Whatever You Want

by Nicole Dere

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

An erotic novel with mixed themes including female submission, menage, lesbian and multicultural by Nicole Dere Crissie will do absolutely anything for Simon Kent, including having sex with other men, such as Mattius, a local fisherman, and even girls like the beautiful, wayward Wanda, on the tropical East African coastal paradise to which Simon has brought her. Wanda is a runaway daughter of the Sharifs, one of the wealthiest families on the East African coast. Simon confides to Crissie that he is disastrously in debt to the powerful, unsavoury Monsieur Auguste Mazarin, who has a sinister hold over him, and asks her help in his plan to kidnap Wanda, with Mazarin's connivance, in order to pay off his debt to him. And that's when both Crissie's love for Simon - and her need to to be dominated - are really put to the test...

Release date: April 4, 2011

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 253

Sample

SIMON GATHERS ME UP carefully into his arms. Despite his precaution, the narrow, unstable craft rocks wildly, and I give a little mew of alarm as Mattius, already overboard, reaches up and holds the side of the canoe steady. I see the white dazzle of his flashing smile in the brilliant sunlight, his teeth standing out against the brownness of his face, on which the film of sweat shines and the beads of water on his brow and in the tight kinks of his black hair sparkle like jewels. My body glistens too, much paler, coated with fragrant expensive lotion and showing only the faintest suggestion of tan, against which even Simon’s oiled skin looks dark. I feel it rubbing against me as he cradles me and very gently eases me over the low side of the canoe, which dips almost to the surface of the water. I whimper, my left arm tightens involuntarily about Simon’s neck, and his beautiful face comes close, his nose nuzzles against my cheek, and I try to hide my fear. He leans over, passes me down to Mattius’s waiting arms, which take my weight as the tropic warmth of the swell envelops me.

Yet another little cry escapes, the anticipation and the beat of excitement subdued by the instinctive fear of this foreign element. I’ve never been a good or even competent swimmer. That queasy nervousness at knowing that when I lower my legs my feet won’t touch bottom has never left me. Mattius is underneath, my body pressed against the smooth, hairless torso, and the front of the hard thighs as he supports me. My arms move to lock round his neck, but Simon’s hands are now cupping under my shoulders, gripping my tender, recently shaved armpits. Normally anyone touching me there would reduce me to ticklish, squealing, foot-kicking helplessness, but I notice only the painful tightness of his clasp, and then the harsh abrasiveness of the rough hewn wood of the hull as he lifts me and hauls me back, separating my upper body from Mattius and pinning my shoulders against the boat. Mattius still grins, treading water. Now we are joined below the surface, intimately, for my legs have opened, circled his slimness and fastened pincer-like about his waist, and his hands are firmly holding me by my bottom. I can feel the clamping fingers digging into each cheek of my yielding flesh.

I lean my neck against the hard edge of the gunwale, stretching back, looking up through the dazzle of the sun and the wisps of my untidy blonde hair to Simon’s dark shape hanging over me. I can’t distinguish his features, though they’re only inches away, then his lips are nuzzling, kissing me behind my ear, whispering.

‘Stretch your arms out, along the side of the boat. I’ll keep hold of you. And Mattius won’t let you go, will he? Be my good girl, Crissie.’ He kisses me again. I gasp as he takes the lobe of my ear in his teeth and nips it sharply. I obey. My arms are stretched horizontally along the thin, rough edges of the canoe, and Simon’s head dips, his brown hair mingling with my tangled tresses, his lips nuzzling as I gaze up into those light grey eyes, yielding to their power over me. My body relaxes, my thigh muscles release their rigid grip on Mattius, I lie there, my buttocks resting against his hard belly and his loins, the warm water holding my loose limbs. ‘Good girl.’

Dexterous fingers deal with my bikini top, unclip the fastener between my shoulderblades. It must be Mattius, for Simon is still holding me under my shoulders, cushioning me against the roughness of the curving wood. The cups are gone, my breasts are free. Mattius’s brown hands are handling their soft roundness, the calloused pads of his thumbs flick over the nipples, which are erect little buds. He has seen me topless before. I was shy that first time, awkwardly folding my arms to hide my bosom, until Simon laughed, pulled my wrists away. ‘He sees tits every day, sweet. Bigger ones than yours, eh, Matt?’

My tits are quite small, I admit. But I’m happy with them, and so are quite a few others, including Simon – and Mattius too from the way he’s getting to grips. I can’t see what he thinks, because my head is arched back, I’m gazing up into Simon’s eyes, and his tongue is lapping and flicking at my parted lips in a series of soft, nibbling kisses.

