Disciplining Frank Leigh
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This story only available on Lush Stories. Dedicated to a humble man and a lovely friend.
It isn’t every day one wins the chance to meet one’s favourite writer, and the women of certain lusty circles had been ready to scratch each other's eyes out over the charity competition. For a mere 3,000 (or $4653.90) donation, anybody with the cash and will to write a poem could enter and be in with a chance to meet Frank Leigh. Nobody remembers if there was a second prize. Or a third. Who cared, when there was Frank Leigh on offer?
Revered and acclaimed the world over for his velvet words, that dripped hot, sticky lust into the eyeballs of women who would do anything to get their hands on him, Frank Leigh was a prize indeed. There were even straight men who would sell their own mothers just to hear his deep, dulcet tones reading out one of his own works, imagining that poetic master teaching them all there was to know about reducing women to a quivering wreck at their feet. Hell, some of them even discovered they were sliding onto the gay scale with a tube of KY and a butt plug when they read his steamier stories.
A small panel of judges (made up of two spokespeople from the testicular cancer charity the competition was in aid of, a newspaper journalist and a professor from Oxford), asked only for original work entitled “Kiss”, and there were a lot of entries. That is not a euphemism. Well, actually, the journalist and the professor did hit it off, but that’s a different story.
Frank Leigh. What could be said about him? Anybody who had read his work could say nothing about him at all, unless they were jealous and begrudged him the thousands of swooning fans liberally sprinkled all over the globe, sprinkling bed sheets and panties in their passion for his work. They could say nothing, because when one of his poems or stories plunged into the gateway of a reader’s soul, they were hopelessly lost and breathless. He could whisper smooth love songs into an ear whilst pounding the pussy below simply by wriggling his fingers across a keyboard and licking his lips once. His business was lust, and he was bloody good at it.
The mystery and intrigue surrounding his persona was tense with sexual excitement. His avatars and author photos showed only dim lighting which highlighted a brush of forehead here, a sweep of cheekbone there, and the shadows of his worldly body sunk deep and ruggedly into the background. Oh, women wanted him. Men wanted to be him. And writers needed him, if only to read his works, mourn their own ineffective use of prose, and wallow luxuriously in their own self-pity that the sharp, finely honed words of his craft were not theirs.
Yes, an evening with Frank Leigh was a prize indeed. The rules were simple: write an original poem entitled “Kiss”. Submit the poem. Await the announcement of the winner. The winner would spend the evening with Frank Leigh at the location of their choice.
A risky business for Mr Leigh, but he had been preoccupied when he was approached by the charity. He was too busy writing Evelyn Harpy into a compromising position with an angst-ridden passing sailor boy to really listen to the details. And so it was that he agreed to meet whatever poet won the competition. He didn’t even have any say in the judging. When he read the follow-up email from the publicists detailing what he’d signed up for, he sat there with two lit cigarettes in one shaking hand, a large beer in the other, and his slippers and smoking jacket hanging off him in defeat.
He bashed out one poem in outrage at himself that caused several thousand women (and seventy eight men) to cream their panties instantly, and then pulled himself together. Jacket and slippers off, smart suit on. This was business.
Let us not bore ourselves with the submitted pervy poems and witterings that the amateur poets desperately offered, as I’m sure we can all write our own very successfully. But the winner was a real cougar of a woman. In her late forties, this honey blonde (not her own colour) trollop had sexy curves in all the right places (she had those because she had a fantastic surgeon), and she could eat men for breakfast. And all day, actually, if they had the staying power (which, after ten minutes with her well-practised mouth, they could not). Her poem comprised of ten stanzas in which she detailed how to check lustfully for testicular lumps using just her tongue and a nipple. The panel of judges, with poems spread open before them like a harem of sex-starved women, all decided together, simply turning various shades of crimson and coughing embarrassedly. It may or may not delight some readers to know that the journalist and the professor privately tried out the technique later with each other, but only made it to the third stanza.
Having won the competition, Madeline McMorning smirked to herself. Oh, Frank, she thought, how I shall make you squirm. Are you scared yet, dear readers? You should be, especially if you’re Frank Leigh.
I’d give you all the details and stuff, but I know you want to know what happens when they met, don’t you? Ms. McMorning, oh she of corrupting nature and enormous sexual appetite, chose to fly out from her proper posh English country manor, and have Mr Leigh meet her in New York in her suite. I don’t know where, because I never went there, but it was some rich hotel with red plush floors and shiny gold dingle-dangly bits all around. You get the idea? Good. I never went into one of those places, so you’ll just have to imagine it.
