Naked for the Mistress

Book 0: The Mistress Series

by Alex Jordaine

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Peter has never been able to accept his deep need to be sexually dominated, but that's about to change with a vengeance. His wife Christine and her new friend Claudia, a highly experienced dominatrix, hatch a plan to 'out' Peter and his kinky desires. While Christine will learn the art of erotic domination from Claudia's husband, Simon, Peter will be coerced into spending time in Claudia's dungeon where he'll be forced to learn his place at the feet of a dominant female. Claudia soon turns Peter into her 'bitch', making him ready and willing to take hard strap-on sex and all the brutal punishment she can dish out. Claudia returns Peter to his wife who enjoys putting him through his paces in her fitting new role as his Mistress. But Christine is looking for something even more than this and finds it in the person of a beautiful young woman called Liz. Christine helps bring to the fore Liz's previously sublimated sadism and the two become lovers, sharing ownership of Peter, now the naked slave to them both. Then who should stumble into this sadomasochistic ménage a trois but Liz's philandering ex-husband Sam. He's now a changed man and begs Liz to let him into her life again. Sam says he wants to be a naked slave to her and Christine, just like Peter. The two women subject Sam to a series of increasingly sadistic tests to establish whether he is worthy to take his place at their feet. Peter had become a new man when he became a sex-slave. But the two formidable dommes require something perversely, thrillingly different from Sam... Alex Jordaine is the UK's leading Femdom writer and has also been widely published in the US.

Release date: September 19, 2010

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 244

Sample

THE NIGHT WAS ASBLACK AS pitch, moonless and starless. Peter Lane stood at the edge of the tall, jagged cliff and heard rather than saw the surging waves of the ocean, which was itself as black and deep as the sky that stretched above him to infinity. Peter listened to the pounding of the waves as the night breeze tugged at his clothes. He stared into the dark and thought about how easy it would be to simply step out over the edge of that cliff and yield once and forever to the infinite darkness of the sea and the sky. Peter also thought about his wife. When he had first met Christine he’d fallen in love with everything about her: the look of her, the sound of her voice, her scent, her charisma, her spirit, her aura. She’d put him under a spell then. He was still under her spell now despite all that had passed between them.

Peter walked away from the cliff edge and climbed back into his car, the sound of the ocean still pounding in his ears. He clutched at the steering wheel as he drove back into the resort, to the villa, wondering who his wife would be bringing home to fuck that night.

It was ironic, Peter thought ruefully as he pulled the car into the villa’s large garage, that Christine and he had honeymooned not only in this same resort but in this very property just six years ago. They’d discovered soon after they met that they both loved the same part of Southern France, and the upmarket coastal town of Dauge, steeped as it was in antiquity and charm, turned out to be a particular favourite of them both. It seemed an ideal place to go for their honeymoon, with its ancient stone buildings and its mediaeval churches and cobbled streets; with its shaded squares and fishing piers and restaurants and bars. And that great long sandy beach. Remember that beach at midnight, Peter?How could he ever forget it? But, things had been different between Christine and him back then, very different. Images from that time were never far from his consciousness, as if they were playing on a screen at the back of his eyes. They came back to Peter now, as sharply poignant as ever...

He first met Christine Steele at a swish West End art gallery. He’d been pleased to receive his invitation to attend the opening of an exhibition of the latest collection of works by Martin Rolf, an artist he particularly admired. As it turned out Peter didn’t take any notice at all of the striking abstract paintings hanging on the walls of the modish gallery. Nor did he take any notice of the other wealthy patrons gathered there at that fashionable venue. Except for one, that is, although to say she caught his attention would not be doing justice to the experience in the least.

As soon as Peter arrived his eyes were drawn immediately to the ravishing dark haired beauty. She was standing a little apart from that select crowd, nursing a glass of champagne. He fell in love with her completely and in an instant, simple as that.

He acted on it immediately too. Completely in the grip of the coup de foudreof all time, he went straight up to her and announced, ‘You’re the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen.’

