Blood and Arrows and Other Stories , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Leigh Clark

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20 pages

English

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Description

If a scratch on the back or a swift spank makes your heart beat faster, Blood and Arrows is guaranteed to grab your attention. These four light bondage stories explore the sensual delights of BDSM, both for the top and the bottom; whether it is the caress of a razorblade, the helpless sensation of rough sex, or the sting of a tattoo needle, arousing accounts and unabashed tales of kinky sex await!

Sujets

Erotic literature

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	23 février 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781781661048
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title Page

BLOOD AND ARROWS
AND OTHER STORIES
Four Sexy BDSM Short Stories

By
Leigh Clark

Publisher Information

Blood And Arrows And Other Stories
published in 2012 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Leigh Clark 2012

The right of Leigh Clark to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Blood and Arrows

My phone rang. I grabbed it, “Yeah?”
“Sophie? Did you call me and hang up?”
Pause.
“Oh dear, I’m really sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Sophie? Are you all right?” It was Jane’s voice
“Of course not. I’ll come right over and help you out.”
“Is this about that weirdo, Demmy?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, but never mind. He’ll understand that you really need my support right now.” I turned to Demmy who was shaving his chest with a disposable razor, in full view of anybody passing outside. He was gorgeous, black hair, deep brown eyes, compact, heavily-muscled body which he kept fit for purpose. And in the few weeks we’d been together, he’d been an exciting and considerate lover, so why was I preparing to run out on him, just as he was sitting down in the tattooist’s chair?
“My mum, she’s hurt her ankle, fell downstairs, I’ve got to go and see she’s okay…”
He nodded glumly.
I turned back to the mobile, “Okay, I’m on my way, Mum.”
“You’d better be, and you’d better be prepared to tell me all about it, and don’t call me Mum!” Jane hung up with a giggle and I fast-walked out of the tattoo parlour to the nearest taxi rank.
Yup, tattoo parlour. The tattoo was why I was escaping.
“I’ve wanted to do this for years,” Demmy had said. “Come with me, Soph, for moral support?”
I nodded, relieved he wasn’t going to have my name punctured across his bicep. A heart, he’d said. Then we got to the parlour and he took the design he’d chosen out of his back pocket and unfolded it.
It was a heart all right. A life-size copy, so realistic you thought it could throb, and full of purple and red pipes. Not only that, but in the very centre, an equally life-sized arrow—not a triangular one, like we all drew as kids back when we sketched hearts and arrows in our schoolbooks, but a streamlined, leaf-shaped bit of shiny metal, buried halfway into the heart, and with wasp-like black and yellow bands around the shaft, which appeared to have been snapped off a couple of inches from the heart.
As an exercise in super-realistic art, the picture was impressive—as something I would have to gaze on each time Demmy unbuttoned his shirt it was frankly repulsive.
So I shifted my hand into my bag, called Jane on speed-dial and then hung up. I knew she’d call me back, being just out of a long-term relationship herself, and still in the ‘sitting at home, looking at old photographs and hating all men’ phase. On the way to her flat I tried to come up with a concise explanation as to why Demmy’s tattoo had squicked me out. She would want all the details in return for having been passed off as my mother.
The truth was, the closer we’d got to Valentine’s Day, the more extreme Demmy’s behaviour had become. He liked a little pain, he’d told me, that New Year’s Eve as we sat in a corner at a party, toasting each other with lukewarm Cava. It added spice to his pleasure, he said. So, when the clock struck midnight and we kissed, I twisted my hand into his curly black hair and pulled—hard. He sighed into my mouth and I felt his cock harden against my thigh as we leaned into each other. No problem, I thought.
But it was becoming an increasing problem, and as I rang Jane’s doorbell I realised why.
“It’s not about me,” I said, as I dumped my bag and grabbed the glass of wine she handed me. “It’s not personal. He doesn’t care who does it, as long as he gets the pain. I’m just the…”
“Stooge?” she asked acidly.
I winced, but she was right.
Jane was still in her pyjamas at eight in the evening on a Saturday. It looked as if she’d coasted through the day on ice-cream and a bottle or two of Bordeaux—I could tell by the state of her lapels.
“Yes. No. It’s like what he wants is the pain, but for his self-esteem it has to come with a reasonably attractive female package around it.