A Love Game

by Nicole Dere

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

An erotic novel with Femdom, BDSM, menage, ff, mm and bisexual themes.

The diffident Marty Dixon is delighted to fall under the entrancing and dominant influence of the beautiful Clio, though marriage proves a rocky path. Switching to an expatriate life in Africa fails to alter Marty's helpless subservience as the passionate Clio becomes violently enamoured of macho South African, Anton Van Reis. She makes no secret of her affair, until her weak and sexually ambivalent husband is compelled to face losing her or becoming a slavish plaything in the lovers' new setup.

Meanwhile, a few miles away, Janet Thoroughgood is enduring similar problems with her domineering husband, Patrick, her first and only boyfriend since her school days. Bisexual Janet develops an innocent friendship with Marty through their interest in drama, but also begins a secret sexual liaison with another married couple, Mags and Dave Evans. Though unaware of this, Patrick Thoroughgood is furious at his timid wife's new independence and brutally rejects her.

Utterly bereft, Jan searches for her friend, Marty, seeking out Ant Van Reis, who immediately drags her into their erotic enclosed circle. Jan and Marty become possessions of their master and mistress, both prized and despised, pleasured and severely punished. But their unique household is threatened and finally dissolved by the machinations of the lecherous local police chief, Samwel Onama after being tipped off by someone from Jan's past life...

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 248

Sample

Chapter One

THEY KEPT US IN a cupboard, off the kitchen. Well, they called it a room. It was about ten foot by six, and had one small window high in the wall, about two foot wide and six inches deep, with reinforced glass, and solid iron bars on the outside. The double mattress on the floor, which we shared, took up more than half the floor space, not that we needed more room. We had no furniture, and no possessions. We would have been better off in the proper servants’ quarters, which were at the bottom of the large garden, distant from the bungalow. But there was a cook/houseboy and a housegirl living there already, and as Clio told us, with that lazy laugh of hers, ‘You’re not watu(natives), for God’s sake!’

In those early days I had already suffered greatly from the humiliations heaped upon me at the unimpressive size of my sexual apparatus. Jan was very kind. ‘It’s just perfect!’ she assured me during the treasured time we spent alone in our cubbyhole. She loved to play with it as we lay on our mattress in the dark, or by the flickering light of the Tilley lamp we were allowed for our extra comfort. Her gentle fingers were deeply arousing, as she stroked and rolled it in her palms, or pulled the collar of the foreskin back to expose the acorn shape of the swelling glans, and I would squirm and shiver with delight as it grew from its normal two inches to three, or sometimes at the height of excitation, four. She would tease out such action for what felt like hours, extending the exquisite torture by desisting just before the critical point of climax, allowing me and my organ to sink back in limp, damp relaxation, before slowly building to crescendo once again.

She didn’t always confine her ministrations to this expert manual stimulation, though, if she persisted, it was unfailingly enough to bring me arching and whimpering to brief full erection and ejaculation. Sometimes, to my never-failing amazement and gratitude at her magnanimity, she would bend low over me, so that her warm breath played over my quivering flesh, and her tongue would begin its long, slow, exploring strokes over my lower belly, the crease of my inner thighs, and then the throbbing tube of my prick, which would stir and rear as though eager to return the embrace. I would feel her soft lips kissing my already slippery helm, and the underside of my shaft, then the lips would close over the swollen head and slide remorselessly down, drawing me into that wet and warm, sucking cave, into which I would explode, with final shocked delight and she would pull back, her smeared face resting over my still discharging prick, while she expelled the residue of my semen from her mouth onto the damp little softness of my pubis.

Equally often, I would take the active role, starting by lying beside her, our naked bodies twined together, our mouths glued, tongues sliding, writhing, then I would ease down, slowly, always slowly, concentrating on her breasts. They were of quite modest size, but beautifully high, like a young girl’s, much more beautiful to me than the full, overripe bosoms and pronounced nipples of the local women. Jan’s were small, a pale pink, as were the surprisingly generous areolae surrounding them. Her stomach was flat, and in the centre lay the divine shallow little eye of her navel, the next focus of attention for my curling tongue. Then I knelt between her thighs, bowing low, lifting them to rest on my devoted shoulders as I let my nose riffle through the wiry black curls of her pubic hair, or the soft fuzz after a recent trimming of the small tuft. My nostrils quivered as I inhaled rapturously the distinctive aroma of my final destination.

