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Miss Donohue and Other Kinky Stories (Jay Lawrence Harry Neptune)


	
Miss Donohue and Other Kinky Stories by Jay Lawrence Harry Neptune

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From lust-fueled mayhem at an English girls' school to raise havoc on the high seas, this stimulating selection of naughty tales aims to refresh those parts that kink-free fiction just can't reach! B&D Novella and Other Erotic Tales! Such is the dilemma facing a sexually insatiable young schoolmistress whose wild Sapphic exploits result in a brisk march to the Rector's study for the ultimate panties-down session across his desk. The headmaster, however, has his own kinks to hide. Will the whole school learn his guilty secret? A comic tale of British wit and discipline which will have you booking your ticket to the land of afternoon tea and knickers! Also included in this juicy selection of short stories: the erotic adventures of Miss Jay Lawrence, femme fatale about town. Are they truth or fiction? This modern day Moll Flanders blends spicy real life escapades with a good squirt of fantasy to keep you guessing. Illicit doing on the high seas, clandestine sex in a lawyer's office and a steamy affair which takes place in the unlikely setting of a supermarket, complete this arousing set of tales.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Renaissance E Books    Published: 4 / 2016

No. words: 35000

Style: Erotic Domination - M/F, Open Minded BDSM Erotica

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt

CONFESSIONS OF A FEMME FATALE
Jay Lawrence

For JM. Because.