The cougar was waiting in her lair for her victim.
Now you’re going to get it, Frank Leigh, she thought.
The doorbell rang five minutes after the receptionist phoned ahead to tell Ms. McMorning her guest was on his way up. She draped herself on the large, creamy couch in the middle of the room, her long, slender (fake) tanned legs shown off delightfully, and her large, round (fake) breasts displayed like two brown leathery bowling balls bursting out of a black satin sandwich bag. Bad metaphor? Blimey! I’m not Frank Leigh, you know. Stop interrupting.
The doorbell rang, a soft dingdong that announced the great writer’s presence just beyond those cream and gold gilded doors. Ms. McMorning’s bowling balls heaved in excitement and determination. She waited. Frank Leigh waited.
Dingdong.
Ms. McMorning called softly to the waiting figure.
“Come in.”
Nobody came in.
She called a bit louder.
“Come in!”
Dingdong.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she grumbled, indelicately rolling herself off the couch (she wasn’t as limber as she used to be at this time in the evening). Stalking slinkily to the door in her black, shiny heels, she plumped up her bosoms, straightened her black satin dress, shook her long, coiffed hair back, and opened the door, sliding her arm up the doorframe and leaning against it, to show her figure off to plasticky, leathery perfection.
“Mr. Leigh, I presume,” she purred into thin air. Staggering upright, she glanced down to find a little man, his face about the same level as her large breasts, staring shyly at the plush floor. His mousey hair, with streaks of grey here and there, was balding slightly on top. Five more years and he’d look like a monk, an egg in a basket. A jolly little Friar Tuck, maybe, if we could have seen his smile. But no man likes his balding to be mentioned unless it turns sexy women on, I hear.
He scratched his chin nervously with nicotine-yellow fingers. Small framed, but with a spreading middle-aged paunch showing beneath his slightly dowdy black suit and sensible blue tie, his presence was hardly even registering on the scale of reality. This was a man, indeed, who could be lost in a crowd, who could blend in, just watching… and seen but never seen.
He certainly was not the tall, dark haired man in his prime mid-thirties that she’d been expecting.
“Mr. Leigh?” Recovering herself, Ms. McMorning stood upright and exuded confidence through her cleavage right next to his face. He nodded shyly. She grabbed his tie in her red sharp-clawed tendon-strung hand, and pulled him stumbling into the room. Walking him along the carpet like a naughty pet on a leash, she wiggled her arse in his downward gaze as she led him over to a small chair and desk, on which stood a laptop open at a page of his poetry.
“I won,” she breathed.
Again, he nodded shyly, staring at the carpet.
“Mine was the best poem,” she smiled. “I’m the winner. And you agreed to spend this evening on my terms, did you not?”
Poor Frank Leigh. Face to face with a heaving bosom, and a mature hellcat with her claws wrapped around his tie. What’s a man to do?
He nodded shyly.
“In that case, Mr. Leigh,” she said in her best sultry, posh English voice, “I’m going to discipline you. Sit down!” And she pushed poor Frank Leigh onto the chair with a plush thud of dowdy suit on cream-gilded cushion.
“You shall not speak.” She pushed herself between him and the desk, leaning over the laptop to get an object, and in doing so, she gave him an eyeful of tanned arse cheeks framed above by a black lace thong. His eyes widened and tried in vain to stare at the floor, his own facial cheeks blushing scarlet in stunned amazement. She turned around so that his forehead was now level with her pussy, which he could scent was already oozing the musky dribbles he’d been trying furiously to ignore just seconds before.
“Open wide, Mr. Leigh.” She lifted his chin and he obediently opened his mouth. She pushed a wide leather gag and bit over and into his mouth, and thrust her cleavage into his face as she fastened the buckle behind his head. She walked behind him now, and he heard her moving across the carpet to the other side of the room.
A trickle of sweat ran down his temple, and he brushed it away quickly. He could feel his breathing quicken, as his ears began to rush. I’m not sure where they were rushing, but rush they did. Returning, she grabbed one of his hands from behind, and tied a loop around it with a soft, silky cord.
