The Villa
For a superficially distant and cruelly sardonic man, Conan Steel was a surprisingly generous and attentive lover, at least away from the Rumpo Room. There he was the hammer and she the anvil, he dominant she submissive, but here on the king-size bed in the master bedroom of his exclusive luxury beachfront villa in Fleetwood, they were equals.
He was gently fingering Alexandra’s wet pussy and licking her clitoris as she ran her scarlet fingernails through his leonine blonde hair. She was moaning softly, her long sinuous legs hooked around his broad muscular shoulders, in a transcendent state of ecstasy. Of course, with Conan being her only lover, Alexandra had no one to compare his sexual prowess to, but she could not imagine another man measuring up to him, not least in the cock department.
She regarded his dick as a beautiful thing, a piece of flesh art, circumcised and vein less, of considerable girth and length, as if carved from the finest marble by Michelangelo. Conan kissed her stomach tenderly and worked his way upwards until they fused in a passionate kiss, tongues deep in each other’s mouths, his hand still on her cunt, rubbing her clitoris, transporting her to the dizziest heights of pleasure.
They were both dripping with sweat, from the sex and the electric blanket he had to put on due to the inclement summer weather. Alexandra was begging him to enter her but he refused, till she was feverish with cock hunger. Finally, he mounted her, and even then he was a cunt tease, keeping the tip of his cock just inside her pussy and working it in and out before she dug her nails deep into his back and practically pulled him into her. Her eyes (she has two of them) rolled upwards and she nearly lost consciousness as the monster schlong ploughed her.
Conan now moved up a gear, pounding her mound relentlessly, pausing now and again to wipe his dripping brow on her stiff nippled tits. Alexandra was now so dong-delirious, she had entered into a shamanistic state, speaking in an alien tongue, begging him to lob his load up her in fluent Urdu. Conan moaned. Alexandra groaned.
The cock carnival had made her eyes cross in a manner suggestive of the silent film actor Ben Turpin. Conan’s eyes (he also has two) were now cobalt erotic laser beams burning his initials onto her undulating breasts. Her legs were now so far up his back she was stroking his ears with her toes.
She had been training her pussy to have a tighter grip all week by inserting a fountain pen up her vagina and clenching it with her cunt muscles (when her mother had walked in on her doing this she did not seem convinced by Alexandra’s explanation that she was composing a shopping list; her father later told her she could keep hold of his pen). Her super-tight super-bad sex swamp began to work its magic and Steel’s almost supernatural sexual self-control began to waver. Alexandra was frenzied, having orgasm after orgasm and she was almost a catatonic state when Conan came deep inside her, they were merged at the groin, melting into each other’s bones, becoming as one.
They lay satiated side by side, gazing intently into each other’s eyes (all four of them, now not rolling upwards) communicating profound inner truths without so much as a word… they had come a long way since the first time she had entered the Rumpo Room…
The Rumpo Room
Alexandra had been full of trepidation the first time Conan had taken her to the Rumpo Room. They had driven there in near silence in Conan’s top of the range Nissan Micra. It was located in an erstwhile retail unit in a largely abandoned industrial estate on the outskirts of town. Getting out of the car, on a bleak November evening, Alexandra had smiled nervously at Conan who had remained sullenly impassive.
“We are now master and slave,” was all he offered. She pissed a little in her lace panties. The ones her mother had laid out for her.
“This…” she had offered, pointing at the windowless concrete bunker. Conan nodded and pushed her towards it. For a moment she wondered if she was in the company of a sociopath and if she would ever make it home. They entered the bunker in complete darkness, his breath heavy on her neck. He flicked a switch.
Fluorescent strip lighting flickered before casting a yellow glare. Alexandra gasped when the Rumpo Room was finally revealed to her. Conan switched on the electric heating to combat the midwinter chill. The walls were covered with red padded leather. Attached to the far wall was a metal St Andrew’s cross, with a spanking bench positioned directly in front of the saltire. Above the X frame was a canvas print of a Triskelion.
The Rumpo Room was full of objects and contraptions that fascinated, scared and repelled Alexandra; whips and chains, paddles, a titty twister machine, a strappado, handcuffs and a variety and dildos. They stood in silence until the room was suitably heated and then changed into Victorian period costumes, which took the best part of an hour. Alexandra texted her mother to say she’d only be back late which drew a stern rebuke from Conan and the promise of, “An extra swish of the paddle.”
Conan looked dapper in a white linen shirt, calf-length frockcoat and stovepipe hat, but the fact he was trouserless lent his appearance an incongruous aspect, his mighty erection poking out from the folds of the coat. Alexandra was sweet and demure in a poke bonnet and tea gown.
“Be seated child,” said Conan solemnly, gesturing at a hard wooden bench in the centre of the Rumpo Room. Obediently Alexandra sat down.
“I shall now read to you from the bible of the damned,” bellowed Conan, taking a copy of De Sade’s The 120 Days of Sodom from one of his frockcoat pockets. He read to her in a monotone voice for about half an hour and Alexandra soon zoned out. She became increasingly uncomfortable on the bench and her legs had become numb. Alexandra felt a surge of relief when Conan barked, “Assume the position.”
