Two things are true in life; most people are liars, and everyone is fascinated by sex. This means that 80% of people will lie about their interest in sex. It’s a brown-paper-envelope world. People will conceal their porn collections, they will wipe the salacious cookies from their browsing history, and they will most definitely not put out on public display anything which shows any such interest.
Unless they are Rafael Escobar. My new boss. My new lover. The world’s leading collector of erotica and erotic artifacts. A man who has an entire room dedicated to displaying what he has acquired.
Four days ago, I replied to an ad in the university circular looking for a Fine Arts graduate to begin the business of cataloging everything he had in his “art collection.” His words, not mine. Today, I arrived at his Kensington flat, primly ready for my interview. His PA kept me sitting in the hall, until, by chance, Escobar himself came down the central stairs, saw me, and then brought me into his study.
The study was a master class in masculinity: all walnut paneling and mahogany furnishings, carpeted in what appeared to be thick, blood red fur. Escobar himself was a magnificent throwback to those conquistadors who brought riches and infamy from across the world to Spain. Tall, with an elegance of movement at odds with his muscular build, he wore the clearly expensive linen suit as lightly and carelessly as a t-shirt.
Escobar read my C.V. in complete silence, and then his heavy-lidded eyes caught and held my gaze, almost daring me to look away.
“I have had several applicants for the job, Ms Carter. What makes you think that you are more deserving than they are?”
I ran though my experience and skills as I had carefully practiced, but he contemptuously brushed what I was saying aside.
“Mierda, I can read your C.V., Ms Carter. I want to know what you can bring me that the others cannot.”
“Well, I’m – unshakeable.” I dared to look him straight in the eye, no blinking, no blushing, as I said this.
He stared at me for an age, and then there was a smile, wide and feral. My heart started pounding, but I still met his gaze. He stood up and beckoned me to a door at the back, which he unlocked, and led me through.
I looked in amazement at the display shelves in front of me. A morass of materials faced me: Japanese bondage ropes, German burlesque posters, cloth-covered Egyptian tablets, sepia-toned postcards dating to the time of La Pigalle, translations of the Marat de Sade, ivory dildos from Victoriana, and more. My eyes roamed about like a kid’s in Hamley’s toy store.
Before I could sensibly stop myself, I had moved forward, and I was lifting and touching various pieces. The ivory dildo felt smooth and curiously warm, and a small pool of pleasure formed between my legs as I imagined it sliding into me. My eyes met his again, and I realized that I was not alone in feeling excited. He moved closer to me, his breath bathing my face.
“I wish you to start with the books on that bottom shelf there, Ms Carter. Other employees have found them to be too – rich for their taste, and have left them in a very poor state.” His mouth was almost touching mine, as he continued, “I think that you might have the right disposition for the task. If you can get through the shelf, the job is yours.”
Disposition? Was that a compliment or an insult? He stepped back, gave a brief bow, and closed the door.
The sun shone through one high window and warmed the room. Alone, I removed my suit jacket, and threw it over a stand in the corner. I sat down at the requested shelf; it was lined with books bound in black leather, some in reasonable order, some frayed, and some barely holding together. I lifted a few of those in better condition. They had the titles of Pierre Louy’s, “Trois Filles et Leur Mere,” “The Romance of Lust,” Cleland’s “Fanny Hill,” and “The Way of a Man with a Maid.” As I read a few pages of each, I felt my face and my body warm, and the sweet, sticky dampness between my legs grew.
I picked up one of the most damaged books, and out tumbled yellowing pages covered in drawings; sketches in pencil and charcoal of groups engaged in the most carnal acts. Women were tethered by ropes to wooden frames and other contraptions; men were pushing their cocks into mouths, some feminine, some masculine; masked figures clutched whips and belts; bodies sprawled over each other, a cock in one orifice, a fist in another. As I looked over the fallen pages my hand crept under the neckline of my blouse, and under the soft lace of my bra to squeeze my breast hard. One image, of a beautiful woman tied in ropes to a table, a darker male figure behind her, in the throes of spanking her with some sort of paddle, became the target of my focus. My hand came out of my bra and moved to my skirt, sliding underneath the hem and into my thong, finger strumming against my sopping clit.
Which is, of course, how he found me; blouse open, flushed, fingering myself while looking at porn.
I tried to scramble to my feet, but my legs wobbled, and he had to catch me before I fell over. I was now leaning against him, my skirt bunched up around my thighs, my thong visible and visibly damp, and my blouse askew, the page still in my hand. He looked me over, saw the page, and plucked it from my fingers, his amber eyes boring into mine.