“Give me your other hand, Mr. Leigh,” she said sternly. Meekly, he pushed his hand behind him, and felt her tying him wrist to wrist, with the chair back between his arms and body. He felt another trickle of sweat roll down between his shoulder blades. He cursed the fictional Evelyn Harpy with all his might in his mind. The first chance he got, he was going to write her into a car accident and make her live out the rest of her days with an annoying sister he would create for her. The things he did for bloody charity!
“One last thing. Lift your hips, Mr Leigh.” Sighing, he did as he was told. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Or worse, maybe it would. He closed his eyes as he felt her undo his belt, and pull down his trousers and sensible Y-fronts. He was glad he’d put fresh ones on, at least, and he sank back into the chair.
“Oh my,” she purred. “You’re not so little after all, are you? But I see I haven’t excited you yet. No matter. Now look at the screen.”
He did. He saw his poem, “Passion Ablaze” sitting benignly before him, almost raising an eyebrow at him as if to say, well, you wrote me, whaddaya gonna do? She wandered behind him again.
“I’m going to read it to you, and you’re going to sit and listen.” She began to read from the screen, running her hand over his head and messing up his thinning hair. Bitch, he thought, if you pull any out, I swear I’m gonna… Actually, I can’t really do anything. Damn it.
She began to move around to the front again, pressing her cleavage to his face, reciting the words without even looking. Crazy bitch, he thought, she’s learned the fucking thing. It’s not even my best one.
She straddled him, her arms around his neck, as she whispered his own words first in one ear, and then the other, ruffling his hair, and beginning to grind on his lap. She had obviously removed her thong now, as she draped it over one of his ears. This would make an excellent story, he thought to himself. But I’m going to make me an inch taller, and make those breasts real. I gotta say, there could be worse ways to discipline me.
He felt himself responding instinctively to her grinding. What man wouldn’t? Well, possibly very gay ones, and almost certainly those in need of Viagra. He heard the triumph of her attainment of the desired response in her recitation, and figured that all things considered, this wasn’t going too badly. But fuck, she was making his poetry sound like crap. She kept putting the emphasis on different words and taking a breath in all the wrong places.
He realised she’d stopped reciting now and was kissing his neck, cheeks, forehead, and stroking her hands up and down his chest. Moving her pussy along his hard erection like a buttered bun sliding back and forth around an overly-ketchupped hotdog, she began to speak again, softly and dangerously. Frank Leigh felt himself almost losing both his dinner and his spunk. That is a euphemism.
“Oh, Mr Leigh, you naughty, naughty man. I have you where I want you now. Do you know how many pairs of dry clean-only knickers you have made me ruin by getting me juicy? Do you know how many batteries I have gone through in my vibrators, imagining they were your pumping cock? You’re such a tease, you bad, bad man. You play with your words like I’ve wanted you to play with me for so long, and you never respond with more than a thank you to my passionate messages to you. Why is that? I think it’s because you like to tease, you want women to squirm for you, don’t you, you bad man? You make them desire you, but you have no intention of giving us what we really need.”
Frank Leigh nodded; he couldn’t deny it. But he was thinking, who the hell wears dry clean-only knickers? What even are knickers? Crazy Brit bitch!
She slid her hand down and wrapped it around the base of his rather stimulated cock, sitting herself back a little, and leaning her back down onto the desk, flattening the laptop screen backwards as she went. Since Frank Leigh was still looking down, he had a perfect view of Ms. McMorning’s sodden genitals. Fair enough, he thought, that’s some good surgeon she has.
She writhed her hips teasingly over him, throwing her arms up and out, and her breasts stayed in exactly the same place on her chest. I wonder how much of that is really her, he mused. And he wondered if he could get away with writing a poem about the beauty of complete fakeness that would get people off. Of course he could. He was Frank Leigh. He could do whatever the hell he wanted. In his head, at least. And in whatever medium his publishers would allow him.
She sat up, letting him feel her sliding along him again, her enormous breasts back in his non-descript and sweating face as he stared at them.
“You’re a complete tease,” she told him. “So now, I am letting you feel me, and I won’t let you fuck me. I have wanted you for so long, to feel your hands moving all over my body, to watch you fling those stars above my head and feel you suck on my nips.” Nips, woman? he thought. Nips? What is this, dubya dubya dubya dot wankfiction dot com?
“And now you’ve had your wicked way with my body using your words, I’m going to have my wicked way with you using mine.”
Holey moley, thought poor Frank Leigh, as she removed first one leg and then the other, and turned around so she straddled him again, hands leaning on the desk, and this time, he had a perfect view of her chocolate starfish right next to his now totally lubed penis. Wow, she douched and everything.
