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From: CobaltJade@aol.com
Subject: (NEW) Curve, by Cobalt Jade (M/F, rom BDSM)
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The soup du jour: This work is copyrighted 1999 by Cobalt Jade 
(Cobaltjade@aol.com). One copy of this story may be made for 
viewing. This story may not be archived or reposted without my 
permission. Charging a fee for access to this story, or publishing 
it without my approval, this preface, or my author credit, violates 
my copyright.

For more stories, including the novel "The Black Pearl of 
Pharazion," check out my home page: 
http://members.aol.com/cobaltjade

I dashed this story off in the space of a day...a little BDSM fantasy 
with some humor. I wanted to see if I could write a story almost 
entirely in conversation.



Curve

by Cobalt Jade  2/2/99



She was the latest in a long line of Ps--Patty, Pam, Pauline, Peri-
Ann.  Her name was Paloma. Not Picasso's daughter, and not 
Spanish. She was in her early thirties, old enough to be creative, 
young enough to still have spark, noncommittal about 
commitment, with freckles on her chest, a pair of generous tits, 
and drumstick thighs he found unattractive at first but that he 
could get used to, if the sex was good. (His cock said sex, his 
intellect said relationship. But the dog is always straining at the 
leash.) Paloma St. Peter, on a pallid bust of Pallas by the chamber 
door.

The second time they had sex, they talked. The first time never 
mattered with a woman; it was either a happy accident or a cause 
for cringing, and therefore inconsequential in the long run. The 
third time was the meat and potatoes. There was always a third 
time even if the second time didn't work, because you can't plot a 
curve from two points.   

But by itself the second time was the middle sister, the time spent 
waiting in the airport terminal. It wasn't much use except as a 
means to get somewhere else. 

The second night with Paloma-Palomino the sex was good--not 
spectacular, but promising--and he took the risk of asking her 
about her fantasies.

"Hmm," she said, biting her very bitable underlip. "You won't 
think me too weird?"

"Everyone has them," he said expansively. "Some people even 
write about them. Come on. There's little you can say that 
someone else hasn't said in more detail."

"Been around the block a few times, haven't you."

"I'm on the net a lot," he said with a straight face.

"Aren't you!" she laughed. "I suppose they have stories of people 
doing it with watermelons, or whatever."

"Worse then that," he said, stroking a tired nipple that had had a 
hard workout. "Well? Aren't you going to tell me?"

She let out a breath and the nipple escaped him. "All right. But 
promise you won't laugh."

"Scout's honor."

She tucked her arm behind her head, looking up at the ceiling. 
"I'm a slave."

Now that was interesting. The dog in him began to drool. 
"Where?"

"A distant kingdom, a Persian nation. This is many centuries ago. 
I serve in a castle in the middle of the desert. They keep me naked 
with a collar around my neck. It has a ring so I can be chained."

"Do you have a name?"

She thought for a moment. "No, slaves don't have names. They're 
all interchangeable. Any lord or lady can use them. Slaves are 
trained to serve them in whatever they want."

"Ah. So you're a sex slave."

"That's right." Strongly said, with vindication. "I'm a girl from 
the northern mountains, a barbarian. I have long light brown 
hair and my eyes are green. Green eyes in a slave are said to be 
the mark of passion. My skin is light. Those of my masters are 
dark, for this is a desert land. They have black hair and eyes and 
fierce, hawklike faces, and they dress in robes of whispering silk 
with velvet slippers on their feet. The women wear sheer veils 
over their faces. They use kohl on their eyes and draw henna 
designs on their hands and feet. I'm an exotic to them, a novelty. 
They fuck me whenever they want. My pleasure does not matter, 
only theirs does. If I resist, I am punished."

This was *really* getting interesting. Most women didn't go into 
such detail about their fantasies. The younger ones didn't even 
have any. "Oh, making it with two guys at once," they'd drawl, as 
if it was the best their imaginations could do. One girl had 
fantasized about being turned into a portable chrome-plated soda 
machine with seltzer squirting out of her nipples. The next day 
he had US West block all her calls.

"There are many mistakes a slave girl can make," she continued, 
a faraway pensive look on her face. "She stumbles when she 
brings the master coffee, and the tray and spoons clatter on the 
floor. She hesitates to take a new cock in her mouth. She is tired, 
or bored, or rebellious, and it shows; slaves are punished every 
day. No matter how hard you try to please, sooner or later you get 
into trouble. One day I do. I give my master of the moment a 
searing look, and I am immediately taken by him to the Garden of 
Chastisement."

"Uh-oh, that sounds serious."

A secret smile played across her face. "Oh, not very..."

"So what exactly is this garden?" he said, spooning his body into 
hers, so his words rumbled against her shoulder.

"It's where disobedient slaves are punished. It's pretty 
picturesque, actually. There are fountains and palm trees and 
pools filled with sparkling fish. And jasmine that scents the air. 
Every few paces there is a pole or a wooden frame or a cage 
where the slaves are bound or imprisoned, so that others may 
look at them and know they are in disgrace. But none of those are 
for me. I get the cross."