“Well, well, querida. Your interest is not just...academic.” Sweet Jesus, his hand was pressing against me through the sodden fabric, and then he was kissing me, and I clutched at him, grabbing his shoulders through the dark silk of his shirt as his tongue filled and possessed my mouth, almost, deliciously, choking me.
He suddenly pushed me away, pushed me towards the back of the room and a large, oak desk. His hands came up to my blouse, and ripped it open, hauling it off my shoulders and down to my wrists, heedless of torn fabric. My bra was also summarily removed, followed by my skirt, my thong and shoes.
I lay naked on the sun-warmed wood, panting, and a little frightened. A quietly spoken command: “Stand up.” Then: “Turn around.” He pushed me forward until my breasts brushed the wood of the desk. Bent over, bare from neck to ankle, hands clutching the opposite edge of the desk, my face hidden in the cover of my hair; I had never felt so vulnerable and so turned on. His fingers swept up and down my spine, sending dozens of little ripples of pleasure over my skin. The roaring of blood in my ears almost cancelled out his words:
“Do you want what you saw in the photo?” His fingers suddenly moved to my ass cheeks, stroking more firmly. “Do you want this?”
I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to speak. His hands moved back to my spine, roughly roaming all over my breasts and thighs, stroking, fondling, crushing, and taking his cues from the little catches my breath made. He was speaking harshly in Spanish, crude phrases that inflamed me. When I leaned back against him, however, he stopped and delivered a stinging clap to my ass cheeks. “Portate.” Again, though, some perverse streak had me lean back against his cock, and another harder smack was administered.
“Querida, if you show no patience, then you will be punished.” A softly spoken threat and one I paid no heed to. My ass rubbed against him again, urging him on, but he jerked back.
I could hear him breathing heavily as he stood away from me for an unbearably long moment, and then I heard something taken from a shelf. My silent question was answered by a blast of raw, fiery pain as a paddle squarely struck my left cheek. I screamed, lifted my hands and turned to look at him. He stood there, shirt open, sweat beads glinting on his furred brown chest, the leather paddle in his hand, his face tense. I realized then that not only would he stop this if I asked him to, but also that I didn’t want him to. I wanted this, even if this meant pain. Especially if this meant pain.
I turned back towards the desk, gripping it hard, and then looked over my shoulder at him entreatingly. The look of pleasure and lust and – yes, relief, which passed over his face made my pulse race even harder. He took off his shirt, and I saw the coiled power of his body.
That power then sent a resounding slap from the paddle to my bare ass, but I bit back a scream, as the blood rushed to my ass and my clit throbbed gratefully. Another and another and another, until I lost count. My cheeks were on fire, my clit swelling, and my throat was sore and tight from holding back my cries. His thick fingers dipped into my cunt, the muscles working around them in hunger, and he leaned closer to my face, pressing his soaked fingers to my lips. “Taste yourself, caida.” I sucked at them wildly as he delivered two more powerful slaps to my red-raw ass, and I finally broke.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please!”
“Please – what? Stop? Leave me?”
“Please – fuck me. Fuck me hard.”
I heard the unzip of his trousers, a rustle of plastic and a grunt, and then his cock slid between my ass cheeks and deep inside my ready cunt. We both breathed out heavily. He began to move, gently at first, but as my thrusts against his cock grew in fervor, he stroked me more forcefully, lifting my legs up, pushing my face hard against the desk. His balls were slapping against my thighs, his shaft buried deep, the walls of my cunt clutching and pulsing, pushing me closer to the edge. I turned my head just enough to see his face, twisted in pleasure, and my senses scrambled higher towards that peak, but still not yet close enough. I knew what I needed, and I jabbed my hand towards it.
At first he didn’t understand, but when he realized my intention, he gave me another feral smile. He slid out of me with a groan, turned, and grasped the ivory dildo. He kissed it, and then pressed it, inch by exquisite inch, into my ass. When the bulk of it was held tight, and my back was bowed in pained ecstasy, he slid back into me, and began thrusting again, pressing his sweaty, furry chest onto my back.
As he rode me, filling and stretching me to a near-breaking point, my teeth sank into his arm as he braced against the desk. A stream of foul Spanish curses burst forth, and my reward was to be half-twisted over, so that he tore into me at a sharper, deeper angle, his hand mashing my breast to hold me fast in place. I needed and dreaded the finish. When I came, I came harder than ever, shrieking and shaking for the longest moment; his powerful orgasm swiftly followed.
We lay, shattered and tangled on the desk. There was a long silence, and then a husky laugh.
“So, querida – shall we say the position is yours?”
My mind went back to one of the images: “Depends – what do the other candidates look like?”
Originally published September, 2008