Rotating her hips so two holes were winking at him, Ms. McMorning began to speak, soft and low.
“Oh, bad man that doth call to me
Like tempest on the deep blue sea,
Would you please fuck me now?
Would you please stick your hardened tool
Inside me, make my pussy drool?
Would you please fuck me now?”
Frank Leigh groaned. Mistaking his noise of disgust for one of passion, she changed rhythm, and carried on.
“Oh, bad man who doth play with me,
My pussy and one, two, titty,
Would you please fuck me now?
Would you please stick your shining dick
Into my mouth as I do lick?
Would you please fuck me now?”
Fuck fuck fuck! No fucking way!The poor Frank Leigh was shouting inside. Fuck, this is so bad my ears are bleeding! His erection was fast disappearing despite two desperate holes squelching hungrily for him centimetres away, whilst between her legs, Ms. McMorning's claw-like talons flicked a swollen nub as she fingered herself faster and faster.
“Oh, bad man who will not give succour
And give in and finally fuck her!
Would you please fuck me now?
Would you please bring me sweet relief
To this, mine lusting needing grief?
Would you please fuck me now?”
She cried out as she hit her threshold, cumming in huge spasms like a sperm whale’s mistress (sorry, the bad writing is contagious). Outwardly, Frank Leigh emitted frantic moaning noises through the gag, wriggling in his chair to try and get away, held there by his bonds and the plasticky leatherette kebab grinding above him. God, Frank Leigh screamed inside, I don’t fucking believe in you, but if you make this stop now I swear… I swear… I totally swear, I shall go to church on Sunday and put 50 dollars on the collection plate. Just make it fucking stop, please!
Completely limp, dripping with sweat and her juices, the tortured poet fell quiet as his captor collapsed back onto him, panting hard. She snuggled into him, letting the final throes die away for both of them. She could feel he was no longer stiff, and mistakenly thought Frank Leigh had shot his load clear of both her and the desk. Lying back on his chest, she looked upwards and saw a splatter stain on the creamy gilded ceiling.
“Oh my,” she purred. “I made you shoot a long way, didn’t I?” In actual fact, the stain was an old one, and due to a volatile can of beer – that one splash had been missed by the cleaning maids when they got side-tracked in a spontaneous lesbian romp.
Frank Leigh simply sat in his chair sweating and swearing to God that he was going to put 100 dollars in the plate instead of the agreed 50.
Standing up and pulling her dress down, Ms. McMorning looked at him with satisfaction, mistaking his bowed head for humility and shame, when really, Frank Leigh was getting ready to run in case she decided to start reciting some of her work again. And he only ever normally ran for the bathroom after a bad curry, but these were desperate times.
She teetered behind him and undid his wrists, and then his gag, after which he stood up and pulled his underwear and trousers up, firmly belting them. And then he looked at her. Right into her eyes. She gasped.
Like a fat fishergirl looking Neptune’s swirling oceans in the eye in a daft fairytale about mermaids, Ms. McMorning was captivated by the grey green depths she saw studded into Frank Leigh’s face. A man who could hide in a crowd, yes. Until you looked at him, and I mean, really looked at him, in his eyes She did really look at him, in his eyes, and she could see into infinite galaxies of fantastical dreams, and the scorching blaze of his ardent fierceness regarding bad poetry smacked her upside the head like… well, like somebody smacking somebody upside the head for bad poetry.
She breathed in a shocked, stuttering gasp. He took a step towards her, his small frame, paunchy tummy, and thinning hair all receding into the shadows streaming behind from the glare of the fire burning in his irises. If one wasn’t caught up in the sexual tension of the room, mention of Superman, laser eyes and blue tights might spring to mind, but let’s not sidetrack at the very end, okay?
His stare converged on her, surrounding her with melting chocolate mattresses of cum-inducing pressure, although his body moved nowhere. He made her feel like a tiny speck in the universe, and her legs trembled, dumping her ungraciously to the floor. The intensity of his gaze rocked her, earth quaking shudders making her cream herself instantly as she heard him speak in that voice.
“I swear, your poetry really needs some work.”
And the small frame, paunchy tummy, and thinning hair of Frank Leigh sidled off into the corridors of the hotel, and out into the crowded nightlife of the New York streets, his eyes once more hooded as he melted away into the crowds, just watching… seen, but never seen…
This story only available on Lush Stories.
