Xcite Delights Book 1 Read online

  XCITE DELIGHTS ONE

  A collection of eight erotic stories

  Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2012

  ISBN 9781909335387

  Copyright © Xcite Books 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

  The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors’ imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Behind the Blue Door Charlotte Stein

  Skyggen Giselle Renarde

  No Running, No Petting Janine Ashbless

  Alive Clarice Clique

  The Untouchable Tabby Lana Fox

  Soul of Discretion Mary Borsellino

  Personal Trainer K D Grace

  The Naughty Rich Girl Angela Goldsberry

  Behind the Blue Door

  by Charlotte Stein

  She always said he had an enquiring mind. That’s why he let her do the things she’s done to him– even the ones he thought were weird and terrifying. Like the dressing up in women’s underwear, and the dancing, and the rubbing himself all over with slippery stuff for her.

  Yeah, she likes that all right.

  She likes a bunch of other stuff too, and it’s always his curiosity that makes him do it. Will lace feel scratchy against his skin, or smooth? And if it’s scratchy, then why do women wear underwear made out of that material?

  Because they want to please somebody, he guesses– the way that he pleases Sapphire. Or at least, he thinks he pleases her. She always tells him about his enquiring mind in a curling, pleased sort of voice.

  They’re always the best sort of men , she says. The ones with open, inquisitive minds.

  Though he knows there’s a certain sort of problem with the way he is, and one day it’s definitely going to get him into trouble with her. Because Sapphire is a very private person, a very closed person, and though she’ll do all sorts of naughty things with him – things none of his other girlfriends would ever even think of – there are certain places he can’t go.

  Like the attic.

  At the very top of her many floored house, past a narrow, crooked staircase layered with cobwebs, there is a door. He knows there is, because once he got all his guts up and climbed those rickety stairs. He put his hand on the dusty, painted wood.

  And now that blue door beats inside him like a second heart.

  He tries to pretend otherwise. She had said to him that he isn’t permitted to go up there, that the door is locked and will always remain so, if she found him trying to sneak inside they would cease to be lovers immediately. And he had responded with that pretence in mind, uncaring and playful, not bothered about her silly little blue door. The attic of secrets beyond.

  Even though she must know his blitheness is a lie. He is as eager as a puppy dog, always straining at his leash. When she says come, he comes. When she says stay, he stays. When she says never go through the blue door into the attic, he obeys.

  But she must know that his curious head is always turning.

  It’s turning now, while she licks a path down his long, strong body. He keeps it really nice for her – toned and tan all over – and she appreciates that, he’s sure. She likes it when he wears tight, clingy things– and even more so if he feels ridiculous while doing it.

  Tonight she has him wearing this strange stretchy skirt thing and nothing else, and when her tongue gets to its waistband, she slaps his curvy bottom through the material. The way a guy might slap a girl, if he found her wearing a slutty item of clothing. She even says the right words to match the actions:

  ‘You naughty boy,’ she says.

  He can feel himself stiffening beneath the rubbing, twisting material. Parting his legs or otherwise finding some relief is difficult, because the skirt cages him in so effectively. He squirms and tests its boundaries, and she laughs when he does.

  ‘I’ve got you now, boy,’ she says, and he tries his best to turn onto his back so that he can look into her sharp, dark eyes. She’s very beautiful, he knows, but it’s in a way that some men could never appreciate. Her shoulders are a little too broad, and her eyes burn right into you like heated fingertips, and her skin looks like untouched snow beside his tanned flesh.

  Even worse: her eyebrows meet in the middle.

  In fact, she’s hairy all over. Hairy under her arms and with a thick, curling black bush between her legs. Her legs themselves are never short of a strand or two, as though she’s from some forgotten time when silly modern habits weren’t even a consideration.

  Sometimes, when he lets himself think about what he would ask her to do if their roles were reversed, he imagines her stood on a great earthy hill. Naked, with her arms spread and her mass of wild black hair pouring back behind her.

  She’d look great like that. Almost as great as he does, in a skirt.

  ‘What do you want to do today?’ she asks, quite sudden.

  That’s a novelty. Usually she simply chooses, and then waits to see if he will go along with it. She’ll say something like, ‘Slide a finger into your ass,’ or, ‘Slide a finger into my ass,’ or, ‘Don’t go into the attic, not ever,’ and then she will wait, to see if he obeys.

  As he indicates that he’d like to kiss her broad mouth, today, and she leans down to permit him, his head turns towards the hallway. The one that ends in the rickety staircase, that leads up to the blue door.

  He can feel her smiling against his parted lips.

  And then her tongue pushes into his mouth, and he forgets, for a moment. Or at least, his cock forgets. It strains up against her stomach, through the restrictive material. If she would just move a little to the right, he could get off quite easily.

  But she doesn’t, of course. She dances to the left, then sprawls around and gives him glimpses of the dark gash between her legs. She smiles her broad smile at him, and her eyes flash glimmers of what’s to come.