He lifted his head to look at her. "Oh, it's not what you think," she 
said. "Not crucifixion. That--yech! I'm no pain freak. This cross is 
different." 

"How so?"

"It's about, oh, six feet high and made of smooth, polished wood 
that has seen many years of use. It has one set of crossbeams a 
foot below the top that is about three feet wide, and another set 
below them that is wider and thicker, about five feet wide. Where 
these lower beams cross the pole there is a little ledge almost like 
a seat with a polished wooden dowel in the middle of it. It's wide at 
the base and tapers toward the end, almost seven inches long. One 
of my attendants begins to grease it and I know they mean to 
impale me on it. 

"Oh, how I tremble, knowing the fate that awaits me." (Her voice 
took on a dramatic ring.) "But there is no escape for a 
recalcitrant slave girl. I wait with my head down on my slave 
leash, my nipples trembling with the fear of it. The attendants 
don't talk to me. No one talks to slaves, especially barbarian 
ones...we are only intelligent animals to them."

Damn, she was good. He found himself growing hard again. She 
said she booked conventions for a hotel downtown. Had she ever 
been an actress as well? Done phone sex? He moved his erection 
away from her hip. He wanted to hear the end of her story and 
the dog would only spoil things.

"When they finish greasing the pole they grab me, one attendant 
on either side. They spread my legs and lift me high in the air. 
The rod slides into my asshole quite easily. I am filled and 
stretched and it hurts, but there's a pleasure in it too. I want to 
yowl but they gag me with a thick piece of leather. I can only 
give a muffled yelp. They're going to keep me here for the rest of 
the day, and all night too, and everyone who passes will witness 
it.

"One attendant lifts my arms over the bar of the upper cross and 
ties my wrists behind my back, behind the upright beam of the 
cross, and fastens them to an hook there. The smooth wood 
presses deeply into my armpits. Only the dowel in my ass 
prevents me from sagging completely and asphyxiating myself. 
Then both of the attendants take my legs and spread my thighs 
apart as far as they can go until my legs rest on top of the left and 
right arms of the lower beam. They tie them there so they stick 
out straight to either side, which means my pussy is exposed 
completely.

"I flush with shame. The humiliation is unbearable. Even a slave 
is not so obscenely displayed. My pussy gapes like a mouth, my 
pubic lips pink and wet. My juices start to seep out of me. I feel 
the cream coat my lips and the warm oily sensation maddens me. 
My clit springs to life and I am helpless to hide it. The attendants 
laugh at me as I shift and groan, and I realize this is part of the 
punishment too...to be mocked for my arousal and suffer the 
deprivation for it. 

"But now I can no longer look at them, they've buckled my gag to 
the wood in back of my head so my face is lifted towards the sky. 
Only my eyes can move. My poor legs are stretched to their 
limit...but in spite of this my nipples are erect. My chest heaves 
up and down with every anxious breath and I see them dance as if 
beckoning to the attendants below. 

"I try to plead with my captors, knowing what next awaits me. But 
it does no good. They fasten two golden clamps to my nipples and 
the bite is an exquisite torture. A gold chain hangs between the 
two clamps and I feel the cold links swaying against my chest. 
Each clamp has a weight, too, a golden teardrop that drags on me 
and pulls my nipple down. The sensation is...electric."

The picture was a rather alarming one. "Your tits are drooping?"

"Of course not," she said, insulted enough to break character. 
"They're young and firm enough to stay high. They remain two 
perfect cones, nipples pointed to the sun, and the chain and 
weights dangle proudly."

"Like this?" He obliged her with his fingers, teasing the tired 
pink nubs into an erect state again.

"Ohhh, yes, that's it." Her breathing grew more irregular as he 
applied his mouth. 

"But that isn't enough for the Sultan," she continued, and he left 
off his suckling to listen. "Not only am I to be displayed, but 
punished as well.

"They take out the tools of their trade. Thick leather straps, meaty 
yet supple, and well tanned from long use. Slap! on my torso, Slap! 
on my inner thighs, Slap! on my puckered throbbing nipples. 
Every blow makes me jounce on the cross, which makes the dowel 
move inside me. Every blow strikes a welt which itches and 
stings. I squirm, I groan, I shudder helplessly. Tears roll down my 
face. But there is no mercy for me. 

"My nipples sway with every blow. My pussy yawns open every 
time I sink onto the dowel, and purses when I rise. They see this 
and strap my poor unprotected cunt, a lightning bolt that strikes 
my clit and makes it burn like a furnace. Every blow makes it wax 
larger, harder, more tender...a throbbing button of nerves. They 
see it growing larger and they laugh, striking it again and again. 
I bounce myself on the hated dowel, trying to find relief in the 
rhythm. I want to come so bad! I want something inside me, 
something huge and warm and wet and moving, but there is...oh, 
let me finish," she said, pushing his hand away.

"You're *wet,*" he said in amazement.

"I know, but let me finish, okay? I'm really getting into this."

"Okay."

"At last it is done," she said, her voice slightly breathless now. "I 
don't know how long the ordeal has lasted, but I am far from 
sated. I burn and tingle all over. My clit feels as big as a 
strawberry and as tender, and my pussy throbs like a disco. I sob 
quietly as my tormentors leave me. But I am not alone.  

