Chai, Espresso, and Spanking

March 19, 2008 Danae Klimt
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A Tale of the Founders of Nouveau Montmartre

George hated Manhattan. Hated it. Hated the scale of it, the streets merely canyons between buildings that shot up over one hundred storeys, their tops bristling with communications hardware. Hated its shiny newness, the bright opaque windows of its skyscrapers, and its fake oldness, the carriage horses plodding through Central Park. The only good thing about Manhattan was that bloody park. He hated it, every inch of it, and all its boroughs, too.

But he needed work, and at the moment he hated the West End more. So he was sitting in one of Manhattan’s innumerable coffee shops, working his way slowly through a stack of papers and flyers in hope of finding something worth auditioning for, and drinking their tolerable espresso, wondering if it was going to snow.

He could only look at cheap printing for so long, however, and as his coffee grew cold, he found himself looking out the window or toward the door more and more frequently. He just happened to be looking in the right direction when the red-haired woman came in.

She was a petite thing dressed in a snugly fitted red coat and a black beret that concealed her hair. His eyes followed her to the counter, drawn by the bright red coat, and lingered as she ordered, enjoying the plump, shapely arse that the coat did nothing to conceal. He liked a round arse on a woman, suitable for spanking, a good cushion under her when she had her legs in the air. Then she pulled off her beret as she waited for her order, and a great mass of hair tumbled out, red against red–a sort of Pre-Raphaelite red, copper and rose, hanging down to her arse, and glowing enticingly even in the atrocious lighting of the coffee shop.

When she turned around, tray in hand, he glanced down, glanced up again. Her coat was open, and the dress under it was cut low in the neck, giving him a good view of small but shapely tits. Pretty face, too, Pre-Raphaelite like the hair, round glasses perched on her nose. He watched her balance a foaming cup and a plate of pastries on the tray and blinked when he realized she was heading for his table.

“Mind if I sit here?”

He wasn’t good-looking, but his face made you want to look at it. Big nose, wide mouth, a mane of black hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed in days, and dark eyes that burned the air when he looked at you. The way he slouched in the chair spoke of energy coiled up for later use like a bullwhip hanging on a belt. He probably thought he was being subtle, just glancing her way, but she could feel her sizing her up, patting
her derriere, fondling her tits. Now it was time for a little payback…

His mouth had fallen open when she simply sailed over to his table and asked if she could share. Now he stood up and made what was almost a bow, gesturing to the empty chair. “Be my guest.” What a delicious
voice! Deep and very resonant, with the sort of all-purpose British accent that had to come from acting training. The voice and his standing up for her confirmed her initial feeling that he was *not* your average New York sleazebag. It remained to be seen just what kind of sleazebag he was.

He waited until after she had sat down to take his seat again. He stared at her as she coolly broke off a piece of her chocolate-covered shortbread and dipped it in the chai. He was openly watching her now, so she made the best show she could out of putting the shortbread in her mouth, chewing it up, and swallowing it. As she dabbed at her mouth with the napkin, he smiled crookedly. “I’m sorry I was staring at you. It was quite rude.”

“It was. You get points for apologizing, but then you probably intend to earn points, so that costs you instead.” She wiped her fingers on her napkin and offered him her hand. “I’m Maddy Thornton, and you’re an actor.”

“George Valentine, and yes, I am.” He shook her hand with polite firmness, no fondling. Okay, so he did have some manners. “And what about you?”

She swallowed another chunk of dipped shortbread and examined her urge to tell him the truth. “Well, I’ve done some acting, I’ve done some writing, and I’ve spent way too much time working in retail, but none of those is my career goal.” She broke off a third piece of shortbread, wondering how forthright she ought to be. Oh, why the hell not tell the truth. She had to start sometime. “What I really want is to be a courtesan.”

“A courtesan?” His eyebrows climbed up into his tangled hair. “But not a prostitute or an escort girl?”

She took a long gulp of the chai, batting her lashes at him over the thick white rim of the cup. “A courtesan. You know–I’m sure you know a lot of big words, you’ve probably done Shakespeare and all that, perhaps even Marlowe or Jonson.” She grinned, willing to bet no one teased this saturnine beauty very often. “Someone who has sex for money but does it with style.”

“Yes, I do know the word, though I’ve never heard that definition.” His voice dropped into a register that made her bones throb; he could probably talk a woman into orgasm, and Goddess! she’d like to let him
try. “But why, exactly?”

