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Message-ID: <30944asstr$992859004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "alancmcd" <alancmcd@lineone.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Hot Blood (1/1) (mf, fdom, mind control)
Date: Mon, 18 Jun 2001 06:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Hi! Me again.

I like to think that what follows is a little different. I'm not a good
self promoter, but this is some of my most satisfying work in this
genre, so I suppose I'll hold up a flag for it.

Copyrighted. Mine. Don't repost, please, without permission.

Comments very welcome at alancmcd@lineone.net.

Best wishes to all.

Hot Blood by Alan C. McDonald

"I want a girl to call my own,
I want a dream lover, so I don't have to dream alone."
       BOBBY DARIN - Dream Lover


There had been a time when it had all mattered. His job. His
self-respect. His future.

There had been a time when he had lived for that future rather than the
past.

That time had been yesterday.

But now, the love of his life was gone. And there could be no future.

He sat in his armchair, gazing out at the incessant London rain. It was
early afternoon. But time didn't matter. Not any more.

Perhaps he would sit here for the rest of the day. Perhaps for the whole
of his life.

Occasionally friends would call, but he would usher them away. It was
imperative that he grieve in private. His friends had not been part of
the relationship between he and Joy. Indeed, he and Joy had studiously
avoided company, because time together was the most important thing.

The dim afternoon darkened as dusk approached. Still he sat. He had
opened a bottle of whisky, but had poured only one glass and had merely
sipped at it.

Perhaps he would never drink again. Perhaps he would never consume food
again. Perhaps he would deny himself these things so that his remaining
existence would be rather short.

If he had been a religious man, then he would definitely have determined
upon that course, confident that she would be waiting for him. But he
was a doubter, and could not be as certain as he needed to be that death
would bring Joy back to him. The risk, therefore, was too big to take.

He had known her for only three months. It seemed so short a time, but
it was also all the time that had been important in his life. True, he
had known other women in the time before Joy, and there had been moments
of laughter and ease. But he had never known love. Joy had brought him
love, and had made him wonder how he had ever survived without it.

He had met her at a rave, one of those seemingly random but clearly
organised events where lights pounded rhythmically into the brain and
where drugs were taken as easily as alcohol. There had been a period
when he had found pleasure in certain pharmaceuticals, but that was long
gone. That night he had been relatively sober, although the hour was
late. This was unusual for him. He often wondered whether fate had
played a hand in it.

She had been dancing alone, a gorgeous creature whose connection to the
music had seemed surgical. Her long straw blonde hair had whipped to the
beat, slicing rhythmically across her soft, sensuous mouth. Her taut,
masculine body had whirled, the motion pinning her flimsy white dress to
her flared hips and particularly to her small breasts, moulding to
nipples which were clearly erect. Her eyes had been glazed as the rhythm
transported her. He had watched, mesmerised. No girl had ever caught his
attention so completely, so utterly, without his having exchanged so
much as a single word with her.

He had determined there and then that he must have her. And in pursuit
of that determination, he had joined her wild dance, matching her
commitment, matching her craziness. He had spun and twisted until the
perspiration poured from him in a seemingly endless stream. Never once
did she acknowledge him, so much as glance at him. But he had no doubt
that she knew he was there, because there were occasions when her body
tuned to his, when the dance, however briefly, was a shared experience.
And when this happened, there seemed to be a current passing from her,
to him, a raw and unpredictable surge. He would be certain then that
something very important would happen between them. Something very
important indeed. But then she would swing back into her own world, and
the certainty would go with her.

It was almost two hours before he tired. The energy which she
surrendered made him capable of feats of endurance the like of which he
would never previously have dreamed. But in the end exhaustion overtook
him and he was forced to retreat, slumping into a stool adjacent to the
bar. He thought then that he had lost his opportunity, that she would
continue to dance into the dawn, attracting men like fireflies, burning
them out. And then, he supposed, she would go home alone.

When she came to sit beside him, therefore, he couldn't believe his good
fortune. She accepted his offer of a drink, deciding on a Bloody Mary,
and then immediately took control of him, leading him to a booth at the
side of the dance floor. He sat close to her, intending to ask her name
over the roar of the music, but as he leaned in towards her, her lips
parted slightly, inviting him blatantly to kiss her. It was not, of
course, an opportunity that he could even dream of resisting.