  A long night ahead, of teasing and tempting and never-quite-getting.

  Sure enough, when he asks for something else she pouts, and tells him that he can have it. As long as he does something for her, first. And of course, the something he has to do for her is something he never wants to do. Like sitting at her dresser, patiently, while she rims his eyes with kohl. Lipsticks his lips until they’re sticky.

  When he is finally allowed to turn and look at his reflection in the mirror, he barely recognises himself. His tan glows beneath the faint dusting of something shimmery she has painted over his cheeks. His blue eyes look bright and sultry all at the same time. She could never hope to make his squarely masculine face into something feminine, but there’s certainly something disconcerting about the contrast.

  He supposes he should be distracted. His whole body and most of his mind should be immersed in the silky strokes of her make-up brush on his cheeks – and sometimes on other parts of him. His cock is still stiff and she chides him for making a mess all over the expensive material of her skirt, where he’s leaking.

  And yet his head still turns towards the hallway – the one that ends in the rickety staircase. Up there, is a door. And behind that door are more dirty dark and delicious secrets than you can ever imagine. Up there is the pleasure she’s keeping from you, and that she gave to the men she had before you.

  Don’t you know that by now, Dean?

  He imagines that she had them killed, for disobeying her. The attic is where she keeps the bodies of these disobedient
men. He’ll open the door one day and find them hung in there, perfectly preserved, as beautiful as they were in life but with eyes made of glass, perpetually staring at nothing.

  It will be like a museum, he thinks, as Sapphire’s friend strokes a hand over his bare back. He’s lovely, Sapphire’s friend says. Lovelier, even, than Frederick.

  And then he imagines this mysterious Frederick, hanging on a hook in the attic. His jaw wasn’t quite strong enough – he didn’t have the cleft in his chin that he, Dean, has. Frederick was too foppish and feminine, and it’s only fun when the man is strong and masculine.

  He figures that he’s plenty strong and masculine enough to make things interesting. She likes the fine blonde hair on his head, clashing with the rough dark hair that grows on his face and body. She likes his firm mouth, like a slash cut into his face.

  Both women remark on these attributes, as he crawls across the floor for them, without a stitch of clothing on him. His cock bobs helplessly, longing for a stroke even amidst all of this humiliation.

  Was this the thing that booked Frederick a place in the attic? Wouldn’t he perform for Sapphire’s friends, something slick and black and leathery splitting his ass cheeks, nipples sore from being pinched, two laughing faces hanging over him all the while?

  Poor, stupid Frederick.

  ‘You’ve got this one very well trained,’ the friend says, and he wonders how many times Sapphire has played this particularly game before. Showing her man off, as though he’s just a toy or a pet.

  Many times, he’s certain. She has it down to a fine art. She crosses her legs and waves one hand, as though to say it’s nothing.

  ‘You wouldn’t mind if I made use of him, would you?’ the friend asks, and he knows how likely it is that Sapphire told her exactly what to say. The words are Sapphire’s, not the friend’s. Perhaps the friend isn’t really a friend at all, but someone Sapphire hired.

  ‘Of course not,’ she replies, and then the “friend” stands up as though on cue, and begins unbuttoning her smart little pencil skirt.

  ‘God, he’s gorgeous,’ she says, which perhaps suggests that she hasn’t been hired. It’s her one tiny concession to how exciting this all is.

  But then, even a professional might be excited by a scenario that features a macho man on his knees, a strange crooked house with a witch as the mistress, oral sex handed over, whenever it’s required.

  She sits back down on the richly upholstered – though dusty – couch, and spreads her bare legs. Now she’s humming with expectation, her little blue eyes greedy with it, and behind him he can hear Sapphire laughing.

  ‘Come along, then,’ the friend says, and Sapphire laughs some more.

  The laugh rings through him, ending in some sweet vibrations right at the tip of his cock. There’s even something exciting about the fact that the friend hasn’t removed her blouse – just her skirt and her underwear. He has to picture her neat little breasts, as he crawls to the space she’s made for him between her thighs.

  ‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Dean?’ Sapphire says. ‘Licking my friend for me.’

  Of course, that only tightens the leash on his arousal. The way she phrases it, as though he is performing a task that she would usually do. He pictures Sapphire on her knees between these spread thighs, and though he knows she’d never bow to anyone the idea that she does for this friend spears him low in the gut.

  He looks at the friend’s prettily furred pussy – barely anything on it, and all of it blonde – and imagines Sapphire in his place, licking her red wine lips. Watching with burning interest as her friend spreads her slit wide open with two fingers, to reveal a fat proud clit and a glistening hole.

  He knows that watching him crawl around the room has aroused her. But knowing it has aroused Sapphire – that means more. And he can tell he has done – and is doing so – because she has moved positions. She is standing over him, now, her sharply pointed shoes almost pricking into his shins, her eyes all over his body.

  He can feel those eyes, always.

  He feels her hair when it trails over his back too. She is bending over him, almost as though she is examining his skin. The quality of him. Making sure that her friend doesn’t damage the goods.