She sat back in the rickety chair, looking at him squarely. “Because a prostitute is still, despite legalization, usually the property of the man who manages her, which means he’s still a pimp and she’s still a whore, and a call girl is still the privilege of the very wealthy, the very powerful, and the very male. What I want to be is the first of a new breed that offers sex as hospitality, sex as art form, both men and women as courtesans and accepting men and women as patrons–a Renaissance courtesan, but in control of her own finances.”

Face hot, she hid her face in her mug, amazed that she had actually said all that. It did sound rather grandiose. George Valentine merely tapped his spoon against his cup. “You think big,” he said.

“And you don’t?” she shot back. “Never thought about playing Hamlet or Lear? Never imagined directing your own productions some day?” She was guessing that he was too young to have tackled any of the mature classic roles.

He smiled, exposing the sort of large, horselike teeth only otherwise handsome British men seemed to have. “Richard III, actually. Hamlet is a sissy and Lear’s an old man.”

That made her laugh out loud, causing heads to turn all over the coffeeshop. “Yes, Hamlet *is* a sissy, isn’t he? I bet you’d make a good Richard III, fiendish laugh and all.”

“Thank you,” he replied calmly. “May I buy you another chai?”

“Yes, thanks.” She cleaned up a few crumbs of shortbread as he walked–no, swaggered to the counter. It wasn’t just his height and the long legs, she decided; he moved like a man who expected to be watched, whose every move is calculated to affect an audience. An actor who never stepped offstage could be damned tiresome. But he was buying her another chai, and he hadn’t yet told her she was a fool or
a slut for wanting to be a courtesan. *And* he was a sexy bastard, no question. Her eyes lingered where his ass dipped into his thigh.

She was watching him unabashedly as he returned to their table with another chai for her and a fresh espresso for himself. Her eyes were quite striking, almond-shaped like an Asian’s and dark brown, not blue or hazel. Her full lips quirked in a tiny smile as he put the cups on the table and sat down again.

“So who will your clientele be, if not the wealthy and privileged? Courtesans don’t usually engage in knee-tremblers in back alleys, do they?”

He’d thought that would raise her hackles for certain, but instead, her smile widened. He mentally applauded. Very few people seemed to know when his act was an act and when it was really temper.

“I hope to support myself by indulging in *some* wealthy and privileged patrons so that I can afford to receive some people who might think they couldn’t afford me–robbing from the rich to subsidize the poor. I believe that sex should be an expression of the Divine Love that encompasses all creation, and that no one should have to be deprived of it, nor should it be forced on them.”

She spoke with the fervor of a religious devotee, as if she might suddenly drop her savvy New Yorker persona and break into a mystical chant. George leaned forward in his chair, the espresso singing in his blood. “What would you do, then, if you were sitting in a café, talking to a complete stranger, and he asked you to have sex with him? for a price?”

“This, probably.” She leaned across the table and kissed him, a moist taste of sticky-sweet woman that was all too brief. He licked his lips and found a remnant of milky foam. “Really? just like that? in front of the whole café?”

“Just like that. In front of the whole café.”

Twenty minutes later they were on the unmade bed in his miserable apartment–his was closer–the sheets thrown aside, the duvet tossed on the floor, and Maddy naked across George’s lap, her bottom offered to his hand. He had taken off his trousers and his pants and unbuttoned his shirt so he could feel her skin, see if it felt as velvety as it looked. Her arse was even riper than he’d imagined, deeply cleft as a peach, and it jiggled satisfyingly the first time he smacked her. The jiggling spread out into a quivering that suffused her whole body.

“Mm, that’s good.” Her voice was warm and eager though half-muffled by the twisted sheet. “It’s been a long time since someone spanked me properly.”

“Oh, I shall spank you properly.” He slapped her again and admired the handprint of it, red against her white skin, and the rippling of her soft feminine flesh. “I’ll spank you until you’re quite sore.” He hit her again and she moaned. “What a pretty sound. And I love the way your arse shakes when I spank it. There’s nothing duller than spanking a hard, flat arse, I assure you.”

Maddy cried out again as he began to land steady blows on her, interspersed with trailing caresses, a teasing brush across her bumhole. “Ow, hey! that hurts!”

“It’s supposed to hurt.” He struck her three quick solid blows, making her kick her legs hard against the bed. “I’m a sadist, by the way, or did I mention that already?”

She turned over and rolled away from him, spreading out like a starfish on the bed. “A sadist? Really?”

He stopped and ran his hand between her thighs. Her pubic hair was ginger-brown, darker than her Pre-Raphaelite mane but definitely a redhead’s bush, and the cleft below it was already hot and slick. She
lifted into his touch, smiling, arms stretching above her head. He took his hand away and licked off the female dew that clung to it.