She bent over the bench and pointed her buttocks upwards.
“You must now learn what happens to bad girls,” said Conan, patting his left palm with a paddle. He raised it high and then slapped her bottom hard.
“Are you grateful for your first lesson in pain my child?”
“Yes… my arse was asleep.”
Back to the Villa
Alexandra had sucked Conan’s balls and dick to get him stiff and was now reaping the fruits of the labour by riding him vigorously. She could fuck him for ages and he stayed diamond cutter hard and didn’t come until she told him to, and she could go at her own pace, slowly grinding her pussy on his dick before working up to a prick pummeling fury.
All the while he lay remote and impassive, as if the effort in staying hard and delaying his orgasm had become too arduous to enjoy the sex. Despite her multiple orgasms, she found his resolute self-control a little disquieting. Once she was fucking him in the reverse cowgirl position and she looked over her shoulder to gaze into his bleakly seductive eyes only to find him absently reading Autotrader.
“Oh baby, you’ve fucked me dry. Shoot it in me.”
Conan suddenly was energised, rolling her onto her back and putting her legs over his shoulders.
“Watch my cock go in and out,” he whispered to her. She was hypnotised by the sight of his membrum virile sliding in and out of her pussy.
“Not only do I have a dong as big as king kong,” announced Steel arrogantly, “I’ve got a fast arse as well.”
He pumped her furiously, hiking her legs up high with his shoulders and pinned her arms to the bed. Conan’s eyes rotated anti-clockwise in their sockets as he blasted his baby seed deep into her cunt. He groaned. She gasped. He moaned. She rasped.
“You’ve frightened me…” whispered Alexandra.
“You’re frightened? I thought my banjo string had gone on the vinegar stroke…”
After sex, Conan’s reserve dissipated. As they lay side by side enjoying the mutual post-coital glow, he began to tell her of his tormented childhood, how his mother died young from cancer leaving him at the mercy of a brutal alcoholic father, who crazed by grief, would make Conan give him foot massages and light scented candles after he returned home from the office, and how he had to stay in his room and subsist on microwave lasagnas and lemonade when ‘Uncle’ Sandy stayed over at the weekends.
He shuddered at the memory of his father, just after his mother had died, drowning his pain in bottles of champagne and how the despair made him jump around the living room shouting ‘result’. As Conan related the story a salty tear dripped down his cheek and he seemed in a different world, quivering with emotion he held Alexandra tight in his arms, and she paused from trying to dislodge a pubic hair from between her front teeth to smile reassuringly at him.
She too had a troubled childhood, the child of elderly Russian immigrants who refused to integrate with their new community and expected Alexandra, a mere child, to look after them. They too were emotionally cold and their penny-pinching ways meant Alexandra had a Dickensian childhood. Alexandra started to relate to Conan the story of when she had to attend a school disco in just a bin liner but his loud snores curtailed the recital… poor thing, the strenuous lovemaking had exhausted him.
Later they sat in the living room sipping champagne, Conan in his dressing gown, Alexandra in one of his shirts, content to be silent in each other’s company. Alexandra admired the framed retro film posters that adorned the walls which evidenced his esoteric tastes and cultivation; Mutiny on the Buses, Come Play with Me and Bio-Dome. His choice of music too spoke of his exquisite sensibility, Kiss’ Heaven’s on Fire purred in the background.
“Conan…” said Alexandra a little apprehensively, “I think I love you…”
Steel threw his champagne glass against the wall, narrowly missing the dartboard on the far wall.
“Sweep that up, bitch and don’t forget the terms of our contract.”
Alexandra recoiled from his sudden burst of fury.
“I can’t do this anymore… it’s gone too deep…” she cried, tears collecting in her eyes. Conan gently brushed his hands through her luxurious shoulder-length raven hair and was momentarily lost in her flawless porcelain beauty.
“Please forgive me my loutishness… I wonder if will ever be able to love. Deep down we are both alike, like a mirror image of each other. You too have a sliver of ice in your heart…”
“But I love you…”
“You think you do but if I reciprocated your feelings you would run from me…I know you Alexandra…now get that picked up…”
Alexandra got down on her knees and collected the shards of glass up. Conan went into the bedroom and she heard him rattling about in the wardrobe. She flopped on the couch and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke rings out of her pussy. Conan entered the room naked except for a white turban holding a pungi, the flute-like instrument sourced from a gourd that snake charmers used to entice a serpent from a basket. He began to play it expertly, and as its reedy melodies swirled around the room. Alexandra’s eyes were inextricably drawn to Conan’s flaccid member, dangling around his knee caps.
The music cast an incantatory spell on Alexandra, she could not take her eyes off his monster dong which was beginning to slowly stiffen and harden in synchronisation with the melody and drone as it increased in pitch and intensity. Like a zombie she approached him, dropping to her knees and hungrily sucking his balls. Conan’s prick was now totally erect, bobbing up and down like an ostrich’s head. It began to twitch. Finally, a stream of ejaculate shot across the living room and hit the dartboard. Conan lowered the pungi.
“Bullseye,” he exclaimed. Conan ordered her a taxi and gave her money for the journey. In the manner of a somnambulist, she disappeared into the night.
To be continued…