It isn’t every day one wins the chance to meet one’s favourite writer, and the women of certain lusty circles had been ready to scratch each other's eyes out over the charity competition. For a mere 3,000 (or $4653.90) donation, anybody with the cash and will to write a poem could enter and be in with a chance to meet Frank Leigh. Nobody remembers if there was a second prize. Or a third. Who cared, when there was Frank Leigh on offer?
Revered and acclaimed the world over for his velvet words, that dripped hot, sticky lust into the eyeballs of women who would do anything to get their hands on him, Frank Leigh was a prize indeed. There were even straight men who would sell their own mothers just to hear his deep, dulcet tones reading out one of his own works, imagining that poetic master teaching them all there was to know about reducing women to a quivering wreck at their feet. Hell, some of them even discovered they were sliding onto the gay scale with a tube of KY and a butt plug when they read his steamier stories.
A small panel of judges (made up of two spokespeople from the testicular cancer charity the competition was in aid of, a newspaper journalist and a professor from Oxford), asked only for original work entitled “Kiss”, and there were a lot of entries. That is not a euphemism. Well, actually, the journalist and the professor did hit it off, but that’s a different story.
Frank Leigh. What could be said about him? Anybody who had read his work could say nothing about him at all, unless they were jealous and begrudged him the thousands of swooning fans liberally sprinkled all over the globe, sprinkling bed sheets and panties in their passion for his work. They could say nothing, because when one of his poems or stories plunged into the gateway of a reader’s soul, they were hopelessly lost and breathless. He could whisper smooth love songs into an ear whilst pounding the pussy below simply by wriggling his fingers across a keyboard and licking his lips once. His business was lust, and he was bloody good at it.
The mystery and intrigue surrounding his persona was tense with sexual excitement. His avatars and author photos showed only dim lighting which highlighted a brush of forehead here, a sweep of cheekbone there, and the shadows of his worldly body sunk deep and ruggedly into the background. Oh, women wanted him. Men wanted to be him. And writers needed him, if only to read his works, mourn their own ineffective use of prose, and wallow luxuriously in their own self-pity that the sharp, finely honed words of his craft were not theirs.
Yes, an evening with Frank Leigh was a prize indeed. The rules were simple: write an original poem entitled “Kiss”. Submit the poem. Await the announcement of the winner. The winner would spend the evening with Frank Leigh at the location of their choice.
A risky business for Mr Leigh, but he had been preoccupied when he was approached by the charity. He was too busy writing Evelyn Harpy into a compromising position with an angst-ridden passing sailor boy to really listen to the details. And so it was that he agreed to meet whatever poet won the competition. He didn’t even have any say in the judging. When he read the follow-up email from the publicists detailing what he’d signed up for, he sat there with two lit cigarettes in one shaking hand, a large beer in the other, and his slippers and smoking jacket hanging off him in defeat.
He bashed out one poem in outrage at himself that caused several thousand women (and seventy eight men) to cream their panties instantly, and then pulled himself together. Jacket and slippers off, smart suit on. This was business.
Let us not bore ourselves with the submitted pervy poems and witterings that the amateur poets desperately offered, as I’m sure we can all write our own very successfully. But the winner was a real cougar of a woman. In her late forties, this honey blonde (not her own colour) trollop had sexy curves in all the right places (she had those because she had a fantastic surgeon), and she could eat men for breakfast. And all day, actually, if they had the staying power (which, after ten minutes with her well-practised mouth, they could not). Her poem comprised of ten stanzas in which she detailed how to check lustfully for testicular lumps using just her tongue and a nipple. The panel of judges, with poems spread open before them like a harem of sex-starved women, all decided together, simply turning various shades of crimson and coughing embarrassedly. It may or may not delight some readers to know that the journalist and the professor privately tried out the technique later with each other, but only made it to the third stanza.
Having won the competition, Madeline McMorning smirked to herself. Oh, Frank, she thought, how I shall make you squirm. Are you scared yet, dear readers? You should be, especially if you’re Frank Leigh.
I’d give you all the details and stuff, but I know you want to know what happens when they met, don’t you? Ms. McMorning, oh she of corrupting nature and enormous sexual appetite, chose to fly out from her proper posh English country manor, and have Mr Leigh meet her in New York in her suite. I don’t know where, because I never went there, but it was some rich hotel with red plush floors and shiny gold dingle-dangly bits all around. You get the idea? Good. I never went into one of those places, so you’ll just have to imagine it.