Meanwhile, Mattius’s hands have left off their exploration, to deal with the tiny briefs. It takes him a while longer than it did to remove my bikini top but I guess it gives him as much pleasure. His fingers scrape against the sensitive skin at my hips and upper thighs as he rolls the miniscule triangles of cloth away. He has to extricate himself from between my legs and, just for a second, a flash of panic returns and I heave myself upwards, crucified against the curve of the hull, my legs stiffening as they close before Mattius captures them once more and peels the little rope of my briefs down and whisks them off my feet. Then he is back, his hands hold me by my bum, and my knees break the surface as he parts them and draws me firmly onto him and settles between my spreadeagled thighs.

At once I feel the throbbing hardness of his prick, its dome stirring, against the crease of my thigh and belly, thrusting against the fronds of my neatly trimmed pubis. I feel a ridiculous sense of shock at its touch, this evidence of his prepared nakedness, even though I am well aware what I’m there for. I can still hear Simon’s deep, tender tone as he told me so last night. ‘I’m giving you to Mattius – I want him to fuck you, Crissie, all right?’

What would he do if I said no? Tell me to pack my bags, clear out, order a car to take me from the hotel to the island’s only town, to pick up the ferry to the mainland? But of course, I didn’t. ‘Whatever you want, Simon,’ I said, as I always do.

There is to be no foreplay, no slow arousal, lips and tongues and fingers – but there is no need, on either side. Mattius’s cock is risen, pole hard, and my sheath is ready oiled to receive, beating to swallow the sword. Still I gasp at the first penetrating thrust. For all the countless pricks I have taken since that long ago and far away first, my pussy is still quite narrow and tight against the primary lunges. I gasp against the first clash of our pubic bones, the little splat of water against the slap of our bellies. The power of Mattius’s drive forces from me a little grunt, and the expulsion of air mingles with Simon’s breath as he bends lower, his lips on my uplifted mouth, his hands helping to cushion the shock of Mattius’s ramming into me, which sends the canoe rolling wildly.

In spite of Simon’s support, I feel a flare of pain across my shoulders and back as I am driven against the canoe. But pain becomes part of the pleasure, matching the fierce burn within. The long column bores in, possessing me, ploughing to the very cervix. The battering rapidity of the thrusts increases. Mattius no longer holds my bum. Instead he hooks the backs of my splayed knees over his arms, which reach out to seize the edge of the canoe, and the backs of my ankles rest on his shoulders, my kicking feet breaking surface. I slide down until the sea is lapping into and over my face, and I have lost contact with Simon’s mouth. He’s only a blurred dark silhouette up above me. I am riding on the battering heave of the brown body cleaving me. Mattius is driving up into me now, a fury that sends the boat rocking madly until I am sure it must capsize on top of us.

I’m terrified, but the swirling water and lack of breath prevent me from screaming. Come, Mattius, come! I want to yell, then, in the midst of this wild panic I feel my own crazy excitement surging, and now I do find voice in a wild bark at the climax that erupts, and then again, the spiral of ultimate sensation completed by the fierce surge of Mattius’s unhindered gushing explosion deep inside me.

The slow swelling sea is cleansing. The world tilts back to normality, its picture back in focus in the hot sunlight: the pale turquoise of the ocean, the white strip of beach no more than a hundred yards away, the tall slender coconut palms which fringe it, and the low thatched roofs of the hotel buildings away to our right, a few striped umbrellas visible. Anyone with binoculars and a curious mind might have studied our strange triangle: Simon leaning over the dipping boat, my thin pale arms, the bobbing heads, my upturned feet. And my being lifted, pale and naked, back into the canoe. But not yet.

I hang there, vertical in the water, turning to face the boat, holding to its side, Simon’s hands gentle over mine. Mattius hangs beside me, our hips companionably rubbing as I feel the residue of his come oozing from me, my cunt soothed and cleansed by the sea. Of course I don’t need to worry about being impregnated. I’m well protected by the marvels of modern medicine. But there are other dangers that cloud my mind. After all, safe sex is (pardon the expression) thrust down our throats nowadays, and here we are on the continent where a sexual plague has ravaged thousands or rather millions of its population, of which Mattius is one. But Simon had assured me, when he told me what he had arranged for me: ‘You don’t have to worry. He’s 100 per cent clean, Crissie, my love. Absolutely certain. You know what a grand chap he is. I’d never let anyone touch you I wasn’t absolutely sure of.’ Of course not.

‘What if someone sees? They might be watching, from the shore.’ I gaze up at him, suddenly aware of all the aches, and the stinging soreness.