He wasn’t exaggerating either. Christine really was stunningly beautiful. Her strong, angular face was perfection, softened as it was by lips that were full and delightfully sensuous and by large blue-green eyes that were so luminous they were hypnotic. Lustrous dark hair fringed her forehead and trailed on either side of her lovely face, falling loose to just above her shoulders. Her figure was perfection too, softly curved with shapely breasts and rounded hips. It was shown off to splendid effect by her stylish black mini dress, which was low cut, daringly short and close fitting in all the right places.

And what did Christine make of her impulsive admirer? She let her eyes linger on Peter for a long moment, wandering over his face and up and down his body. She gave a husky little laugh that made his spine tingle. ‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ she said.

Which indeed he wasn’t. He had dark shiny hair, a handsome, intelligent face with sculptured features, bright blue eyes, and a seductive lopsided grin that he was beaming at her right now. He was tall and lean too, looking good in his cream button-down shirt, tailored dark blue jacket, chinos and loafers.

Peter grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and raised it in a toast. ‘To us,’ he said, still smiling that seductive smile, a direct look in his eyes.

‘To us,’ Christine replied, meeting Peter’s gaze, and clinking glasses with him.

Right from the start the sexual chemistry between the two of them had been electric and one thing led to another rapidly – very rapidly. Within one hour of that champagne toast they’d arrived at Christine’s plush apartment nearby. Within one hour and one minuteof that toast they were in her bedroom, they just couldn’t get there quickly enough. Both of them were so consumed by desire that they were barely in control, their sexual anticipation so intense it hurt.

As soon as they got through the bedroom door they started undressing together in a fever of mutual longing. Christine had more than a head start, it transpired. She pulled her little black dress over her head to reveal that she had not been wearing any underwear. She had an all-over tan, beautiful breasts and her nipples were dark and enticingly erect. Her pussy was entirely free of pubic hair, her mons silky smooth.

Christine kicked off her high heeled shoes and that was it, she was done. Peter shucked his jacket off his shoulders in double-quick time. She unbuttoned his shirt for him and pulled it off, virtually tore it off.

His breath coming ever more quickly, Peter took off his loafers and his socks and his chinos. When lastly he removed his briefs, his cock sprang out, stiff and urgent with need.

Christine laid herself down on the bed and Peter joined her. They lay for a moment, facing each other and gazing rapturously into one another’s eyes. Then Christine rolled onto her back and Peter put his lips to her mouth. They kissed with great passion, their tongues flicking together, and then Peter brought his mouth to her throat. He licked a warm trail down her collar bone to the swell of her breasts. He began sucking them greedily, taking her erect nipples into his mouth.

At the same time Peter ran his hand over Christine’s stomach and down to caress her quivering thighs. He began to rub the opening of her vagina, his fingers sticky in her sex. Christine soon became very wet indeed, soaked with the sap of desire. Peter started to roll his fingers over her stiff clitoris and she groaned with pleasure. Then he pushed his fingers in further, digging them in deep, plunging into all her juicy wetness over and over.

Christine then reached for his now achingly hard cock and started to pull and stroke it. The feeling of sex rippled through Peter and he groaned with her movement as she stroked and pulled at his hardness, jerking more forcefully at it all the time.

Peter could smell the scent of sex everywhere in that bedroom now – his sex, her sex, their sex; it was intoxicating. He knew that he couldn’t wait any longer. Nor could Christine. ‘Fuck me. Fuck me now,’ she whispered urgently, staring into his gleaming blue eyes. Her breath was coming quickly, her cheeks flushed.

Peter placed himself between Christine’s legs and pushed his cock inside her, filling her tight wet pussy with its thickness. She sighed with delight and turned her head to one side. Peter laid himself on top of her, fucking her deep and hard. Christine hugged him close and grasped his hair, wrapping her legs around his waist, her athletic limbs supple and pliant, as he forged deep into her.

