Madame B - Seduction

"She deserves everything she gets," he said, raining down tiny slaps on my clit. I felt myself begin to lose control. As he fucked my pussy and spanked my clit relentlessly my whole body went limp for a few seconds before I came, violent spasms and a trickle of my fluids grabbing his hard-on in a warm, wet caress.

"Oh, yeah," he murmured, whipping his dick out of my convulsing pussy and at the last moment forcing it between my lips. He shot his load into my mouth. I swallowed, aware of a sliver of hot, salty liquid that was spilling from between my lips and rolling down my neck.

Immediately after he'd come, he wiped himself with a tissue, put his dick back in his trousers, and looked at the clock. When I swiveled my body around and sat up on the desk, my pounded pussy was so sore I couldn't put my legs together. He noticed and let out a cruel, bitter laugh.

"You won't be able to walk properly again for days," he said. "It will be a constant reminder of your punishment. And I let you off lightly for what you did, you spoiled little bitch." Wordlessly, he handed me the tape, allowed me a few seconds to clothe myself. I didn't even have time to wipe myself clean of the trickle of semen that was beginning to dry on my neck. He led me out of the tiny little room and down a side staircase before pushing me out of a fire door and into the sunny street, where I stood blinking in disbelief for a few seconds, still coming down from the high of my orgasm.

I hopped on the bus, eager to get home so I could fantasize about the whole experience again. By the time I got back to my apartment, I was planning what I would shoplift next time. It would have to be something daring and outrageous, something that would guarantee a repeat performance. Like I said, I'm a danger junkie.

Jules didn't want to share this confession with me. It's the story of how she had one final fling before her wedding, and it was very out of character. Jules, you see, is a good girl. That's how she thought of herself. She'd always been faithful to her fiance. Always done the right thing by her friends. But sometimes even good girls succumb to temptation. And when they do, the results are often intensely orgasmic. The last thing I said to Fiona on the night before my bachelorette party was "I don't want a stripper. Please don't get me a stripper." I'd seen too many brides-to-be have their big night ruined as they cringed in front of some narcissistic banana-and-whipped-cream-wielding moron covered in fake tan and sporting nothing more than a leopard print thong performing a lewd bump-and-grind in her face. "I don't mind the tiaras and embarrassing gifts and all that stuff, but I'd be so humiliated by a stripper. Do you promise?"

"Would I do that to you, Jules?" said Fiona with a wicked grin. She was my oldest friend and the only contender for maid of honor. She was a great friend and a fantastic organizer. She'd booked a meal in a fancy restaurant and then got us VIP tickets for an exclusive club. But she also had a wicked sense of humor and a taste for the outrageous. On this occasion, Fiona's promise didn't mean much.

On the night itself, I chose to wear a midnight-blue baby doll dress that matched the color of my eyes and the sapphire in my engagement ring. It also showed far too much cleavage and thigh, but I'd been working out for my wedding, and I wanted to show off my newly buff body.

"You look gorgeous," said Danny, my fiance, as I twirled before the mirror while I waited for ride. "A bit too gorgeous! I hope you'll stop dressing like that once you're a wife. This is your last big night. Don't go talking to any strange men, now."

"Please," I giggled, as he pulled me into his arms, stroked my long brown hair, which fell in waves over my shoulders. "It's a gang of twenty drunken women. We'll be scaring men off, not attracting them!"

"You have a good time, babe," said Danny, and then he gave me a long, lingering kiss that was only interrupted by the honk of the taxi's horn. Fiona, dressed to kill in a pink dress with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination, was in a cab outside.

"You might be getting married, but I'm still looking for Mr. Right!" she giggled. We sped through the London streets before finding ourselves in the private room of a fashionable restaurant. When I stepped foot inside, my eyes swam with tears of joy. All of my closest female friends and family were gathered around the table. As I entered they rose to their feet and clapped and whistled. They'd decorated the room with pink feather boas and pictures of me on various girly holidays.

The night flew by. We ate a three-course dinner and drank our own weight in champagne. We posed for photographs and flirted with the very attractive waiters. After dinner, Fiona produced a bottle of Sambuca and twenty shot glasses.

"Just a little something to awaken the palate after that wonderful supper," she said pouring the clear liquid into the glasses, spilling half of it in the silver tray. "Now, the best way to drink this," she continued, brandishing a silver lighter, "is on fire." And with that, she shot out a tiny flame across the surface of one of the glasses. An ethereal blue-purple flame danced over the top of the oily liquid. To my amazement, Fiona tipped the whole thing back and downed the shot in one gulp.

"Now it's your turn!" she said to the rest of us. With my hand shaking, I poured the shooter down my throat. The flame skimmed my lips, a fiery smack that awoke a distant memory of the urgent kisses you only have with a new lover. I realized at that moment I'd never have that "first-kiss" intensity again, as the hot liqueur flowed through my body, making my limbs tingle and my head swim.

Fiona poured another round and set them aflame. As I raised my glass, my friends fell silent and then began to giggle, staring at a point behind me. Before I had a chance to turn around, a deep, masculine voice from behind me boomed, "Do you need someone to put out a fire?"

I whipped around to see a tall, broad man in full fireman's uniform, complete with yellow helmet and visor, carrying a hose in one hand. Fiona produced a CD player seemingly from nowhere, and music filled the room.

"Happy bachelorette party, Jules!" said the fireman, whose face was still obscured by his headgear. He looked tall and well built, but really, in those bulky clothes and that hat, he could have been gorgeous or hideous underneath.

"You bitch," I hissed at Fiona. She winked at me and danced out of my way.

"Madame," said the stripper, "that drink breaks health and safety regulations. I'm going to have to extinguish it." Too shocked to disobey, I sat down on a chair and let him take the drink from my hand and down it.

"Hey, that was mine!" I said, making everyone laugh. The ice broken, I decided to make the best of an awkward situation and enjoy my strip-o-gram with good grace and a sense of humor.

He stood facing me, broad legs straddling my body, his crotch an inch or two away from my mouth. He smelled freshly scrubbed but the faintest traces of his own natural aroma also caught my nostrils as I inhaled. It had been literally years since I had been this close to any man but Danny; I had forgotten how overpowering and arousing a new man's smell can be.

I closed my eyes to savor his scent, and when I opened them I found that he was sliding off his jacket. Twenty young women gasped in admiration and arousal as he revealed a strong, broad torso with a perfect six-pack and not an inch of fat. His skin was a nutty light brown color and was perfectly smooth except for a curly line of hair that scurried down from his navel to beneath his waistband, and a similar smattering beneath his underarms. Dark brown nipples topped tight pecs, but the most beautiful parts of his body were his arms. They were broad and muscular worked-out arms with prominent veins running along their length. He produced a tiny bottle of chocolate body paint from his pocket and drizzled it across his chest. Entranced, and playing the dutiful hen, of course, I put my lips to his nipples and licked the sweet chocolate liquid from his skin. I stopped just above his waistband but realized with shock that I wanted it to continue. This realization brought a flush to my cheeks at the same time that a faint pulse began to throb between my legs. What had started as a joke was fast turning into genuine, disturbing, intense desire-the kind of desire that demands gratification.