The cougar was waiting in her lair for her victim.
Now you’re going to get it, Frank Leigh, she thought.
The doorbell rang five minutes after the receptionist phoned ahead to tell Ms. McMorning her guest was on his way up. She draped herself on the large, creamy couch in the middle of the room, her long, slender (fake) tanned legs shown off delightfully, and her large, round (fake) breasts displayed like two brown leathery bowling balls bursting out of a black satin sandwich bag. Bad metaphor? Blimey! I’m not Frank Leigh, you know. Stop interrupting.
The doorbell rang, a soft dingdong that announced the great writer’s presence just beyond those cream and gold gilded doors. Ms. McMorning’s bowling balls heaved in excitement and determination. She waited. Frank Leigh waited.
Dingdong.
Ms. McMorning called softly to the waiting figure.
“Come in.”
Nobody came in.
She called a bit louder.
“Come in!”
Dingdong.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she grumbled, indelicately rolling herself off the couch (she wasn’t as limber as she used to be at this time in the evening). Stalking slinkily to the door in her black, shiny heels, she plumped up her bosoms, straightened her black satin dress, shook her long, coiffed hair back, and opened the door, sliding her arm up the doorframe and leaning against it, to show her figure off to plasticky, leathery perfection.
“Mr. Leigh, I presume,” she purred into thin air. Staggering upright, she glanced down to find a little man, his face about the same level as her large breasts, staring shyly at the plush floor. His mousey hair, with streaks of grey here and there, was balding slightly on top. Five more years and he’d look like a monk, an egg in a basket. A jolly little Friar Tuck, maybe, if we could have seen his smile. But no man likes his balding to be mentioned unless it turns sexy women on, I hear.
He scratched his chin nervously with nicotine-yellow fingers. Small framed, but with a spreading middle-aged paunch showing beneath his slightly dowdy black suit and sensible blue tie, his presence was hardly even registering on the scale of reality. This was a man, indeed, who could be lost in a crowd, who could blend in, just watching… and seen but never seen.
He certainly was not the tall, dark haired man in his prime mid-thirties that she’d been expecting.
“Mr. Leigh?” Recovering herself, Ms. McMorning stood upright and exuded confidence through her cleavage right next to his face. He nodded shyly. She grabbed his tie in her red sharp-clawed tendon-strung hand, and pulled him stumbling into the room. Walking him along the carpet like a naughty pet on a leash, she wiggled her arse in his downward gaze as she led him over to a small chair and desk, on which stood a laptop open at a page of his poetry.
“I won,” she breathed.
Again, he nodded shyly, staring at the carpet.
“Mine was the best poem,” she smiled. “I’m the winner. And you agreed to spend this evening on my terms, did you not?”
Poor Frank Leigh. Face to face with a heaving bosom, and a mature hellcat with her claws wrapped around his tie. What’s a man to do?
He nodded shyly.
“In that case, Mr. Leigh,” she said in her best sultry, posh English voice, “I’m going to discipline you. Sit down!” And she pushed poor Frank Leigh onto the chair with a plush thud of dowdy suit on cream-gilded cushion.
“You shall not speak.” She pushed herself between him and the desk, leaning over the laptop to get an object, and in doing so, she gave him an eyeful of tanned arse cheeks framed above by a black lace thong. His eyes widened and tried in vain to stare at the floor, his own facial cheeks blushing scarlet in stunned amazement. She turned around so that his forehead was now level with her pussy, which he could scent was already oozing the musky dribbles he’d been trying furiously to ignore just seconds before.
“Open wide, Mr. Leigh.” She lifted his chin and he obediently opened his mouth. She pushed a wide leather gag and bit over and into his mouth, and thrust her cleavage into his face as she fastened the buckle behind his head. She walked behind him now, and he heard her moving across the carpet to the other side of the room.
A trickle of sweat ran down his temple, and he brushed it away quickly. He could feel his breathing quicken, as his ears began to rush. I’m not sure where they were rushing, but rush they did. Returning, she grabbed one of his hands from behind, and tied a loop around it with a soft, silky cord.
“Give me your other hand, Mr. Leigh,” she said sternly. Meekly, he pushed his hand behind him, and felt her tying him wrist to wrist, with the chair back between his arms and body. He felt another trickle of sweat roll down between his shoulder blades. He cursed the fictional Evelyn Harpy with all his might in his mind. The first chance he got, he was going to write her into a car accident and make her live out the rest of her days with an annoying sister he would create for her. The things he did for bloody charity!