Peter pushed into Christine even harder and she moaned and cried out with his movement. He began to fuck her faster and faster, his whole body shaking, his groin crashing against hers, his cock thrusting deep inside her sex. Peter could feel himself building to the peak of excitement. Then the pleasure tightened and exploded through him. He climaxed long and hard, spouting spurt after spurt of warm seed deep inside her, and grunting again and again as orgasmic spasms ripped through him like a sound wave.

At the same time, fighting for breath, Christine began to rock and buck and moan. Then she shuddered to a violent orgasm, crying out deliriously as her own climax exploded and wave after wave of ecstasy washed over her.

Afterwards they lay together panting and gasping. Christine was the first to speak ‘That was fantastic,’ she said, looking at Peter with shining eyes. ‘Let’s do it again.’

They did.

Three months later they did something else. They got married.

PETER WAS IN MANY ways the archetypal whizz kid at that time in his life. He was a very successful entrepreneur who was making a lot of money for the development company he worked for and plenty for himself too in the process. He was a man brimming with energy and imagination. He was incredibly busy too. It went with the territory, naturally, but he was a prime candidate for burnout at some stage if he wasn’t careful, and he knew it. Peter became determined to ease off on his workload after meeting Christine and he got on with the process. But such things take time and his busy work schedule kept the couple apart far too much of the time before the day of their wedding.

Once they were on their honeymoon, nothingcould keep them apart. Peter and Christine were constantly together during that magical fortnight. They held hands everywhere they went, not that they ventured far from the villa, far from their bedroom in fact. Their lovemaking was such a constant enveloping delight it left them amazed. They felt as if they had entered some kind of sensual paradise, one they never wanted to leave.

In the mornings they’d wake curled around each other. They would luxuriate in the warmth of the Mediterranean sunshine as it streamed through the shutters, breathe in the balmy pine-scented air and lay in each other’s embrace. They felt happy beyond words.

They’d head for the shower together, this inseparable pair, where they would soap each other’s bodies, and towel one another dry. They’d have some juice and a cup or two of that full-bodied coffee the French love so much, perhaps a bite to eat. This was a prelude to … to what? To simply falling back into bed to make love and laze around together all day, that’s all. But what better activity has ever been devised than that?

On the rare occasions they ventured out it was usually in order to sample some of the excellent local cuisine for which the town was justly famous. They’d throw on some clothes and go and find a restaurant where throughout their meal they’d gaze into each other’s eyes and hold hands across the table. Other diners would glance at them knowingly and smile with approval (Ah l’amour!). Afterwards the romantic pair would return to the villa and to their bedroom, pulling at each other’s clothes on the way and laughing as they stumbled into the room. They would tumble onto the bed, where they’d make love some more – just by way of a change.

And when they weren’t making love, they talked and talked: of books and films and art, of childhood and family and friends, of good times and bad, of dreams and fantasies. Their talk turned inevitably to sexual fantasies.

Like fucking each other’s brains out at night time on the beach under the moon and the stars.

So that’s what they did at midnight one night, taking the descending cobblestone street that took them to the seafront and then rushing down to the beach. Once there, they threw down their towels and stripped naked. Christine got onto all fours and told Peter to take her right there and then. Her pussy was hot and wet and tight as he pushed into her from behind, his cock forging deep into her. He pushed and pushed into the hot warmth of her sex, slick and oozing for him and she pushed and pushed back They thrust together hungrily on the warm sand, before plunging into the ocean itself and making love in the water in hopeless abandon as the waves crashed over them again and again, their only audience a crescent moon and the stars that glimmered above them in the endless sky.

And when they finally drifted back to the edge of the shore and back to their villa and back to their bed Christine had wanted more. She said she couldn’t help it, he’d made her insatiable. She had fallen onto Peter, grabbing his shoulders and making him lie on his back. She had raked her fingers over his smooth, hard body and then, her thighs pressing wetly against his, had guided him inside her. They went on to devour one another feverishly again. But eventually, inevitably, the fever turned into something else and their lovemaking became ever more languid and drowsily sensuous until sleep took them at last. And when they woke in the morning, locked in each other’s arms, it started all over again. They couldn’t resist going back to the beach at night either, most nights actually, to become one yet again with the elements in all their naked, uninhibited passion.