"As always the curious come to look, both during the punishment 
and after it. The harem ladies come with their chaperones, then 
the desert princes and princesses and the court officials in their 
turbans. Some are very interested in me, talking in swift, 
conversational tones with animated gestures. Others laugh. Still 
others pass me by without a glance. It is always as such in the 
Garden of Chastisement. Whatever else happens, I can only 
accept the attention or contempt or indifference because I can do 
nothing else. Once they have their fill of staring they go back 
their pursuits, the feasting and hawking and opium languor, 
activities denied to a lowly slave such as I. 

"Some of the nobles parade their slaves past, telling them, with 
taps on the chin, to look up to see what has become of me. After 
tonight it is likely I will be sold from the castle. I cannot dream of 
what my fate will be, if it will be more or less severe than the life 
I have known in the castle, so I squirm and struggle on the 
wooden cross. No one touches me. Is there no relief even for a 
lowly slave?

"Evening comes. There are fewer spectators now. A final group of 
them passes, young men on the way to some activity. They merely 
glance at me, laugh, and walk on. But one prince remains behind.

"He stands in front of me. He is young with a sincere and honest 
passion, but he studies me as objectively as one would an 
arrangement of flowers in a vase. I moan a little. Will he release 
me? My limbs are so cramped. His scrutiny is different from that 
of the others and I feel myself flushing, suddenly overcome with 
a humiliation I cannot name. My thighs strain at the ropes and I 
feel my clit rise again, beckoning like a tiny pink finger. I can 
feel the cool evening air blow across it. If he touches it I think I 
will explode.

"But he only stands there with his hands move beneath his robe. 
He is masturbating. But his face remains so serene and sweet and 
composed. He is looking at my nipples now with their heavy 
chains, a glorious golden bondage he can either break or admire. 
I feel the chain move against my skin. I am trembling by now 
and my nipples move from left to right as I try to settle myself.

"Now he is looking between my legs, my smooth waxed pussy, the 
delicate little lips and the yawning gash between them. I am 
breathing as hard as he is by now. He brings his face close and I 
realize he is smelling me. I can feel the warmth of his breath. I 
am nearly mindless with heat by now and try to push my pussy at 
him, but the dowel in my ass holds me firm. I clench on it again 
and again, trying to move.

"Then the Persian prince kisses me there.

"It comes as shock, after hours of deprivation. He licks me from 
asshole to the front of my pussy, stopping short of my clit. He has 
a short black beard and the texture feels like silk. Then his warm, 
wet tongue wriggles inside me. I moan, twisting my hips. He 
burrows in even further, sucking and stabbing as his hands 
continue their work beneath his robe. What he is doing is 
forbidden. He could be punished for this if his father found out. 
But no one comes to the garden after twilight.

"I am coming alive all over, every inch of me stimulated. I pull 
against my bonds, moaning. My head rolls back and forth as 
much as it can. Then he touches my clit and I go crazy. Soft lips, 
hard teeth--sucking and swirling and gentle nips--and my cries 
rise in pitch as my throat constricts. I raise my head, my body 
tingles and goes rigid as the cross that holds me, and I scream as I 
come, trembling, the entire cross shaking, and the shocks race 
across my torso, down my thighs to my toes, and I...I..."

The story trailed off into a hiss, as he mounted her again and 
inserted himself, and in a few minutes she screamed and 
trembled the same way the unnamed narrator of her story had.

Was she a keeper? Did the dog dare hope for a...relationship? It 
beat gnawing bones by himself, pardon the pun.

"What is your fantasy?" she asked him, cuddled against his chest.

He told her. He hadn't planned on it, but it seemed like an 
opportune time. And endorphins made him silly.

"See for yourself, slave girl," he said. "Look across the garden as 
your prince takes his pleasures with his mouth. There you will 
see another cross with a good-looking male slave, tied and 
clamped and shaved as you are, and he is watching you as you 
writhe and come, for he, too, is trembling and panting as a 
beautiful dark-skinned desert princess stands in front of him, 
her veil cast aside, and takes his cock in her exquisite mouth as 
her hands move beneath her robe. So we watch other, two 
disobedient slaves, as our master and mistress blindly pleasure 
themselves, ignorant of the passion they give us. And we will 
come together, our eyes locked across the garden, and we know 
tomorrow there will be more perils and punishments, for we are 
slaves to our passions and to this house of pleasure, and we know 
that we will meet again."

"Aw, that's beautiful," she said. "You could be a writer."

"No, I just know how to do a good pastiche. I'm a copywriter, 
remember?" They kissed again, in sheets fragrant with sex.

You can't plot a curve from two points, but he was going to try.



This work is copyrighted 1999 by Cobalt Jade 
(Cobaltjade@aol.com). One copy of this story may be made for 
viewing. This story may not be archived or reposted without my 
permission. Charging a fee for access to this story, or publishing 
it without my approval, this preface, or my author credit, violates 
my copyright as stated on my home page 
(http://members.aol.com/cobaltjade)




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