Just as her breasts reminded me of a young maiden rather than a woman in her mid-20s, so her sexual parts seemed equally fresh and unaccustomed to sensuality. Ecstatically, I buried my face in her bounty, lapped and nuzzled and nibbled, pulling back now and then, to extend that delicious time of pre-orgasmic sensation, guided by the convulsing grip of her fingers in my hair, which would suddenly increase, drawing me back a little from her presented loveliness. When she could not hold back from the brink any longer, again a hand would guide me; it would scrabble, reach for my own hand, clawing, urging me towards the fount of her excitement, and I would slide in my finger, then another, into the well-lubricated vagina, work rhythmically within its narrow walls, seek out the hidden upper peak with that tiny bud of clitoris, and work back and forth in a final frenzy, my lips and tongue still furiously assisting, until her belly and thighs rose, she jerked, buffeting me on the crest of her coming, on and on until we both collapsed in sated exhaustion.

Once only, in the very early days of our joint subjugation, Jan had attempted to initiate our sexual intercourse. After manipulating my prick, with success enough to see its extended length and even the hardness of erection, she rose and spread herself over me, her knees jutting. She sat astride, with her hand agonisingly gripping my captive cock like a rodeo rider clinging to the pommel of a bucking bronco. She strove to fit my engorged member into her tight but eagerly awaiting cunt. She succeeded, and for a few dizzy seconds, I felt my throbbing hardness drive deep into her narrow sheath, and she let out a sharp yelp of triumphant pain. Five seconds later came the inevitable wilt. I buckled inside her. For a few more seconds she tried to keep me inside, riding me furiously. I could feel the jabbing of the bones through her tight little buttocks on the front of my thighs, before my now totally detumescent prick oozed out and lay trapped between us.

I turned my face away, mortified by my failure, even though I should have expected no other outcome. I couldn’t keep back the tears I tried to hide. But I was astonished to feel Jan’s hands pulling me fiercely round to face her, the salt liquid of her own weeping mingling with mine, along with her wet, searching mouth. ‘No, no!’ she gasped. ‘Please – I did it for you, I swear, not me! I thought you wanted it. Surely you know – you mustknow that that’s not what I want. I’ve never wanted it. It’s what you do – the way you make love to me, with your mouth, your hands – that’s what I need – what I’ve always wanted. Look! Here!’

She turned again, away from me on the mattress, but still holding me, reaching behind her, thrusting her bum into my lap so that we fitted spoon fashion together. Her hand groped, her fingers fumbled until she found my still greasy little penis and fitted it into the slot of her buttocks. She thrust even harder against me, to ensure that my prick was securely held in the cleft, and moved in slow rhythm. ‘Do it!’ she murmured. ‘Bring yourself off against me.’

‘I can’t! You know I–

‘You can! Just keep moving, like this. Till you come. I don’t mean – I just want to feel you come.’

She gave a brave little laugh that was half sob, and I began to rut, limp as I was, and it was rapturous against the yielding little rump, the nestle of her cheeks about my once more swelling penis, and I let my mind go, drift in the power of my masturbatory fantasies, where my prick no longer mattered, no longer existed, and I came, surging, flooding her inner cheeks and my own belly in the copious discharge. She lay still as it cooled and crusted on our entwined bodies, and my lips nuzzled at her neck and her delicate shoulder, my fresh tears catching in her hair.

And yet I still treasure for myself those five or six seconds when my prick was inside her cunt, the crude and pure sensation of fucking, which gives a clue to the truly screwed up sexuality of my nature – and, maybe, of hers – which landed us in the mess we walked into. Strangely, from that five-second wonder, and monumental failure, we became true lovers, in a tenderness and intimacy that exceeded anything we had known, in any of the many other enforced relationships where our bodies and minds were used and abused to the limit. Nobody could get near it, however completely they owned us and compelled our obedience. And, after all, in the last analysis, this slavery we were delivered into had been of our own volition: the last act of our individual, and joint, free will, and I guess that makes us closer than anyone could ever imagine.

But how did it happen? Of course you have a right to know, if not to understand, so let’s sketch our histories before they became one – starting with mine.

Marty’s Story

Chapter Two

ADOLESCENCE WAS THE SEXUAL minefield it remains for so many boys. I worried and suffered my way through it, tormented by my addiction to the long, solitary sweating nights (and days, when the necessary solitude could be engineered) of fevered wanking, whose lurid fantasies invariably cast me in my passive role, generally the victim of humiliation, bondage, physical violence, and stupendous copulation which resulted in spectacular ejaculation.