SIX YEARS AGO THAT had been the pattern, with one day slipping blissfully into another like the waves of the sea. But that had been then. This was the way it went now:

Peter and Christine would both rise mid-morning and go straight outside to the villa’s pool that shimmered invitingly in the clear sunlight. They’d swim a few laps together, their nude bodies, warmly brown from the Mediterranean sun, glistening with rivulets of water.

They’d towel off and, still naked, would seat themselves at a shaded metal table on the lawn and take a light breakfast of juice, croissants and coffee. They were completely private in the garden as the neighbouring properties were screened from view by the villa’s high wall. As they sat together breakfasting, shaded from the bright sunshine, the nearby pool glistened and rippled, and solid beds of flowers presented a bright swathe of colour on the smooth lawn around them.

They barely exchanged a word during their repast. Instead, as they sipped their juices and drank their coffees and munched their croissants, Peter would absently scan the headlines of the daily paper, his French a bit rusty but still quite serviceable, while Christine would bury herself in her novel. The silence between them was companionable enough but slightly awkward too, unnatural somehow.

The couple would then go indoors to complete their ablutions, dress casually, and go off together to do the tourist bit. Strolling side by side, they’d visit the resort’s fine churches, museums and art galleries, shop for gifts, explore the maze of cobblestone streets and squares.

Christine enjoyed these excursions, had always been a bit of a dabbler, a dilettante. But Peter didn’t enjoy them, not even the visits to galleries, his interest in art these days negligible. He supposed their touristy wanderings passed the time well enough. Even so, there were occasions when he could hardly conceal his boredom. He’d look at his watch and let out a muted sigh of exasperation that would prompt Christine to gaze irritably in his direction.

The couple would invariably end up at the same restaurant, one they’d always especially liked when they’d come to Dauge for their honeymoon. It was situated on the town’s main thoroughfare and was not far from their villa; easy walking distance, a mere stroll. They’d take a seat at an outdoor table under a substantial awning, thankful for the shade it afforded at that time of day, and give their order to the waiter when he arrived with the menu. They usually had one of the restaurant’s superb salads, accompanied by bottled water and a little white wine.

As the meal went on they would converse rather than talk. Their conversation was superficially affable yet there was something peculiarly cool about it, distant. They did not hold hands across the table; they never held hands these days. They seldom caught one another’s eye as they forked their salads and drank their water and sipped their wine.

Then, as the town drowsed lazily in its afternoon torpor under the burning Mediterranean sun, they’d go back to the villa for their own siesta, this never but never involving sex. After their nap, they’d go out to the pool area to swim and soak up some late afternoon rays, the sun still high in the clear blue sky and the pool’s rippled surface shining with its reflected light.

Nearing sunset when the sky was starting to glow pink and the air was becoming slightly cooler, the almost silent pair would go indoors. They’d shower separately, dress with studied care and then go downstairs to have a light meal as they waited for the sun to go down completely... waited for the cover of darkness.

And when daylight had finally gone for good to be replaced by the thickness of night, by that darkness they had both been waiting for all day, truth be told, Christine went her separate way. The couple exchanged kisses, the merest grazing of cheeks, as she departed. Sometimes Christine would give Peter a short wave when she left, sometimes even a little smile which he returned.

Peter usually settled in for the night after that although he was far from relaxed; he was still waiting, waiting... Sometimes, he’d get the car out of the garage and go for a bit of a drive to kill some time, as he’d done tonight.

Christine, on the other hand, alwayswent out. Night after night she would venture out into the warm evening air all on her own, to find a good bar, to find some good wine, to find a sexual partner to bring back with her to the villa.

They never stayed till morning, these one-night stands of hers, that was one of the rules the couple had. One of the other rules was that, while Peter never had anything whatsoever to do with these fleeting guests, he did get to watch what they did with his wife.