The kiss was gentle, yet it was the most erotic contact he had ever
experienced. Her tongue traced like a feather across his. Her mouth
opened, so that her lips moulded like a layer beneath his own. Her
breath hissed into him, a life enhancing potion. Within seconds, his
cock was rigid enough that constriction caused him pain. Her fingers
massaged his neck and hair, and her body shifted, so that her breasts
were pressed provocatively against his ribs.

He moved his own hands just above her waist, feeling the delicate bone
structure. She was quite small, elfin in many respects, and seemed
fragile.

He vowed that he would never try to break her.

The kiss continued. There was no duration to it, because it was
everything, and it was forever. And being everything, it seemed to be
enough.

But for her, it was not. He felt one of her hands at the zip of his
pants, softly exploring, a spider. He was startled. How could she reckon
him worthy of this? She didn't even know his name.

He registered the fact of exposure, but not the moment of it. There was
a moment when his clothing imprisoned him, when his erection throbbed
uselessly against the cotton of his briefs. And then there was elation,
arising from the cool of the air against his swollen glans and from the
luxurious pressure of the girl's hand, equally cool, as she squeezed him
rhythmically, fingers twisting to press him against the heel. The caress
was so gentle. A mental picture came to him, one that horror made him
quickly suppress, of tiny spiders crawling the length of his member,
spinning their velvety webs around it. Later, as he came to know her, he
found that she often provoked such inappropriate images, and later, as
he came to love her, he often welcomed them, because they felt like
gifts.

In complement and counterpoint to the caress, her mouth remained softly
fixed to his. All the while, her tongue explored with the eagerness of
the fingers down below. He felt like a beloved toy, well regarded but
entirely in its owner's mastery. He knew already that he could not hope
to try to wrest her hegemony from her. She had decided the course that
events would take, and his only option was to submit. He had never seen
himself as a submissive, but this benevolent dominatrix had, he was
certain, the capacity to change that.

Her skill was incredible. Her intention, clearly, was to make him come.
Perhaps to show him just how easy it was. How little effort was needed.
Look, my fingers will do. I don't need to suck you. I don't need to fuck
you. Just my fingers. How about that, baby? How about that...?

And she was right. It was easy. Already, he was on the edge.

It was only later that he realised how easy it would have been for
someone to work out what she was doing to him. His body would have been
shaking. His back was arched. Even though the table would have obscured
the movement of Joy's hand, the dipping of her shoulder would have given
the game away. Did he in fact remember that at one point, a girl had
walked past their table carrying a drink from the bar, had stopped to
observe until Joy glared at her, forcing her to shrink away, head down
with embarrassment?

Soon, too soon, humiliatingly soon, it was over. To claim him heart and
soul, it took her a minute, perhaps two, maybe, just maybe, three. But
no longer. Definitely no longer. Because her nonchalant hand had worked
its mystical circles unforgivingly, inexorably, and suddenly his head
had been in another world, a world of pleasure and sensation, of massive
building orgasm. The rigid pole that was now his cock had shuddered and
jerked and pulsed as her tongue stroked beneath his, urging,
encouraging. I'm in charge here, it had instructed him. I'm in charge.

He'd dug his fingers into her hips, had felt his own hips rise against
the wonderful pressure, which she then increased by using the heel of
her hand a little more, starting to work it up and down.

And he had come.

The release had been huge and draining, comprising near unconsciousness
and an ejaculation which squirted out of him with such energy that he
had cried out with the delight of it, had cried out so loud that heads
turned momentarily despite the volume of the music. A gout of thick
white semen had curved high over the lip of the table, splattering a
trail across the glass surface and up the side of his owner's drink. A
second had followed the same path, pulling up a little shorter. His hips
and spine were, he was aware, turning to liquid, His brain, obviously,
would burst.

The aftershocks had continued, his groin twitching as his cock emptied
the little that was left of his juice. He had looked down, to see that
juice dribbling over her knuckles, trailing down her wrist. But she
hadn't reacted to that, continuing the luscious kiss until the very last
of the liquid which she had encouraged from him was free.

Over. Humiliatingly over.

