Made for sex, p.1

Made For Sex, page 1

 

Made For Sex
 



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Made For Sex


  Made for Sex

  Books by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

  The Price of Pleasure

  Never Enough

  Club Fantasy

  Night After Night

  The Secret Lives of Housewives

  Naughtier Bedtime Stories

  Hot Summer Nights

  Made for Sex

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Made for Sex

  JOAN ELIZABETH LLOYD

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  CONTENTS

  BLACK SATIN

  THE LOVE FLOWER

  Black Satin

  Chapter

  1

  “You sent for me, Miss Gilbert?” the man said. Although he looked about forty, paunchy, with a neatly trimmed moustache, he was dressed in a traditional boy’s school uniform: short navy pants, white formal shirt, a green-and-navy plaid blazer, and white, knee-length socks. Incongruously, he also wore Gucci loafers with small tassels on the vamp.

  “I certainly did, Bobby,” Miss Gilbert said. She sat behind an antique desk that she had previously moved to the center of the large, beautifully furnished living room. As arranged, she was dressed in a high-collared, long-sleeved white blouse fastened with a classic cameo at the neck. Her straight black skirt was pulled primly over her knees, covering most of her sheer hose. Her gray hair was swept up and pinned into a bun on the top of her head and her rimless glasses were perched on the end of her nose. She stared at Bobby over the top of her spectacles. “I’m afraid you’re in serious trouble.”

  As Bobby looked at the floor he could see her heavy, black sensible shoes with their thick heels. Although the sound was muffled by the plush carpet, he could see her toe tapping rhythmically. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ve seen the results of your exams and they’re totally unsatisfactory.” Miss Gilbert picked up a ruler from the desk and smacked it into the palm of her hand.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bobby said, his knees shaking and a bulge forming in the front of his shorts.

  “Do you know what that means?” Again the ruler smacked her hand, her long slender fingers wrapping around the wooden slat.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Bobby’s palms began to sweat and his breathing accelerated.

  “Tell me, exactly.” She smiled. Smack, smack.

  “It means that either you’ll tell my parents or….”

  “Or what, Bobby?” Smack, smack.

  “Twenty?”

  “There were three failures,” Miss Gilbert said. Her index finger stroked the edge of the ruler slowly.

  Bobby’s eyes followed the bright red nail back and forth. “Th, th, thirty,” he stammered.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” Her finger kept sliding from one end of the ruler to the other. “Thirty.” Smack. “It’s your choice.”

  “You can’t call my parents,” Bobby said. “My father would kill me.” Inside he smiled. His father had been dead for almost five years but that didn’t matter. This dialogue had been honed over many encounters. Sweat tickled his underarms.

  “Then we know what it will be, don’t we?”

  Silently, Bobby pulled off his jacket and shirt revealing a slightly overweight body and hairless chest. Nervously, he ran his hand through his thick, dark brown hair and wiped a light film of sweat from his face. He dropped his hands to his sides and waited for the instructions he knew would come.

  Her voice conversational, Miss Gilbert said, “That’s good. Now drop them.”

  His fingers were barely able to unzip his fly as Bobby opened the uniform pants and let them drop to the floor around his sock-covered ankles.

  “What are you waiting for?” Miss Gilbert said.

  Trembling, he slipped his fingers into the elastic waistband of his white cotton drawers and started to pull them down. As usual, the task was made more difficult by the size of his erection. He pulled the shorts out over his hard cock and down so they fell and joined his navy blue uniform pants on the floor.

  “Well,” Miss Gilbert said, rising from her seat behind the large maple desk and staring at his cock. “I can see that dickie is anxious for what is next.” She rounded the desk and tapped the end of the ruler against Bobby’s hard cock. She reached across the desk and picked up an Ace bandage. She wrapped the wide elastic around Bobby’s hard cock, attaching the first turn with a metal clip. Then she wound the stretchy fabric around his hips, then over his now-bulging erection. Around and around, she encased the area from Bobby’s waist to his crotch in the stretchy fabric.