HE WOULD BE WATCHING very soon now; he would be being the complete voyeur, but at the moment he was listening. And very intently too, from the open door of their unlit bedroom on the first floor. Not long to wait now, he was sure of it, and he was right. Peter could feel tremors of excitement shiver through his body as he heard the sound of a key being worked in the front door, followed by the sound of that door opening and then an emphatic bang as it was shut. Honey, I’m home!He trembled some more when he heard the click of Christine’s heels and the echo of male footsteps on the marble floor downstairs. Soon, soon.He heard the drinks cabinet behind the bar being opened. Indeed you could have heard a pin drop at that time of night. He’d have to make sure he was exceptionally quiet himself, he always was.

‘Vodka?’ he heard Christine say. There was perhaps a nodded assent from her companion, Peter surmised. He heard the metallic twist of a bottle top and the splash of liquid in a glass followed by the clink of ice cubes.

He heard Christine’s voice again, ‘Enjoy your drink, Pierre. I’m going for a skinny dip.’

‘OK,’ the man said. The reply sounded deceptively flat. Peter could only imagine what lubricious thoughts must be racing through his namesake’s mind.

They were certainly racing through his own head. Peter was naked and already fully aroused. He felt his cock harden even further as he moved gingerly through the inky blackness towards the bedroom window, which was widely open. He leaned against the wall at its side, taking the weight of his body on his left arm and his stiff shaft into his right hand.

Peter looked down at the pool, which was illuminated by the lights at its side. It was further lit up suddenly when Christine switched on the external lights. She obviously wanted him to see it all, he thought, didn’t want him to miss a thing.

He saw a breeze ruffle the still water of the pool. And then he only had eyes for his wife. His mouth was dry with excitement as he watched Christine, naked as nature intended, stride towards the pool, the palms of her hands flat on her thighs. Peter watched and admired anew the seductive sway of her hips and the way her shapely calves tapered to her slender ankles, watched as she walked bare foot, bare arsed, to the pool’s shallow end.

Peter watched Christine sit by the edge of the pool for a moment, watched her step into the rippling water and then turn and begin swimming on her back. He watched as she kicked her feet and let her hands propel her body slowly across the pool to the deep end. He watched her turn again and, lifting her arms, swim back to the shallow end. He looked admiringly at her lovely face and beautiful breasts and shaven mons. She wants me to see everything. He watched her turn once more before standing up. He looked at the way her hair dropped down like shiny black satin when she did this. He watched as she stepped, graceful as a nymph, out of the pool.

He watched her drag the excess water from her hair and bend down to pick up a towel that was on one of the sun loungers. He watched her fluffing her hair with the towel and using it to dry her body too, rubbing at the back of her neck and under her arms and along her legs.

Peter was looking down at Christine but she, his nymph, his nymphomaniac, was not looking up at him. She wouldn’t have been able to see him in that darkened bedroom even if she’d tried. No, she was looking at her companion, this Pierre person, who had come to join her now in the pool area. He was, Peter noted, tall, dark, well-built and good looking, just the way his wife liked them. He could also not fail to notice that he was buck naked and displaying an impressive erection – just the way she liked them too. He had evidently taken a leaf out of Christine’s book and had shed his clothes before coming outside.

Peter watched as that darkly handsome man took a step towards Christine, watched as he held her in his muscular arms in a powerful embrace, her full breasts flattened against his chest. She lifted her face to his and Pierre began kissing her passionately on the mouth, holding her even harder to him. Peter watched this too. He could only watch, watch as Christine took control now, watch as she got hold of Pierre’s right hand and pushed it between her legs, watch as he masturbated her. He watched too as his namesake took one of her nipples first between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and then into his mouth as he continued to masturbate her harder and harder with his other hand, rubbing it all over her hot pussy.

Peter watched as Christine pulled away from Pierre and moved over to one of the sun loungers. ‘I want you to fuck me now,’ he heard her say as she lay wantonly back, her thighs spread. The Frenchman moved on top of her and pushed himself inside as she arched her back and wrapped her legs around him. While he thrust rhythmically in and out of her sex, Christine held him tigh. . .