No one could have been more confused than me when, eventually, at university I met up with Clio. I was a virgin old enough to vote. Clio already had the franchise on both counts. I suspected her sexual experience from her superior knowledge of who and what went where. I wasn’t quite as naive as I now sound. I had reasonable knowledge of the theory, but was virtually untested in the practical. I was dazed and terrified to find myself one afternoon with my head up Clio’s dress and her knickers newly dropped from my trembling hand, and the spicily aromatic vista of her darkly fringed vulva towards which she was imperiously thrusting my hypnotised face. I dived fearfully into the unknown, dipping my curling tongue like a toe into uncharted waters. And was lost, buried myself worshipfully, greedily, sacrificially, into the glory of the female sexual parts. From that seminal moment, I was captivated, captive, an enchanted worshipper at the font of womanhood.

Drunk with delight and wonder, and with deep-seated relief that I had escaped the demons of my ambivalent sexuality, I was desperately, hopelessly in love with Clio. ‘No one’s ever loved me like this before!’ she breathed rapturously, and lay back and let me lick and nibble and finger for hours until, at long last, when even I in my besotted state was exhausted, her fingers would knot agonisingly in my dishevelled hair, and her pubis would thrust, her belly lift and thighs convulse, battering me, as she ground my face deep against her until I thought my buried nose must surely be broken. ‘My slave! My slave!’ she groaned, transported, as the final tremors of her climax shivered away, and I collapsed, literally gasping, across her wet thigh and belly, thrilled by those whispered words, never realising how prophetic they were.

And to my equal amazement, eventually, after we had been going together for several months, she achieved for me the ultimate miracle. We fucked. I say “we”. I did little, except, eventually provide the briefly rampant penis to slide home into her vagina – miraculous enough, something I dreaded I would never achieve. I did right to be afraid. One night, she took us to the top of Observatory Hill, on a balmy summer night that was more St Tropez than Southampton, and announced we would spend the night there. ‘I’m not shacking up with a virgin!’ she declared. For yes: she had, to my amazed and dizzy delight, agreed to put our partnership on a legally recognised and hopefully permanent level. She knelt and took my face between her hands, rubbed her nose Eskimo fashion against mine.

I had often wondered privately and with much discomfort just how Clio had acquired her impressive sexual knowledge, both theoretical and practical. As though reading my mind, she gave a husky chuckle. ‘This cute proboscis and those busy fingers of yours have been so far up me and so often that I can hardly claim to be intactaany more.’

I found it hard to believe that my fervid rootlings had been the first she had enjoyed, but what the heck? I had more than enough to worry about breaking my own duck as far as the virginity stakes were concerned. So far she had confined herself to the occasional handjob, embarrassing enough for me, with a prick that rarely grew to more than 3.5 inches (it was scarcely less unworthy in centimetres!) and generally shot its bolt before full erection was achieved. Now I dreaded like death her discovery of my impotence and my final shame and loss.

All seemed doomed to go according to my schedule of horror. Perhaps she was nervous and doubtful too, but instead of my anticipated prolonged (as far as possible) cunnilingus, she permitted only the very opening strokes, with her dress still up round her belly and only shoes and pants discarded before she suddenly heaved me up onto her and clawed her way almost savagely through my flies and underpants, to seize my wet and throbbing penis in a vicelike grip and put me to her. My chief sensation was one of fierce pain – perhaps that was why I actually found myself with a completely unexpected hard-on, a testament probably to her determination and force – so that I was astounded to find myself riven deep inside her tightness. In panic, I began to hump frantically, pounding on top of her, until she grunted in startled dismay and squirmed under my brief assault. And of course the nightmare came all too true, my prick went limp and flopped out of her to shrink dripping onto her thigh like a fish on a slab.

She was heartbreakingly good about it. I was dumb with misery, unable to hide my tears, which she calmed, held me close when we had restored our dress, kissed and soothed me, with talk of nerves and tensions over exams and jobs and the scary responsibilities of our permanent union. ‘It’ll all come right,’ she promised, and I hid my face in her fragrant hair and wondered miserably how it possibly could, and why I fancied her so desperately when I was clearly a strange brand of deviant by orientation.

She worked a miracle. We drifted asleep, in our hidden nest in the long grass, under a magnificently starry night, on our blanket, nestled like babes in the wood. I woke to a pink dawn, a glorious day, and Clio’s skilfully busy hands unzipping my trousers, easing them down, then my underpants, until my body was bared from kneecaps to navel. When I tried to move, she held me down by force, even stopped the instinctive move of my hands to shield my exposed genitals. ‘Keep very still!’ she ordered hypnotically. ‘Don’t move a muscle. You can’t! Understood?’