And then she did the most amazing thing. She broke gently away, sat
back, and looking him straight in the eyes, raised her hand to her mouth
and slowly, sensuously, licked the come from that hand with the tip of
her tongue. Then, still not replete, she rescued the stuff which he had
fountained over the table, tracing her forefinger through it until it
was gone, each time licking the finger clean.

Eventually, only the trail on the side of her glass remained. This too
she consumed before emptying the glass itself.

Only then, a favour to her new possession, did she speak.

"I'm Joy", she said. Her voice was deep and soulful, urgent and serious,
velvety. She sounded a little like Cleo Laine.

There was only one response he could make. "Oh, you are", he told her.
"You most certainly are".

She smiled, pleased at the compliment. And returned it. "You taste
good", she informed him.

The smile was infectious. He found himself grinning. He realised that he
must look ridiculous, but he couldn't stop. "I'm Tom", he said. "Thomas
Jackson".

*****

He took her home, and she made love to him. Yes, it was that way, and
not the other way around. She undressed him and started with her mouth,
skating her lovely moist lips over his freshly straining erection,
making him groan with the effort of the pleasure she gave him, teasing
him with her tongue and teeth, and then she climbed above him, sinking
slowly and tormentingly onto his eager organ, fucking him gently,
watching his every reaction with wide, alert green eyes. As she took
him, he caressed her breasts, stroked her long nipples. It was the only
contribution that she allowed him to make.

Her vagina was like a velvet vice. He had never felt anything quite so
tight, quite so warm, quite so gloriously wet. And she had used it with
a confidence that no woman he had ever experienced had come close to,
squeezing him with her inner muscles, occasionally setting up a gentle
vibration in her flesh that was almost supernatural in its intensity.

He thought that she came, but he wasn't certain. At one point she closed
her eyes, started to breathe more deeply, moaned a little, in her
throat. Her backbone stiffened, and she impaled herself more forcefully
upon him, for just a few thrusts. And then she relaxed, came forward,
slowed again. Her eyes opened to their usual startling wideness, and she
recommenced her observation of him, an odd smile playing into the
corners of her mouth.

Again he came massively, heaving into the marsh between her vaginal
walls, stiffening, spraying gout after gout of hot, gelatinous spunk
against the barrier of her cervix. Only when he was done, only when he
was drained, did she deign to bend to him, to deliver to him again that
wonderful, wonderful kiss.
Within a week, he had asked her to marry him. Within a fortnight, she
had accepted.

Their relationship was an odd one. Her domination of him, both sexually
and in life, was gentle, but it was total. He changed his job so that he
would not have to be away from her one weekend in three. He changed his
flat so that, when they were married, she could move into a place with a
view of Hyde Park. He stopped seeing his friends quite so often, because
she claimed that alcohol dulled the edge of his appetite for sex.

On that side of things she was insatiable. She made love to him at least
twice every night and usually more, often with her mouth and hands.
Sometimes she would visit him just for that purpose, would arrive and,
without unnecessary conversation, would take him to bed. Once that
marvellous business was concluded, she would dress and leave. Her own
pleasure seemed unimportant to her, and only rarely would she let him
take the initiative, would she submit to the missionary position. Once,
just once, she allowed him to take her doggy fashion, but he found it
difficult, accustomed as he was to being led, and eventually he had to
turn over and allow her to finish him in the usual manner.

Outside of their life together, he knew very little about her. He didn't
know where she lived, or how she lived, although she was never short of
money and, as part of her adopted role of mistress, would often pay for
a visit to the restaurant or the theatre. The theatre visits were
actually quite frequent, and he discovered that she was well known to
the glitterati. A very famous actor one day stopped for a word with her
in Kensington, and spoke with her at length, ignoring Tom all the while.
The actor appeared to defer to her, and Tom wondered whether he was an
old boyfriend.

The wedding day approached. Joy arranged the church, of course. Joy
invited the guests who, on his side, were limited to his mother and his
sister. He would not, she assured him, need a best man. Such things
would be arranged for him.
If he had been asked in advance, he would have said that to lose all
sway over the conduct of his life so comprehensively would have been
unbearable. But it was not. His life, in many respects, had been far too
complicated. To have another uncomplicate it in this way was, in many
respects, a blessed relief.
His life was hers. He had resolved it. And his life would always be
hers. To do with whatever she wished. He had been content. For the first
time in his life, he had been utterly content.