Simon beams down at me, and I feel that other ache, that never goes away, in my heart. I don’t even care when the brown arms of the man who has just fucked me encircle me about the hips and his hands rest on my still finger-marked bottom as he helps Simon to haul me like some exotic fish back into the canoe. ‘Whatever you want, Simon. I love you!’ I say pleadingly, searching his grey eyes for his recognition.

Whatever you want. That’s been my motto, my mantra, throughout my 22-year life, as long as I can remember. All I’ve done is try to please, for my acquiescence to be acknowledged, for my desire to give pleasure to be valued. My infancy and childhood were described by the pundits as “dysfunctional”, to the point where I was forcibly removed from my background and “taken into care” – a phrase that still makes me smile (more a twisted grimace). By the time I escaped at 16 from a string of care homes and foster parents, I had learnt most of the skills needed to equip me for survival, and since then I’ve been honing those skills in the equally hard school of adult life. Let’s just say I know my place, and my worth – or lack of it. I knew that before I was removed from my birth family. But then I learnt that I needed to belong to someone . I mean it literally. Body and soul, or maybe heart – I’m not at all sure about “soul”. Submission and obedience. That way lies safety, and even love. Now that I’ve found Simon. Or rather he’s found me.

I was with Jo. She was a hard-faced bottle blonde at least ten years my senior, and I was one of her string of girls who worked strip clubs and did private “exhibishes”, as well as tricks with individual clients, for which Jo kept 90 per cent of the fee. It was Jo who got rid of my real name of Lorna and gave me Crystal, which was transformed to Crissie (without an “h”) and has stayed with me since. My subservience pleased her and I was soon sharing her bed and her private diversions. The sex was OK, though I was expected to make most of the running, and to give without receiving very much. That was all right too – I was used to it. She also had a penchant for S&M. This time it was the other way around. She did the giving, providing the S, while I was there to receive the M. Even that I could put up with, as long as I was appreciated and she soothed my fevered brow, and my striped and glowing backside, afterwards.

Then along came Simon. He was at a private do, in a plush London penthouse, which was something of a marathon, lasting the whole of a long weekend. Goodness knows why he picked me out – there were girls far more striking in all kinds of ways – but after our show I ended up in his bed half the night and the following morning, and he wanted to see more of me, as if that were possible!

Jo was not, as they say, best pleased, and I paid the price. When I finally got away from her and fled to Simon, I couldn’t sit down for two days, and my blistered bottom hurt if I blinked too hard. But it was worth it.

And still is, as he lays me naked on the wet bottom boards of the canoe in the fierce African sun, and I see the looming shape of Mattius’s tight, cream-yellow buttocks and the long, loose-hanging shape of his balls and flaccid penis swing over my head as the fisherman climbs nimbly back aboard and slips on his shorts, before settling in the stern and picking up the short paddle to guide us back in to the beach.

Simon is kneeling, gazing at me with that wonderful smile. He hands me my bikini top and I slip my breasts into the cold dampness of the cups and reach back to fasten the tiny metal clasp. My legs rub against his when he hands me the tiny briefs and I move to ease them on over my feet, then with some difficulty draw them up over my legs, and squirm to fit the tiny triangle over my sex. I notice the shape of his hidden prick in the tangerine silk trunks, and the small dark patch at its swollen tip, which I am convinced is not a water mark. Did it excite him to hold me, to kiss me and look into my eyes while the young native fisherman fucked me? And did it please him further that I had come, to see me so lost, so possessed, while he still held me and stared down at my upturned face?

That was what he wanted, he had told me: to see me copulate with Mattius, by his decree, and to know, with the fisherman driven to the hilt within me, and my own hidden flesh pulsing in the burst of orgasm, I was still utterly his, belonging only to him, from blonde and streaming head to those kicking, curling toes.

IT’S NOT AT ALL surprising that, subjected to a childhood of abuse both physical and mental, I should grow up with a keen sense of my worthlessness. Miss Challis was the first person ever to make me challenge that assessment. Perhaps if I had been able to remain in contact with her, my life might have taken a different course altogether. We met at the start of my third year at comprehensive school, in Year 9. I was in a local residential care home at the time, having been removed from my latest foster parents because their 15-year-old son’s friendship had advanced to the stage of sneaking into the shower with me, and into my bed. I could probably have added to the family’s problems by telling of the thrashing Timmy’s father, with evident intemperate pleasure, gave me after discovering us together, but I had already learnt the lesson that too much confession was not good for the soul as far as the “Social” or the police was concerned. They would not want to know. Besides, it was already ingrained that more than enough guilt lay within me and my budding titties. I just needed to get away from Master Tim. So back to the residential home I went. Problems didn’t go away, but at least they were different.

