them.
'I don't suppose there's anything I can say to make you
believe you're beautiful, is there?'
She shook her head but smiled.
'Well, you are to me, and I don't want to argue about
it,' he said decisively, 'and if I didn't have to go and mend
a mine in about - ' he glanced at the small bedside chrono,
'two hours, I'd spend the next week right here in this bed
showing you how beautiful you are.' His mouth settled on
a breast again, and Isis whimpered softly as he slid his
hand between her legs. Working steadily and rhythmically,
pacing lips on nipple to finger on clitoris, he brought her
quickly to another powerful climax, enjoying the aban-
doned honesty of her groans as much as the beauty of her
magnificent body.
'But what am I going to do with you when you get back?'
Isis asked when she'd caught her breath.
'Fuck me senseless, I hope,' he retorted, hugging her
close and pressing his thigh into the sopping place between
her legs.
'No . . . Yes ... Oh bugger! I will, but what are we
going to do about Pleasurezone? I owe you four
adventures . . .'
212

Til take it in straight sex. I'm not fussy,' Josh smiled
ruefully. Adventures in the Pleasurezone were amazing.
Incredible. But after what'd just happened he'd swap every-
thing he'd spent so far - ten times over! - for the time to
have a long, slow and very, very conventional screw with
this remarkable woman beside him.
'Don't be silly. I owe you thousands!'
Tm serious. You're worth thousands.' Reckoning
swifdy, he decided that the next fifteen minutes, spent in
the missionary position, could well setde his account with
Pleasurezone for good.
He checked the chrono again. One and a half hours left.
'Isis . . .'Gently but insistently he urged her back against
the pillows. 'What about another little something on
account?'
'The bank's open, Mr Mortimer,' she answered with a
low throaty chuckle. 'Welcome to the Pleasurezone.'
Manoeuvring quickly, he replaced his thigh with his erec-
tion and pushed. Then pushed some more . . . then
plunged . . . then drove deeply home.
'Yes!' he murmured, as Isis' hands slid around and grip-
ped his arse. He felt her nails cut his skin, and her juicy
cunt caress his cock.
Loving the litde pain as much as the big pleasure, Josh
smiled into the scented softness of her neck and began to
thrust. . .
Oh God, it was adventuretime again!
213

NEXUS BACKLIST
All books are priced £4.99 unless another price is given. If a date
is supplied, the book in question will not be available until that
month in 1995.
CONTEMPORARY EROTICA
THE ACADEMY
CONDUCT UNBECOMING
CONTOURS OF DARKNESS
THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE
DIFFERENT STROKES
THE DOMINO TATTOO
THE DOMINO ENIGMA
THE DOMINO QUEEN
ELAINE
EMMA'S SECRET WORLD
EMMA ENSLAVED
EMMA'S SECRET DIARIES
FALLEN ANGELS
THE FANTASIES OF
JOSEPHINE SCOTT
THE GENTLE DEGENERATES
HEART OF DESIRE
HELEN - A MODERN
ODALISQUE
HIS MISTRESS'S VOICE
HOUSE OF ANGELS
THE HOUSE OF MALDONA
THE IMAGE
THE INSTITUTE
SISTERHOOD OF THE
INSTITUTE
Arabella Knight
Arabella Knight
Marco Vassi
Anonymous
Sarah Veitch
Cyrian Amberlake
Cyrian Amberlake
Cyrian Amberlake
Stephen Ferris
Hilary James
Hilary James
Hilary James
Kendal Grahame
Josephine Scott
Marco Vassi
Maria del Rey
Larry Stern
G. C. Scott
Yvonne Strickland
Yolanda Celbridge
Jean de Berg
Maria del Rey
Maria del Rey

JENNIFER'S INSTRUCTION
LETTERS TO CHLOE
LINGERING LESSONS
A MATTER OF POSSESSION
MELINDA ^ND THE MASTER
MELIN'PX AND ESMERALDA
MELINDA AND THE
COUNTESS
MELINDA AND THE ROMAN
MIND BLOWER
MS DEEDES ON PARADISE
ISLAND
THE NEW STORY OF O
OBSESSION
ONE WEEK IN THE PRIVATE
HOUSE
THE PALACE OF
SWEETHEARTS
THE PALACE OF FANTASIES
THE PALACE OF
HONEYMOONS
THE PALACE OF EROS
PARADISE BAY
THE PASSIVE VOICE
THE SALINE SOLUTION
SHERRIE
STEPHANIE
STEPHANIE'S CASTLE
STEPHANIE'S REVENGE
STEPHANIE'S DOMAIN
STEPHANIE'S TRIAL
STEPHANIE'S PLEASURE
THE TEACHING OF FAITH
THE TRAINING GROUNDS
UNDERWORLD
erotic science fiction
ADVENTURES IN THE
PLEASUREZONE
RETURN TO THE
PLEASUREZONE
Cyrian Amberlake
Stefan Gerrard
Sarah Veitch
G. C. Scott
Susanna Hughes
Susanna Hughes
Susanna Hughes
Susanna Hughes
Marco Vassi
Carole Andrews
Anonymous
Maria del Rey
Esme Ombreux
Delver Maddingley
Delver Maddingley
Delver Maddingley
Delver Maddingley
Maria del Rey
G. C. Scott
Marco Vassi
Evelyn Culber
Susanna Hughes
Susanna Hughes
Susanna Hughes
Susanna Hughes
Susanna Hughes
Susanna Hughes
Elizabeth Bruce
Sarah Veitch
Maria del Rey
Delaney Silver
Delaney Silver
Aug
Apr
Sep
Jun
May

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