  Bobby could barely contain his excitement. The first few times they had played out this scenario, he had come inside the elastic before they could get to the best part. By now he had developed some self-control. He bent his arms on the bright green blotter-covered surface and placed his forehead against his crossed wrists, his gold Tourneau watch showing the exact time and date.

  “Now, Bobby,” Miss Gilbert said, “you know that you must count for me and thank me for not calling your parents.” She tapped the ruler against his shins, still covered by the white socks. He moved his legs back and spread them apart.

  Swoosh. The first slap of the ruler fell across the elastic over his ass. It didn’t really hurt but rather made his cheeks vibrate. “One, Miss Gilbert, and thank you.”

  Nine more swats fell across his buttocks. Now the entire area covered by the Ace bandage tingled. “Ten, Miss Gilbert, and thank you.” He knew what came next, but it didn’t make it any easier.

  With little warning, the eleventh swat fell across the back of his bare right thigh. Miss Gilbert made sure that it stung and left a slight red mark.

  “Eleven,” Bobby said, “and thank you, Miss Gilbert.” By the twentieth swat, the backs of both well-muscled thighs were bright red and sore.

  “I think we’ll wait for the last ten for a short while,” Miss Gilbert said. She tapped the back of Bobby’s neck and he raised his head. She put the ruler on the desk where he couldn’t help but stare at it. “Are you very sore?” she asked innocently.

  “It’s not too bad,” Bobby said. His legs were on fire but it wouldn’t do to admit it.

  “I’ll make it better for you,” Miss Gilbert said. Carefully, she unwrapped the elastic bandage from around his body and touched the deep indentations it had left. “Poor baby,” she said, running a long fingernail over one particularly deep groove on one cheek. Holding the end of the pink stretch material still encasing his cock, she ran the tip of her tongue over the groove in his skin. As she yanked at the end of the material, Bobby’s cock pulled toward her. She released the material and it snapped back. Alternately pulling and releasing the bandage, she continued to lick the marks on his ass.

  As she straightened and looked toward his cock, she could see drops of sticky fluid oozing from the tip. “Is it hard not to come?” she asked sweetly.

  “Oh, yes, Miss Gilbert,” Bobby said.

  “Well, we can’t have you disgracing yourself, can we?”

  “No, Miss Gilbert.”

  Still playing with the end of the elastic, she pulled at his cock and smiled. “You know the penalty for premature ejaculation, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Miss Gilbert.” It happened occasionally. The last time they had been together, he had come like a fountain, spurting semen all over the desk. He had been forced to clean up the mess and had gotten ten extra swats from the ruler. He had come again then, but had been disappointed with his performance, his lack of fortitude. This time, however, he was sure he had enough self-control to finish.

  Miss Gilbert unwound the elastic from Bobby’s cock, put the roll down, and picked up the ruler. “You’ve been very good today,” she said. “Should we reduce the punishment to twenty-five?”
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  As much as he might like to decrease his suffering, he wanted to continue to test his endurance. “No, ma’am,” he said. “I need to be thoroughly punished.”

  Swat number twenty-one was a stinger, just hard enough to burn his now-bare ass. “Thank you, Miss Gilbert. That was number twenty-one.”

  By number twenty-eight, Bobby’s ass was as red as the backs of his thighs, but he stayed bent over the desk and took it.

  Miss Gilbert knew what was expected now. For swat number twenty-nine she raised her arm as high as it would go and brought the wooden ruler down as hard as she could.

  It hurt terribly, but Bobby didn’t move. “Twenty-nine and thank you, Miss Gilbert.”

  She heard Bobby’s deep breathing and knew he was trying not to cry out. She raised her arm one last time and administered the final swat as hard as she could.

  “Thirty and thank you, Miss Gilbert.” Bobby stood up, his hands at his sides, his erection enormous.

  “Are you sure you’ve learned your lesson?”

  “Oh yes, Miss Gilbert, and thank you. I’m ready for the rest of my punishment now.”

