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...
There was a strange atmosphere of unexpected intimacy in the fact of our threesome. The meal was even more informal, almost rushed over, the house servant dismissed, and drinking seemed to be the primary occupation of the night. Mags in particular was the leading light in this. She sparkled, her brown eyes flashed, energy seemed to flow from her like light, and I was startled at just how striking her vitality – and her physical attributes – were. Far from being “Fat Mags”, as Clio insisted on labelling (and libelling) her, she was voluptuous. Her curves were generous, perhaps a little full for the topical aesthetic slimline fashion, but the longer I gazed on them, and the longer I came under the spell of her vivacity and warmth, accompanied by her husband’s friendliness and liberal generosity with his excellent booze, the more wonderful she appeared. That bottom, so splendidly outlined, caressed by the hug of her gown, or rather dress, I should say, for its hem came only to mid-thigh, entranced me, the twin curves jutting so splendidly from that hollowed back, and those superbly athletic shoulders, so tanned, so silk-smooth, as was all the brown skin exquisitely revealed by her brief garb. Only the lightest of straps upheld the dress, and allowed a discreet, enchanting view of even slenderer dark bra straps beneath. The neckline plunged a little daringly (thought prudent, prurient old prissy me!) deep between her imposing breasts. Their perfect smoothness was revealed to an entrancing depth, so that my pulse quickened (and even my limp and securely hidden prick) at their fluid movement. And as she sat, and then resat, and later lounged, the skirt of the dress rose and rose inevitably, and showed more of those magnificently athletic limbs: sturdy, well-delineated calf muscles, then those tapering, muscled thighs, so splendid, so full, of life and strength. I could almost faint as I lewdly and helplessly imagined their grip about my waist, or even more consumingly, about my humble, slender neck as I drove my worshipful face into the wiry bush, and the soft, enveloping tissue of her yielding yet conquering sex lips on my searching mouth.
Transformed by booze and bonhomie, they insisted on putting on some music, and soon all three of us were bobbing and weaving and ducking about to the thumping pop rhythms or the closer-to-“home” Congolese beats. Then the slow, treacly, smooth and smoochy melodies took over. Definitely not music to gyrate to solo, and I slumped down on the cushions of the rattan settee and watched, with increasing excitement and embarrassment, Dave and Mags wrapping themselves more and more intimately together, until their hips and bellies were grinding glued, and my gaze was fixed hypnotically on Mags’s magnificent buttocks clenching and writhing under their thin, shining cover in the very dim light.
‘Come on, Marty! Your turn now! I’m getting past all this sort of thing. We need some young blood. Away you go!’ And I was literally dragged by her husband into Mags’s open arms, and suddenly all that desirable flesh was pressing smotheringly against me: breasts thrusting under my nose, belly and loins rubbing against mine, the front of those delightfully generous thighs, my hand encouraged to rest on the upper slopes of the glorious bottom, and, indeed, to explore the further contours and the impressive cleft between, should I so desire.
I did and didn’t – the story of my life. The libidinous urge was there all right, but my prick, assaulted so indecently closely through a few millimetres of silk by Mags’s grinding groin, was as diminutively limp as was its wont in such intime circumstances, greasily soaked though it was in its snug cover, a condition of which I was mortifyingly sure my partner was all too aware.
Suddenly a distracting thought occurred. Despite the dismissive shortness of Clio’s memory span, the lush figure so closely wrapped about me might well be still deeply concerned about her homo-erotic attempt on my wife. Maybe the idea behind this whole invitation was an effort at denial – a blatant attempt to demonstrate just how conventionally hetero Mags was.
My suspicion was by no means allayed when I was summarily dismissed a moment later, as she thrust me bodily back onto the settee cushions and peremptorily ordered Dave to take my place once more. ‘Help yourself to a drink,’ he grinned, as he rose to obey, and I took his advice, smarting under the keen sense of my failure to measure as a man. Minutes later my shame was forgotten as I gaped at the spectacle of his dextrous hands slowly drawing down the zip at the back of his wife’s dress, down to the jut of that outstanding arse, then drawing the silky material over her head and tossing it carelessly aside, never for one instant interrupting the hypnotic sway to the sensuous music’s soft background.
She wasn’t wearing tights or stockings, and those admirable buttocks showed in almost full splendour, only the pronounced cleft hidden by the thinnest of black strips of silk whose thin lace edges ran high up on the undulating hips. The thin straps of her bra, also black, divided the smooth perfection of her upper body.
‘I’ll go ... should I ...?’ I croaked belatedly.
‘Stay where you are!’ Dave’s tone was as unequivocal as any sergeant-major, and I sank back on the cushions, my eyes fixed on that alluring figure. Her flesh was uniformly tanned, that coffee-with-milk colour, even when his expert fingers unhooked the bra from between her shoulders and removed it with masterful aplomb, before tossing it with a flourish to join the dress. I almost reached out to catch it, as though in a Soho strip club. Seconds later – and this time they did have to pause, though even that was done in an erotically chic way – she lifted one foot and then the other and he slipped the tiny pants off without removing her heeled evening shoes. The black briefs fluttered to join the rest of her things beside me on the cushion.
The nude body continued to sway on those slender-spiked heels, presenting its rear view only towards me, hugged close in Dave’s arms. He grinned diabolically at me over her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you join us?’ He raised his left hand and beckoned me.
My heart was going crazy. Part of me wanted to run – a large part of me! But I felt helpless, gazing at that brown, hypnotic form, and when I did move, I rose slowly and advanced towards them as though in a trance. He lifted his left arm, waving me in, and Mags half turned, smiling, and I saw the jut of her right breast, and the dark thrust of its large nipple, with its generous surround. The belly curved alluringly, and at its base was the abundant triangle of dark curls, nestling between those rhythmically shifting upper thighs. Her arm came round my shoulder, pulled me in, and we stood in a hugging circle. She dragged my head forward, my face buried itself in the sweet, damp neck and shoulder, then her own face came round, and suddenly those plump, softly devouring lips were all over, her mouth was open, seizing mine, her live wet tongue penetrating, searching, possessing me.
Everything seemed to happen at once. My head spun, I felt as though I was about to faint. Her hand dropped, seized my crotch and clamped on the soft pouch of my prick beneath its tight cover, and I jerked my hips away as though I had been burnt by her invasive clutch. Then I was on my knees, sobbing, and my face was buried in that splendid spread of belly, and the wiry mat of her pubic hair, my own tongue searching for the pungent confluence of her sex. For a few endless seconds, her hand cupped around the back of my skull, and pressed me smotheringly into her thrusting flesh, then I was on my back, staring up at that statuesque, towering nakedness. She raised her right foot, still encased in the delicate sandal with its stiletto heel and I tensed, ready to scream at the agony of that wicked point driving deep into the squirming softness of my genitals, yet utterly powerless to defend myself. Instead, to my shock, and shame, she placed the narrow sole quite gently between my spread legs and pressed against the soft swell of my impotent penis and my shrinking balls.
‘I think you’d better go home. I guess Dave will have to be man enough for two of you.’ Though her voice was quiet, it was rich with contempt. I gave a smothered sob and scrambled up. Dave was already tearing off his shirt and slacks as I half ran, half stumbled to the door.