“Yes, really. I get sexual pleasure from hurting people. The more I like someone, the more I’m likely to want to inflict pain on them.” He shrugged. “I don’t think of it as a kink, but simply as the way I’m made. I’ve known I was a sadist as long as I’ve known I was sexual.”

She looked at him with simple curiosity. “So how much do you want to hurt me, the would-be courtesan you’ve only just met?”

He smiled with all his teeth. “Quite a lot, I think. I want to spank you until that beautiful arse of yours is red. I want to fuck you so hard you can’t walk tomorrow. I want to hear you scream. I think you’d have a marvelous scream. And then I’d like to do it all again after a nap and some dinner.”

“Then do it.” She rolled over toward him again, arse up. How charmingly unafraid. He must not be trying hard enough.

He put one hand in the small of her back and held her down as he spanked her in earnest. Her writhing, her cries, the way she kicked her legs, the way her gorgeous hair tossed about, were all splendid, but he mostly kept his eyes on her arse, watching where each blow landed and waiting for the moment when the whole double-curve of her bottom was flushed red from his blows.

She was panting noisily by the time he stopped. She turned her head and looked at him through a curtain of slightly sweaty hair. “You meant what you said, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, I did.” He stroked her bottom, hot now and quivering with aftershocks, then rolled her onto her back and pulled her legs apart.

Was she frightened or was she excited? Excited, she told herself. Excited. Her ass stung mightily, but he hadn’t pulled a whip out of his coat or grabbed the hairbrush from the dresser; he’d only used his hand, and spanking *did* excite her. Now he was grasping her ankles, holding her legs apart, and his fingers curled all the way around her legs to overlap with his thumbs. She wondered how old he was and if he was still growing into those hands. She wondered what was going to happen next.

“Pretty little quim,” he mused. “Nice and wet.” He released one ankle to draw his finger down the middle, stroking hard over her clit and splitting her open like a pomegranate. He gave no warning, just dropped on top of her and thrust in.

“Hey!” She struggled beneath him, uselessly–she was pinned by his weight, his cock buried deep. “I sure as hell hope you’re wearing a condom, you asshole.”

He ground his hips against her, smiling triumphantly. “And if I’m not?”

“I’ll bite your cock off and then douche myself with bleach.”

He laughed out loud, throwing his head back and arching off of her. She was tempted to set her foot in his gut and push him off, but she didn’t; he looked too good laughing, not to mention that she was, in fact, a bit scared of what he might do. Then he pulled back and drew her hand down so she could feel the latex half-hidden inside her. “I am. Besides–” He thrust back in and gave another little grind, showing his teeth. “I think you could bite it off with those muscles alone.”

Shifting up, he seized her ankles again and began a steady rhythm. She grasped at his hands and realized there was no way she was going to break his grip. She also realized that she was, after all, wet, and getting wetter as his cock stroked her insides. Wondering how he was going to take it, she licked her fingers and applied them to her clit.

George merely grunted and took hold of her hips, pulling her further onto his lap so her could reach her nipples. He tugged on them sharply, making her gasp.

“Don’t believe in asking for feedback, do you?” she said breathlessly. Her first orgasm was starting to swell.

“Are you a courtesan or not?” He pulled out suddenly, lips pulling back in what could have been a smile or a sneer. “Do you expect your, your clients to accommodate *you* all the time, and never have to adapt to what *they* want?”

Before she could answer, he flipped her over so she was face down and thrust in again, holding her flat with a hand at the small of her back. She flailed her arms, thrusting pillows out from under her nose.

“What are you trying to do, asphyxiate me? I thought that sort of thing had to be negotiated!”

“I am trying to make you come, you bitch.” He sounded more amused than angry, but she couldn’t turn around enough to see his face. “Or can’t you come from a good fuck?”

Maddy was trying to get her breath and say she couldn’t usually come in this position when the bastard pulled out again, pulled up her hips, and applied his tongue to her clit.

Sweet, soft, hot under his tongue, and she let out a delicious moan. George raised his head and kissed her arse cheeks, still a little red from the spanking, thought about rimming her, went back to her quim. He didn’t try to stop her when she moved, turning onto her back again and spreading her legs beseechingly; now he had her right where he wanted her.

Oysters, chocolate, incense, drugs… none of the things that were reputed to be aphrodisiacs compared for him to the smell of an aroused woman and the taste of her juicy quim. He could drown in that salty wet heat and die a happy man; it was the one thing in sex which made him yield, made him surrender, even as he took pride in being able to make a woman come apart under his mouth.