“One last thing. Lift your hips, Mr Leigh.” Sighing, he did as he was told. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Or worse, maybe it would. He closed his eyes as he felt her undo his belt, and pull down his trousers and sensible Y-fronts. He was glad he’d put fresh ones on, at least, and he sank back into the chair.
“Oh my,” she purred. “You’re not so little after all, are you? But I see I haven’t excited you yet. No matter. Now look at the screen.”
He did. He saw his poem, “Passion Ablaze” sitting benignly before him, almost raising an eyebrow at him as if to say, well, you wrote me, whaddaya gonna do? She wandered behind him again.
“I’m going to read it to you, and you’re going to sit and listen.” She began to read from the screen, running her hand over his head and messing up his thinning hair. Bitch, he thought, if you pull any out, I swear I’m gonna… Actually, I can’t really do anything. Damn it.
She began to move around to the front again, pressing her cleavage to his face, reciting the words without even looking. Crazy bitch, he thought, she’s learned the fucking thing. It’s not even my best one.
She straddled him, her arms around his neck, as she whispered his own words first in one ear, and then the other, ruffling his hair, and beginning to grind on his lap. She had obviously removed her thong now, as she draped it over one of his ears. This would make an excellent story, he thought to himself. But I’m going to make me an inch taller, and make those breasts real. I gotta say, there could be worse ways to discipline me.
He felt himself responding instinctively to her grinding. What man wouldn’t? Well, possibly very gay ones, and almost certainly those in need of Viagra. He heard the triumph of her attainment of the desired response in her recitation, and figured that all things considered, this wasn’t going too badly. But fuck, she was making his poetry sound like crap. She kept putting the emphasis on different words and taking a breath in all the wrong places.
He realised she’d stopped reciting now and was kissing his neck, cheeks, forehead, and stroking her hands up and down his chest. Moving her pussy along his hard erection like a buttered bun sliding back and forth around an overly-ketchupped hotdog, she began to speak again, softly and dangerously. Frank Leigh felt himself almost losing both his dinner and his spunk. That is a euphemism.
“Oh, Mr Leigh, you naughty, naughty man. I have you where I want you now. Do you know how many pairs of dry clean-only knickers you have made me ruin by getting me juicy? Do you know how many batteries I have gone through in my vibrators, imagining they were your pumping cock? You’re such a tease, you bad, bad man. You play with your words like I’ve wanted you to play with me for so long, and you never respond with more than a thank you to my passionate messages to you. Why is that? I think it’s because you like to tease, you want women to squirm for you, don’t you, you bad man? You make them desire you, but you have no intention of giving us what we really need.”
Frank Leigh nodded; he couldn’t deny it. But he was thinking, who the hell wears dry clean-only knickers? What even are knickers? Crazy Brit bitch!
She slid her hand down and wrapped it around the base of his rather stimulated cock, sitting herself back a little, and leaning her back down onto the desk, flattening the laptop screen backwards as she went. Since Frank Leigh was still looking down, he had a perfect view of Ms. McMorning’s sodden genitals. Fair enough, he thought, that’s some good surgeon she has.
She writhed her hips teasingly over him, throwing her arms up and out, and her breasts stayed in exactly the same place on her chest. I wonder how much of that is really her, he mused. And he wondered if he could get away with writing a poem about the beauty of complete fakeness that would get people off. Of course he could. He was Frank Leigh. He could do whatever the hell he wanted. In his head, at least. And in whatever medium his publishers would allow him.
She sat up, letting him feel her sliding along him again, her enormous breasts back in his non-descript and sweating face as he stared at them.
“You’re a complete tease,” she told him. “So now, I am letting you feel me, and I won’t let you fuck me. I have wanted you for so long, to feel your hands moving all over my body, to watch you fling those stars above my head and feel you suck on my nips.” Nips, woman? he thought. Nips? What is this, dubya dubya dubya dot wankfiction dot com?
“And now you’ve had your wicked way with my body using your words, I’m going to have my wicked way with you using mine.”
Holey moley, thought poor Frank Leigh, as she removed first one leg and then the other, and turned around so she straddled him again, hands leaning on the desk, and this time, he had a perfect view of her chocolate starfish right next to his now totally lubed penis. Wow, she douched and everything.