"A virgin Master of Discipline? Why, that's a bit like a vegetarian choosing to work in an abattoir!"
My friend Angus hooted in glee, his expressive actor's features aligning themselves in a quirky pastiche of theatrical sadism. I wondered when he would wheel out his Marlene Dietrich impersonation. We sat at the bar in a trendy waterfront restaurant, where sober young people in pristine white uniforms prepared an assortment of seafood in an open kitchen. Swirling the fragrant contents of my glass of Merlot around in ever decreasing circles, I ordered the lightly seared tuna and wondered whether the half raw fish would increase my libido.
"Yes, he rather took me by surprise, I have to admit. There I was, expecting to pop his cherry as painlessly as possible and he had me down on the carpet playing Fifi le Pooch, lapping cold coffee from a saucer! Quite fascinating, actually. I don't know what it is about the Sylvia Hotel but strange things always seem to happen to me there..."
My mind drifted away from the chatter and clatter of the fashionable eatery, settling upon the tall, vine encrusted building by English Bay, for many years a Vancouver landmark. First, there had been the ill starred liaison with the Shiatsu therapist from Houston, Texas, whose peculiar boundary issues made simply sharing a bed something of a challenge ("Stay on your own side, will you?"). Then there was a morning assignation with the Evil Doctor Lorenzo, a softly spoken and business suited Dominant who resembled a bank manager and whose clandestine interests involved the darkest shades of the psycho-sexual spectrum. In those days, I was Miss Moneypenny and Bond came in many guises from the sublime to the truly ridiculous but "come" he always did...
***
David was my first "Bond" a rather reserved English undergraduate with a penchant for satire and a fleeting but enchanting smile. After placing a "Personals" ad the week before Christmas, I was amazed at the deluge of enthusiastic responses it was clear that there was a vast sea of sexually unrequited manhood in the city and what had started as a spur of the moment whim and jest, soon metamorphosed to an all-out project of epic proportions. You may be familiar with the classic blue movie entitled "Debbie Does Dallas" well, Miss Lawrence decided to do Vancouver.
David, sweet, innocent David, whose lips tasted like spring rain and who assured me, a little too vehemently, that he was not a virgin. He penned witty Bond sketches for my amusement and wrote of lengthy seductions in a torrid wish-list of Casanova-esque passion. We arranged to meet in the echoing splendor of the old railway station building on Cordova, a graceful, marble floored hall which provided a safe and neutral space for the meeting of two thrilling libidos. I emerged from the subterranean regions of the transit system, stout heart banging like a drum, mouth somewhat dry, scanning the milling figures for my Bond on a bench. With no photograph to aid recognition, the species had suddenly become something of a mystery. An overweight youth sat tensely on the nearest wooden seat and, swallowing a groan, I plumped myself down on the other end, swiftly retrieving the paperback novel which was to be my "pink carnation." The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett, in honor of my friend's liking for the deliciously barbed repartee between Nick and Nora Charles. The young man did not show any signs of recognition but seemed so uncomfortable that I felt sure he must be my date, unfortunately paralyzed with a bad case of nerves. After a few minutes of exaggerated page flipping and much pointed glancing up at the station clock high on the wall, I finally broke down and inquired if the youth was David. His look of horror was so pronounced that I wonder to this day whether he was on some dreadful mission, waiting for a clandestine drop of hard drugs or some such business. Or perhaps his mother told him not to speak to strange women in railway stations. Glistening with discomfort, he shook his head, and I turned to see another, more slender young man in a dark blue rain jacket and serious steel rimmed spectacles. His nerves were palpable but firmly contained and I sensed more than a hint of fledgling disciplinarian in his cool demeanor.
"Miss Moneypenny, I presume."
"Why, yes..."
We took coffee in a little cafe, the walls of which were adorned with a series of stark monochrome prints of arty fetish shots. My gaze kept returning to the image above our table, a beautiful leg clad in a sheer black stocking, suggestively laddered, as if the wearer had just survived a tussle of major proportions. I sipped my latte and listened to my new acquaintance's philosophy on life, watching his lips moving purposefully, economically, above the rim of his cup. He drank only regular coffee, feeling that the trendy foamed milk brews were in the same category as hot chocolate.
"They send me to sleep."
His voice was soft so much so that at times I had to strain to catch what he said but his opinions were distinct, nay, absolute. Suddenly, I saw him in the stark gray uniform of a Nazi commandant, a high ranking officer of the Gestapo, smiling cruelly as he issued orders in black and white, life or death. Cool gray eyes glinted behind the steel rimmed glasses and his perfect teeth flashed briefly in a sardonic smile. He was pushing my spanking button like crazy.
Swiftly, my fertile imagination transported me to a hard wooden chair in a grim corridor. Trembling with nerves, I sat, hands demurely folded in my lap, waiting for the ominous door to open and The Voice to usher me into the dreaded inner sanctum of the commandant's office. I wore a short, tight woolen skirt and a silky blouse which clung to the pointed mounds of my bust. The sheer white fabric quivered rhythmically as my heart pounded relentlessly on, and I concentrated on recalling what I had been taught regarding correct and ladylike posture. Ankles and knees together, legs uncrossed, tuck both feet to one side. Sit up straight, chest out and stomach in. The last part wasn't too difficult as I wore a stringent satin girdle, topped by an outrageously conical brassiere, which lifted and separated my breasts to such an unnatural degree that they almost resembled twin missiles. A taut chignon and six inch heels completed the outfit. I was dressed to kill and awaited execution.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of palpitating silence, a hatchet faced secretary opened the door to the office and beckoned me to enter the chamber of unspeakable horror. Avoiding the mocking gaze of the steel haired, squarely upholstered woman, I tottered into the dimly lit room, every cell of my wretched being fluttering like a moth trapped within a white hot mantle. A single, green shaded lamp sat upon the immaculately tidy desk, offering a limited pool of anemic light. The four corners of the office swiftly segued into an inky blackness, vaguely disturbed by the looming outlines of bookshelves and filing cabinets. For one brief, disorientating moment, I almost believed I was alone, then I saw the hands, patiently folded upon the spotless desktop blotter. Long, smooth fingers interlocked, here and there revealing perfectly manicured nails and an iron ring deeply embossed with some arcane Thelemic symbol. The hands separated and placed themselves, palms down, upon the blotter.
"Miss Moneypenny."
My heart almost leapt from my chest at the softly sibilant voice which issued from the shadowy form beyond the desk. Terrified, I whispered in assent. The hands reached forward and selected a long metal ruler from a tray. One forefinger repeatedly stroked the sharp edge of the glittering instrument as if testing the blade of a knife. After a lengthy silence, in which I swayed upon the precipitous heels of my patent leather pumps, the commandant spoke again, each clipped syllable distinctly pronounced as if the speaker were some waxwork automaton.
"Why-are-you-here?"
A drop of moisture eased its way through the swollen lips of my vulva and melted into the tight silk of my panties. A sudden attack of vertigo caused the room to rise up like a freighter in a heavy sea and I struggled valiantly to maintain my equilibrium. Tongue-tied, I could not answer his question. The ruler began to tap lightly upon the blotter.
"Why are you here?"
The same few words, repeated in the same flat, emotionless tone, but with a subtle change of cadence, almost imperceptible but infinitely damning to the practiced ear. I was dead meat.
"I don't know."
My response sounded impotent, the distant, colorless voice a mere shadow of its normal self. The perfect hands turned the ruler so that my ashen reflection appeared, almost undistorted, in the highly burnished steel. Here, even the simplest instruments were of the highest specification. Failure was not an option, mediocrity a capital crime. I observed my strained features and waited for the sword to fall. Dexterous fingers tilted the ruler to reflect the light from the desk lamp into my eyes and I blinked, reminded of a sight test long ago and far away. The optician, soft voiced and bespectacled, dilated my pupils with Belladonna, the "beautiful lady" which renders the eyes doe-like and submissive to inspection. He shone a dazzling beam into the depths of my compliant orbs as I sat demurely in a tiny, darkened room. My left eye proved imperfect, its perceptions hindered by a minor congenital defect. I cannot always see things coming...
"I-think-you-do-know, Miss Moneypenny. We are imperfect, are we not? We have failed to attain the grade."
The deflected lamplight seemed to burn into my brain, like looking at the sun. My panties were moist and my nipples hard. I ached for correction.
"Remove your skirt."


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Publisher Information

Renaissance E Books publishes the best in classic and contemporary popular fiction and nonfiction through its PageTurner imprint, and the best in classic and contemporary erotica through its Sizzler imprint.


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