  Miss Gilbert went into the bathroom and returned with a large bath towel which she spread over the desk. She tapped the ruler across Bobby’s inflamed buttocks and he moved so the fronts of his thighs pressed against the desk. “I’m going to watch you now. That’s the rest of your punishment, you know. Show me what a bad boy you are,” she said, her voice smooth and soft as cream. “Show me how you rub your dickie when no one’s looking. Show me.”

  Bobby watched Miss Gilbert round the desk and sit down in her chair. He saw her ice-blue eyes riveted on his cock, still striped by the small folds that had been in the elastic. He hesitated. This was still the worst and best part.

  “Bobby,” Miss Gilbert said, “I want you to play with yourself so I can see. I want to watch everything. Now, wrap your hand around your dickie and rub.” When he still hesitated, she picked up the ruler and snapped, “Now!”

  His hands shaking, Bobby took his cock in his hands and began to rub.

  “Wait,” Miss Gilbert said. “I have an idea.” She opened the desk drawer and pulled out a tube of lubricating gel. “Hold out your hands.”

  Slippery stuff. This was new, Bobby thought, a deviation from the ritual. But it was wonderful. She had guessed what he wanted without his having to tell her anything. That was what made her so special. He held his hands out, palm up, in front of him, and Miss Gilbert squeezed a huge glob of slippery goo into one hand. “Now rub,” she said.

  It feels so cold, he thought as his hands surrounded his hot cock. The moment he touched himself, he was lost. He closed his eyes and slid his fingers up and down his cock.

  “Open your eyes you naughty boy,” Miss Gilbert snapped. “I want you to see me watching your hands play with your cock.” When he didn’t obey immediately, she snapped again, “Now! Do it!”

  He opened his eyes and looked into her face. Her eyes were riveted on his hands stroking his cock. It was sensational. It only took a moment until spurts of come erupted, falling on the white surface of the towel. His knees almost buckled, but he held on, enjoying the afterglow of one of the best orgasms of his life.

  Miss Gilbert sat, unmoving, until Bobby swept up the towel and disappeared into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, she was sitting behind the desk reading when Bobby emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a gray pinstriped suit, light blue shirt, and paisley tie. He wore black socks and the Gucci loafers.

  Without another word, he checked the time on his gold watch, put a handful of bills on the green blotter, and left the room.

  The slam of metal against metal, the impact of her chest against her car’s shoulder belt, and Carla’s “Oh shit,” came almost simultaneously. She shifted the car into park and stared out through the windshield. “Where the hell did he come from? There wasn’t anything there a second ago,” she said aloud, slumping against the seat. The front bumper of her six-year-old Ford had put a significant dent in the passenger-side rear quarter panel of a classy, gleaming dark blue Cadillac. “Oh God,” she moaned. “Oh God, why me?”

  Several pedestrians and a bicyclist had stopped to gawk at the tableau. Carla’s car was blocking the sidewalk, halfway out of a Kinney underground garage between First and Second Avenues on East 53rd Street, an upscale Manhattan neighborhood. The Cadillac, which had been heading west across 53rd, sat in the road, the front of Carla’s car resting against its side.

  With a deep sigh, Carla climbed out of her car and watched the driver of the Cadillac emerge. As the woman stood up, Carla stared. The driver was a tall, slender statuesque woman with dark blond hair twisted into a perfect French knot. As the classically beautiful woman stared at her through dark, tortoiseshell sunglasses, Carla self-consciously ran her palms down the thighs of her comfortable, well-washed jeans.

  The more Carla studied the woman, the more stunning she looked. The woman removed her designer sunglasses and shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun. She had perfectly arched brows over deep blue eyes, a long slender nose, and coral lips. Carla thought that she looked like Grace Kelly at her best.

  Carla ran her fingers through her shoulder-length, brown hair, and tucked an errant strand behind one ear. “I’m terribly sorry,” she called as the woman closed the Cadillac’s door. “I can’t imagine how this happened.” Now that’s an inane statement, she thought.