Rotating her hips so two holes were winking at him, Ms. McMorning began to speak, soft and low.
“Oh, bad man that doth call to me
Like tempest on the deep blue sea,
Would you please fuck me now?
Would you please stick your hardened tool
Inside me, make my pussy drool?
Would you please fuck me now?”
Frank Leigh groaned. Mistaking his noise of disgust for one of passion, she changed rhythm, and carried on.
“Oh, bad man who doth play with me,
My pussy and one, two, titty,
Would you please fuck me now?
Would you please stick your shining dick
Into my mouth as I do lick?
Would you please fuck me now?”
Fuck fuck fuck! No fucking way!The poor Frank Leigh was shouting inside. Fuck, this is so bad my ears are bleeding! His erection was fast disappearing despite two desperate holes squelching hungrily for him centimetres away, whilst between her legs, Ms. McMorning's claw-like talons flicked a swollen nub as she fingered herself faster and faster.
“Oh, bad man who will not give succour
And give in and finally fuck her!
Would you please fuck me now?
Would you please bring me sweet relief
To this, mine lusting needing grief?
Would you please fuck me now?”
She cried out as she hit her threshold, cumming in huge spasms like a sperm whale’s mistress (sorry, the bad writing is contagious). Outwardly, Frank Leigh emitted frantic moaning noises through the gag, wriggling in his chair to try and get away, held there by his bonds and the plasticky leatherette kebab grinding above him. God, Frank Leigh screamed inside, I don’t fucking believe in you, but if you make this stop now I swear… I swear… I totally swear, I shall go to church on Sunday and put 50 dollars on the collection plate. Just make it fucking stop, please!
Completely limp, dripping with sweat and her juices, the tortured poet fell quiet as his captor collapsed back onto him, panting hard. She snuggled into him, letting the final throes die away for both of them. She could feel he was no longer stiff, and mistakenly thought Frank Leigh had shot his load clear of both her and the desk. Lying back on his chest, she looked upwards and saw a splatter stain on the creamy gilded ceiling.
“Oh my,” she purred. “I made you shoot a long way, didn’t I?” In actual fact, the stain was an old one, and due to a volatile can of beer – that one splash had been missed by the cleaning maids when they got side-tracked in a spontaneous lesbian romp.
Frank Leigh simply sat in his chair sweating and swearing to God that he was going to put 100 dollars in the plate instead of the agreed 50.
Standing up and pulling her dress down, Ms. McMorning looked at him with satisfaction, mistaking his bowed head for humility and shame, when really, Frank Leigh was getting ready to run in case she decided to start reciting some of her work again. And he only ever normally ran for the bathroom after a bad curry, but these were desperate times.
She teetered behind him and undid his wrists, and then his gag, after which he stood up and pulled his underwear and trousers up, firmly belting them. And then he looked at her. Right into her eyes. She gasped.
Like a fat fishergirl looking Neptune’s swirling oceans in the eye in a daft fairytale about mermaids, Ms. McMorning was captivated by the grey green depths she saw studded into Frank Leigh’s face. A man who could hide in a crowd, yes. Until you looked at him, and I mean, really looked at him, in his eyes She did really look at him, in his eyes, and she could see into infinite galaxies of fantastical dreams, and the scorching blaze of his ardent fierceness regarding bad poetry smacked her upside the head like… well, like somebody smacking somebody upside the head for bad poetry.
She breathed in a shocked, stuttering gasp. He took a step towards her, his small frame, paunchy tummy, and thinning hair all receding into the shadows streaming behind from the glare of the fire burning in his irises. If one wasn’t caught up in the sexual tension of the room, mention of Superman, laser eyes and blue tights might spring to mind, but let’s not sidetrack at the very end, okay?
His stare converged on her, surrounding her with melting chocolate mattresses of cum-inducing pressure, although his body moved nowhere. He made her feel like a tiny speck in the universe, and her legs trembled, dumping her ungraciously to the floor. The intensity of his gaze rocked her, earth quaking shudders making her cream herself instantly as she heard him speak in that voice.
“I swear, your poetry really needs some work.”
And the small frame, paunchy tummy, and thinning hair of Frank Leigh sidled off into the corridors of the hotel, and out into the crowded nightlife of the New York streets, his eyes once more hooded as he melted away into the crowds, just watching… seen, but never seen…
This story only available on Lush Stories.
Rowan
- 07.04.2021
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- Category:
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