There were about a dozen of us from the home attending Westport Comp, scattered through the years from 7 to 11. I don’t think we looked any different from the other 1488 – the uniforms were as smart, no hand-me-downs. Maybe we were short on the extras, like a flash mobile, designer label accessories, posh cars and parents to pick us up. We were different, that’s all there was to it. We hung about together at break and lunchtime.

Miss Challis was my form teacher. She was new too and it showed. 9AC we were called, because those were her initials. Amanda Challis. “Randy-Mandy”, as she was soon labelled familiarly, along with other more indecent nicknames totally at odds with her delightful appearance and unassuming manner. She was hopeless at keeping order – she seemed to be on the verge of bursting into tears most of the time, and I don’t blame her. We were two misfits together. She recognised it, and that’s how our rather special relationship began. She was kind, went out of her way to show her special feeling for me, to which I responded of course, with dizzy rapture. She kept me with her at breaks and lunchtimes, and then after school, offering to give me a lift back to the home in her little blue Fiat Cinquecento, so that I didn’t have to dash off to catch the minibus with the others.

I adored her. Of course everything was sweetly and tenderly innocent, except in my ragingly lubricious imagination. One day, when I burst into tears after some bullying prank from my form mates, Miss Challis kept me back, and, when we were alone, drew up a chair opposite my absurdly small desk. She reached out and seized both my hands in hers. She held me tight, interlaced her fingers in mine and didn’t let me go, and I felt faint with happiness and sobbed all the more. When the violence of my fit had passed, she let go of my left hand, delved in the pocket of her woollen calf-length skirt and pulled out a perfumed, immaculate, lace-fringed hankie, and began to wipe at my wet cheeks before passing it to me with instruction to have a good blow, then keep it. ‘I’ll wash it and bring it back, Miss!’ I promised, burying my nose in its fragrance, which was her sweetness, my giddy heart reminded me.

‘No, you keep it, I’ve got loads.’ She blushed. ‘I can’t bear to see you upset, Lorna.’ Our hands were entwined once more, and beneath the desk I felt her knees pressing against mine in thrilling intimacy. ‘You’re such a sweet girl.’ Her voice was no more than a husky whisper and, when I tried to reply, I was wordless. Her head moved until I could feel wisps of her dark hair brushing against my forehead, and my own blonde curls, and I felt powerless, hypnotised, my lips slightly parted, our breath mingling. I thought she was going to kiss me on my proffered mouth, and I thought I would surely faint, or perhaps pee myself with ecstasy, but, instead, she lifted my captive left hand and kissed the doubtless slightly grubby knuckles very softly and lingeringly, with those divine lips I longed to taste.

I never did. But over the next year and a half we became even closer. My behaviour and my grades at school had improved tremendously, and I was expected to achieve creditable grades at GCSE and even to stay on to do A levels, or maybe NVQs.

Sometimes I could scarcely believe how happy I was – and at the same time how fiercely I longed for our relationship to be taken further, to express itself in the physical bliss I dreamed of so much in my waking, and sleeping, hours. We spent the weekend celebrating my 15th birthday with a trip to the theatre in the West End, and dinner in an expensive restaurant. As she prepared to bid me goodnight, I felt tears spring to my eyes and spill over. My throat closed. ‘I love you, Miss,’ I whispered, and leant over to kiss her on the cheek. I could feel rather than see the warm blush that spread over her neck and lovely face. I was leaning forward, holding my lips open, ready to receive the oft-dreamed of heaven of my kiss returned; this time an embrace of real passion, of mouths and tongues worrying, entering, the fusion of love I hungered for.

But she jumped back, startled, and stammering some kind of gentle, embarrassed protest. My heart plummeted, sinking like a stone, and the tears flooded, blurring my vision as I clawed at the door catch and stumbled inelegantly out, running towards the entrance of the care home, her ‘goodnight’ fluttering feebly to the ground behind me. I didn’t look back.

I was determined to conquer my slavish adoration of her, to tell her, in the language of my contemporaries, to “get stuffed”, but then it all became cruelly irrelevant, in the torturous months that followed, when she fell in love herself, alas not with me, but with Joe Servis, a teacher who arrived at Westport at the start of what proved to be my last year at school. I thought of him as my rival for her heart, but it was no contest, of course. I wasn’t naïve enough to continue to believe she had ever held any feeling for me other than friendship. We were close enough temperamentally. She was shy and unsure of herself, and probably got a lot out of our relationship – the dominant power she exerted over me, however benevolent it was. After all, there was, I had to admit, something a bit weird about it, even if sex didn’t come into it – to my long and bitter regret, I have to add. She did genuinely shock me by taking up with M. . .