Slowly, she undressed me: shoes, socks, pants, then sweater, shirt, allowing me to move only to facilitate her stripping of me, until I lay completely naked in our little bower, and heard the distant shouts and laughter of pupils on the way to school. She didn’t undress, though I found out she had already removed her knickers and her sandals. ‘Now remember! I said don’t move a muscle.’ She grinned down at me. ‘Well, maybe one!’ I felt the silk caress of her dress over my thighs and stomach as she sat on me, leaned forward until her face was close to mine, and she kissed me, gently at first, but lingering, her tongue working, insinuating itself in my yielded mouth. She broke off, only to trail those lips and tongue down my hairless chest, to lap at my erect nipples until I could hardly obey her instruction to remain motionless. I felt my prick uncurl, and flip up, swelling onto the crease of my thigh and pubis. I gave a soft whimper. Her thin dress was still decorously concealing our loins, but her fingers searched under this flimsy cover, found my stirring penis and stroked with gentle rhythm, always unhurried, and brushed the wet tip over the wiry curls of her pubic hair, and down the dampening folds of her labial divide.

I groaned, involuntarily lifted my buttocks and belly against her pressing weight, and bit my lip hard to stop the whimper escaping from my compressed mouth. My prick was swelling mightily, thickening, and stiffening until it ached, and still she continued to brush the sensitive slit of my helm against her furrow. She shivered. I felt her sharp buttocks against my upper thighs. She increased the movement of the hand holding my prick, and her own motion too, against its urgent beat. At last! I cried out as I felt its rigid length slide into the welcome grip of her cunt, and the pressure of her riding me, bearing down in time to my upward thrusts. My buttocks clenched and pumped on the hairy folds of the blanket, and I was whimpering again, constantly now, lifting her weight, my column thrusting deep. I gave a sharp, rising cry. ‘My God! Clio! It’s happening! I’m coming!’

And suddenly she was bouncing violently up and down, riding me, our cries mingled. I came, pumped on and on, a rich flow, and she rode me still, faster, until all I could feel was the wetness sealing and binding our union, and I was crying, and she was folded over me, her brown hair spilling over my face, wet with my tears of devotion and gratitude.

Coitus happened rarely, and never like that again, but I was happy over the following months, as I slipped more and more into my role of worshipful vassal, skivvy and bondsman, the natural servitude which became my station in our relationship. There was always regular sex in those early days. Climax for me had to be first, and swift. I was required to penetrate and come within a minute or two; if the first was achieved (which was very unusual) the second requirement was virtually unavoidable – in fact my climax often came before coition. I soon learnt to prevent this by making sure that neither entry nor ejaculation took place. Thus I spent hours, until my tongue felt like a rasp and my face stung, performing the rite I excelled at, oral sex, until at last, even to mybesotted relief, Clio would twist and writhe and hale my sweating wet face back and forth against her heaving belly and scissoring thighs.

She became brutally frank after the first months, sometimes cosily, with a no-secrets-between-us kind of intimacy, other times (all too often) vindictively, with an awareness of how deeply her disclosures hurt. ‘You didn’t really think you were the first, did you?’ she laughed. ‘Jesus! I had my first fuck on the beach when I was 14. And my best friend Kathy had prepared me well in advance. We did the honours for each other. It was good fun. I could easily become a lezzy! We–e–ell,’ she drawled modifyingly, ‘maybe bi! But then I don’t need to, do I, sweety, when I’ve got you. The fastest tongue in the West!’

Other liaisons were revealed at intervals. She liked to tease me with vividly erotic details of sex with various people we both knew, then, right at the end she would grin and say, ‘Don’t worry, sweet! Only joking!’ until I didn’t know which was truth and which imagination. But I knew where I was all right. Fairly and squarely under the thumb. ‘And don’t you just love it, my cute little catamite!’ she would say, with sadistic pleasure. ‘You wouldn’t have it any other way, would you, my little slave?’ It frightened me to admit to the element of truth in her jibes.

But she began to work late at her PA job, and go out in the evenings to visit “old friends” – ‘If I have too much to drink I’ll stay over, so don’t worry. You get a good night’s sleep. Don’t sit up all night marking.’ I was working at the local comprehensive, dispensing the pearls of my literary wisdom to see them trampled in the mud. I was beginning to grow unhappy on all fronts.

I plucked up courage, my heart thumping, when she returned from work at about eight one evening. ‘Where’ve you been? Why are you so late?’ Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shone, and her face wore, to my private horror, an expression I could recognise, which I suspected came from sexual fulfilment. And when I drew near I could smell wine on her breath.

‘For God’s sake, Marty! We had to work late, so Alan took me for a drink.’

(My name is Martin, which, at this early stage of our relationship, Clio had already diminished to Marty, which she made worse by saying – ‘Do you think we should spell it with a “y” or an “i”?’ It was to get much worse. By the time we had gone abroad and I became enslaved by her and Ant, she insisted on referring to me as Martina – ‘Martina Cantgetalegover,’ she would explain with relish to every newc. . .