Until this morning.

*****

He had been wakened by a knocking at 8AM. He had answered it dressed
only in his underwear, confident that his visitor, as usual, would be
Joy.

But it had not been Joy. It had been the actor. The man from that day in
Kensington.

Come to tell him that Joy was dead.

*****

Afternoon turned into evening, evening into a dismal, dark, rainswept
night. Muscle stiffness forced him from the chair, and he wandered to
the balcony. It was two in the morning, and traffic on the park road was
light. Within moments, he was soaked to the skin, the balcony standing
unprotected when the elements attacked from the west. But he didn't
care. In truth, he didn't notice.

Although there was rain, there was no wind, and he caught a line of her
perfume before he sensed her presence.

He turned and extended a hand to her. His heart was rejoicing, but he
retained his quiet bearing, knowing that she disliked unrestrained
emotion.

"I thought...", he began, then retreated to correct himself. "I was
told...."

"Greatly exaggerated", she replied, then added, with the hint of a
smile, "I've always wanted to use that line."

"The actor...", he explained.

"He's my brother", she said, the note of anger unusual but umistakeable.
"My family have been somewhat opposed to this marriage, Thomas. My
brother most of all. Matters came to a head. A decision was reached. I
suggested a different option, but it wasn't well-received. So you were
told that I was dead. It's a heavy handed tactic. Down the years, I've
become familiar with heavy handed tactics."

"I could have talked with them", he protested.

She folded beneath the protection of his arm, a strange submission for
her. When he turned to look into her eyes, she kissed him. Never had she
done that so gently, and he interpreted her answer from the gesture.
Talking would have been useless.

For a time, they watched the storm in silence, until he found the
courage to dig a little deeper. "What now for us?", he asked. "I don't
want to lose you. I can't lose you. I've had a taste of that."

"Yes, I know", she said, and touched his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"You were going to marry me", he reminded her, fighting the whine in his
voice.

She slipped out of his grip, turned her back on him. He was about to ask
what he had done or said, ready to apologise unreservedly for it, when
she spoke, so quietly that he had to strain to hear the words.

"I still intend to", she offered, and indeed it was an offer, rather
than a promise. "But we need to go to that... different option I talked
about. And we need to do it quickly, before my brother discovers that
I've gone. Realises where I've gone. And comes back here."

"To take you back?", he interpreted. "To force you back? I'll fight
him."

"No", she said dismally. "Well, yes, in the end. But first, to kill
you."

He swallowed, with difficulty. The new information was absorbable, and
not exactly a shock, but it undermined his ability to reassure her.
"We'll leave town", he suggested. "Now. Start a new life somewhere else.
Anywhere. Australia. New York. I can get a job...."

"They'll find us", she stated. "Others have tried. And I like London."

He took that in too, searched for a new avenue of approach. There was
only one. "The option...?"

"Yes", she said. "The option."

"Which is?", he pressed.

Still she kept her back to him, and again he needed to strain to hear
the words, "Which is for you to become part of the family."

"But that's what they won't allow, surely?", he protested. "That's what
they're trying to prevent."

"Not by marriage", she clarified. "By blood."

"By... by blood", he repeated timidly. But the question was redundant,
because now, he knew. He remembered the spiders. He remembered her
curious strength.

He realised that he had never seen her in sunlight.

"Once you're family", she told him, "you're untouchable. Even though in
choosing you by myself, without the agreement of the others, I will have
crossed the line. There will be consequences for me, for both of us. But
we'll survive them. We have love. Don't we?"

With an act of will beyond any he had ever enforced in her company, he
ignored the question, because he had a question of his own. "And my only
other option to that", he summed up, "is death?"

"I didn't say there was a choice", Joy replied evenly. "How many times
have you told me that you're mine? Body and soul. To do with as I will.
How many times, Thomas?"

"Often, Joy", he admitted. "Every day, since I first met you."

"And that's your value to me, dear Thomas", she established. "It will
continue to be your value."

"I need time", he requested. "Not much. Just a little."

"Thomas", she chided. "Soon, you'll have all the time in the world."

She turned then, and the only time he was given was the brief time it
took her to do so. It was enough to allow him a mental image of what he
expected to see.

The image was accurate.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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