  Carla had been so happy when her doctor’s visit had confirmed that all her worries had been needless. The lump in her breast had turned out to be nothing but a fluid-filled cyst. She had been so relieved after a week of suspense that she had almost run to the garage, bailed her car out, and started for home. Why was she going home? She wasn’t really sure. The kids were still at school and her mom and dad were both out for the day. And anyway, she hadn’t told her parents or her three boys about the lump. No need to worry anyone, she had reasoned. Unfortunately, that meant that she now had no one with whom to celebrate.

  As Carla watched, the blonde walked around the joined vehicles, calmly assessed the situation, and shook her head. God, Carla thought, I had to hit someone like her. The woman wore a classic dark red Donna Karan suit, a matching red-and-white patterned blouse, and perfectly coordinated Robert Clergerie pumps. She adjusted a gold, red, and white Hermes scarf over her shoulder with long, slender, perfectly manicured fingers. “Oh dear,” the woman said, her voice soft and well modulated. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” Carla said.

  “Of course,” the woman said. “I was going a bit too fast and I wasn’t watching where I was going.” The woman hesitated, staring. “Wait. It couldn’t be.” She continued to stare. “Carla?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Carla. You’re Carla MacKensie.”

  “Carla Barrett,” she answered. “But I was Carla MacKensie before I married. Do we know each other?”

  “It’s Veronica. Ronnie Browning, now Talmidge.”

  “Ronnie? It can’t be.” Carla and Ronnie had been roommates at Michigan State and had graduated together fifteen years before. During their three years together they had shared everything: field hockey, the debate team, the drama club and even, unintentionally, a few boyfriends.

  Ronnie’s laugh was a full rich sound. “I’d know you anywhere. You haven’t changed a bit.” She looked down. “I guess I’ve changed a little since then.”

  Carla remembered the moderately attractive brunette with wire-rimmed glasses and little makeup whom she had loved like a sister. “Have you ever! You look sensational.” She smiled ruefully. “And you’re right, I haven’t changed. Unfortunately I look pretty much like I did fifteen years ago: medium brown and average, average, average.” Carla looked Ronnie over carefully. “What in the world have you been doing for the last fifteen years?”

  “More than you can possibly imagine.” Ronnie looked at the two cars and waved her hand. “You know, this seems relatively minor. Listen. Where were you off to?”
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  “Minor?” There had to be thousands of dollars’ worth of damage. You couldn’t have an accident that didn’t cost thousands these days. “I was going home to Bronxville—where I live now.”

  “That’s silly. Now that we’ve found each other let’s not lose track again. Why don’t we park here and have lunch? We can catch up on all those years. And, anyway, I’m starved.”

  “Weren’t you going somewhere?”

  “I have an appointment at two,” Ronnie said, glancing at her gold Cartier watch, “but that gives us over an hour, and there’s a great little Italian place down the block.”

  When Carla hesitated, Ronnie’s voice dropped. “Please. I’d love the company and we have so much to catch up on.”

  The parking lot attendant ran up waving his hands, trying to clear the entranceway. “You’ll have to move these cars,” the uniformed man yelled.

  Ronnie’s voice was soft, yet authoritative. “If you’ll wait just a moment, Tom, we’ll be out of the way.” She turned to Carla and said, “I’m in this neighborhood a lot. I used to park here all the time but I’ve found a less expensive place around the corner.”

  As Ronnie returned to her car, Carla climbed into her Ford and backed up. The cars separated and Carla noticed that the damage to the Cadillac was less than she’d expected. Just a nasty dent and some chipped paint. She’d have to examine her car, but since the bumper had been the point of contact she thought it should be okay.

  “Over here,” Tom said. “Back it right over here.” He waved Carla into one parking space and Ronnie drove into the one next to it.

  As she climbed out, Ronnie said, “We’ll be a few hours, Tom.” She leaned into the passenger seat to grab a fashionable bag that Carla knew had to be either a Fendi or a great knockoff and slung the chain strap over her shoulder. Carla reached through the open passenger window of the Ford and grabbed her ersatz leather purse and camel-colored wool jacket. She slipped her arms in the sleeves and buttoned the blazer over her denim-blue-and-white striped shirt.

 
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