This particular woman seemed to be coming apart more than most, if the noises she was making were any indication. Most of the women he’d had sex with made little smothered noises, the ladylike equivalent of
stifling a burp or a yawn, as if they were too polite or just too embarassed to let themselves go. Then there were the few who made noise for theatrical effect, which usually consisted of high-pitched shrieking noises that suggested a parrot with its foot caught in a set of gears, or else mindlessly repeated phrases like “Yeah! yeah! yeah!” that suggested a particularly *stupid* parrot. He’d once got up, put his trousers on, and walked away from a woman who insisted on talking like the lead actress in a bad American pornography.

Maddy, however, was making a quite delightful series of low-pitched noises, somewhere between a groan and a grunt, he thought–noises which seemed to come from her belly, or perhaps directly from her cunt. He put one hand on her lower belly, pressing against the bump of her cervix, and felt the next eructation as a throbbing under his hand. It was curiously arousing, in part because the noises were so unaffected, even unconscious, in part because it was rather like making a cat purr and feeling its vibration of pleasure as your own physical pleasure.

When he slid up her soft warm body and slid his cock into her cunt again, it was a good deal looser and wetter than it had been, enjoyably so. Her legs wrapped around his hips, and she smiled up at him with the warm glow of a woman who has had several orgasms already and is expecting several more.

He was good with his mouth, no question. And more than that, he was *enjoying* what he was doing. She’d met far too many men who, even if they possessed a good deal of technical skill at cunnilingus, still gave the impression they were holding their noses and stifling their taste buds and trying not to get too goddamned close. George, on the contrary, seemed to be trying to crawl into her cunt nose-first, and despite the size of his nose (considerable), he was doing so with some finesse.

She was prepared to forgive him the spanking, the word “bitch”, and the overall domineering attitude by the time he put his cock into her again. He was a bastard, but he was a good lover. She wrapped her legs around his hips and smiled invitingly.

“Not bad, eh?”

“Not bad,” she concurred, wiggling her hips to encourage him.

“Ready to get shagged now?”

“Quite ready,” she said, imitating his crisp accent.

He made a few slow strokes, teasing her with his cock, then pulled out, rolled off the bed, and walked across the room. She stared, disbelieving, as he rummaged in a drawer, drew out a pack of cigarettes, and tapped it against his fingers.

“Why should I? Why the bleeding hell should I do all the work?”

The blood surged up from her warm and happy cunt, flooded her chest with heat, exploded into her face as rage. Sheer rage. She practically leaped off the bed, throwing herself at him with fingers cocked to claw, throwing insults like poisoned darts.

“You bastard–”

She was too blinded by anger, of course, to see how she ended up on the floor, bare knees digging into the carpet as his prick ploughed her from behind. He’d moved so casually, cigarette still in his hand. She could smell the acrid smoke of it massing in a cloud around them as he pounded into her and she squirmed with unwilling pleasure.

“I like you,” he said conversationally. More smoke billowed around her. “You’re so easily manipulated.” His fingers manipulating her clit made her whimper. “And you like it rough, you do. Yes, I think you’ll be a very successful whore.”

“Courtesan,” she choked out.

“*Whore*.” One long open vowel, in that cultured Royal Shakespeare Company accent, drawled out, dripping with contempt. She clenched her teeth against the electricity building up in her nervous system and vowed to kick him in the balls as soon as he had emptied them.

His orgasm came without warning–a startled sound from him, quickly cut off, then the unmistakable hard, fast, but arrhythmic hip motions. Her entire body ached from holding out against it, but she didn’t come. She did. Not. Come.

He pulled out and hauled himself up onto the bed. The fuming cigarette still dangled from one hand. “You didn’t come, did you? I thought not.” He watched as she got to her feet, not meeting his eyes, and began to get dressed. “Oh, is that it? Come here then. Come *here*.”

The tone of command was enough to make her stop, against her will, on her way to the bathroom, and turn around. When she did, he was right there in front of her, tousled black hair by her belly, and he licked so deftly at her clit that her body betrayed her, her lips parting on a moan. Clutching her dress in both hands, she stood still while he used his tongue on her clit and his fingers inside her, where she had wanted his prick, where she had clamped down on her own pleasure, and those fingers rubbed her sweetly until the only thing she could do was gush over his hand.

She leaned in the doorway of his bathroom, weak, watching him lick her ejaculate off his hand. “It’s getting rather late,” he said presently. “Would you allow me to buy you dinner?”

A million things went through her mind at that moment, of which at least ten percent were possible dismissals of his suggestion. She looked down at the dress still knotted up in her hands.

“Yes,” she replied. “But I want a shower first.”


Entry Filed under: Nouveau Montmartre

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