  The idea warms him, through and through. It’s exciting too, in a way that’s almost unbearable.

  He inches forward, and rubs his face into the soft, wet flesh before him. She smells good – sweet and sharp – but not as good as Sapphire. Sapphire is earthy, Sapphire is everything, Sapphire will be so pleased that he’s managed to do what the other guys couldn’t.

  He flicks his tongue over the clit in front of him, and the friend squirms and bucks on the couch. She tells him to do it again, and he fancies that Sapphire strokes his back as some sort of permission.

  So he does it. He licks her and pushes two fingers into her tight, grasping hole until she moans that she’s going to come, she’s going to come.

  At which point Sapphire re-establishes the reins, and tells her that she can’t. Not yet. Not until she has done one more thing on her long list of scenarios that Dean might object to.

  In this case, it’s the strap being removed from between his ass cheeks. And then something else being pressed to that area, in its place. He feels something very slick, and very large, urging itself against his clenching asshole.

  So he closes his eyes tight, and licks faster, and imagines Sapphire wearing something he’d always known she’d get to eventually. Maybe the attic holds the kind of equipment she’s wearing now – big black strap-ons and awful things made out of metal. Gags and whips and things that will eventually hurt him.

  A medieval torture chamber, he thinks, as the big, slick thing pushes into him, slowly but surely.

  He tries to clench down on it, to stop it, even as his body shivers with excitement. The wet cunt swallowing his face and the hard thing behind – both combine to make it all just-too-much. Until he imagines Sapphire not with a strap-on, or a dildo in her hand, or anything like it– but with a real live hard penis between her legs.

  And then it’s too much.

  He feels Sapphire reaching beneath him for his heavy, straining cock, the friend arching hard and making his face extra slippery, the hard thing splitting him in two. Shortly before his prick leaps and his balls tighten and hard wrenches of pleasure crack through his entire body, too strong to deny.

  She tuts, when he spurts all over the floor. Though he knows even while wrung out like this that she is pleased. He has pleased her very much, once again. He can tell by the way she strokes his back, and pants through her own pleasure, and presses her slippery thighs against his.

  Though he has to wonder: what happens when she isn’t pleased? What happens when he can’t manage to do what another man will?

  He wakes up in the middle of the night, glassy, staring eyes still hovering in front of him. It takes him a long moment to get himself back to reality. In reality, no woman would keep the stuffed bodies of her old boyfriends in the attic. In truth, Sapphire isn’t even sentimental enough, for something like that.

  No. She probably has files. Files, detailing the mistakes her past lovers made. By forbidding him to go to the attic, she’s actually daring him to go in there, and figure out exactly how he can avoid being left by the wayside. He has to be bold – that’s what she wants from him.

  A man curious enough, and bold enough, to puzzle out exactly what she wants.

  And he is that man. He knows he is. That’s why when she’s sleeping, in the dead of night, he creeps out of bed. It takes some doing, because Sapphire is ever-aware. But he manages it. He stands at the foot of the stairs, very pleased with himself.

  Though less pleased, when he stares up at the door and thinks of the glass eyes, again. Of course, there won’t be glass eyes. How could there possibly be? The very idea is ridiculous. Even if the door is beating inside him again, and it seems to be glowing a much brighter blue than usual, and each step up that rickety staircas
e is like having to drag himself up a thorn-covered mountain.

  Someone sensible and normal inside himself begs him not to do this.

  And yet soon, he is right at the door. He can see every little split in the aged wood, how fine and almost dusty the paint is, how the door handle seems to call to him. There isn’t even a lock on the door, for God’s sake! It’s completely open and begging for someone just to turn, and push.

  He puts his hand on the cool ornate metal of the handle, and turns it – just a little. He thinks there’s a pattern on there, but doesn’t dare look at it. Beneath his pressing palm, it feels like a skull.

  When he turns the handle again – just a little, surely not enough to open it – and the door moves inward, he almost runs right back down the stairs. His two hearts are beating in his mouth. He’s sweating from the roots of his hair to the ends of his toes.

  It’s too late to back out now, however. The door is opening. It’s opening all on its own. It’s not his fault! It’s opening on its own!

  But beyond is no different to the rest of the house. Everything is exactly right, in that same strange way. An air of the dusty and ancient hangs over everything. There’s a lot of blue, and a lot of wood, and what light there is comes from those odd little gas lamps.

  There’s more light than usual, however. Much more, and it falls right on the table in the centre of the slanted room, at which sits something that is different to the rest of the house. There are three men, each on their own chairs. Each staring up at him, with eyes he is sure are glassy, at first.

  It is almost worse, to realise that they are not. All the men are alive, it seems. And all of them are completely naked.

  They look up at him, expectantly. Even stranger, a deck of cards lies between them on the table, and all have a hand in whatever game it is they’re playing. He supposes it should be quite a reassuring little scene – none of them look harmed and they don’t seem threatened or threatening – and yet something about the cards ... the nakedness ...