Fifty Shades of Spray

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 is 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 beach front villa in Fleetwood they are equals. He is gently fingering Alexandra's wet pussy and licking her clitoris as she runs her scarlet fingernails through his leonine blonde hair. She is 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 has no one to compare his sexual prowess to, but she cannot imagine another man measuring up to him, not least in the cock department. She regards 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 kisses her stomach tenderly and works his upwards until they fuse 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 are both dripping with sweat, from the sex and the electric blanket he had to put on due to the inclement summer weather. Alexandra is begging him to enter her but he refuses, till she is feverish with cock hunger. Finally he mounts her, and even then he is a cunt tease, keeping the tip of his cock just inside her pussy and working it in and out before she digs her nails deep into his back and practically pulls him into her. Her eyes (she has two of them) roll upwards and she nearly loses consciousness as the monster schlong ploughs her. Conan now moves up a gear, pounding her mound relentlessly, pausing now and again to wipe his dripping brow on her stiff nippled tits. Alexandra is now so dong delirious she has entered into a shamanistic state, speaking in an alien tongue, begging him to lob his load up her in fluent Urdu. Conan moans. Alexandra groans. The cock carnival has made her eyes cross in a manner suggestive of the silent film actor Ben Turpin.

Conan's eyes (he also has two) are now cobalt erotic laser beams burning his initials onto her undulating breasts. Her legs are now so far up his back she is stroking his ears with her toes. She has 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 begins to work its magic and Steel's almost supernatural sexual self control begins to waver.

Alexandra is frenzied, having orgasm after orgasm and she is in almost a catatonic state when Conan comes deep inside her, they are merged at the groin, melting into each other's bones, becoming as one. They lie satiated side by side, gazing intently into each others 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 lain 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 lightning 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, a signed photograph of Jimmy Saville (Note to editor: Please change this to a suitably apposite cultural reference for the American market. Dennis Rodman perhaps? Also I've lost track of the arses and asses. Note to author: We live in Google world you techno illiterate British asshole). 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 trouser less leant 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 reads to her in a monotone voice for about half an hour and Alexandra soon zones out, stuff about newborn babies being killed in front of their mothers and some old bastard wanking off while young girls were tortured washing over her head. 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 raises it high and then slaps 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 can fuck him for ages and he stays diamond cutter hard and doesn't come until she tells him to, and she can go at her own pace, slowly grinding her pussy on his dick before working up to a prick pummelling fury.

All the while he lies remote and impassive, as if the effort in staying hard and delaying his orgasm has become too arduous to enjoy the sex. Despite her multiple orgasms she finds 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 is energised, rolling her onto her back and putting her legs over his shoulders.

"Watch my cock go in and out," he whispers to her. She is 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," announces Steel arrogantly, "I've got a fast arse as well."

He pumps her furiously, hiking her legs up high with his shoulders and pinning her arms to the bed.

"You're hurting me."

Conan's eyes rotate anti-clockwise in their sockets as he blasts his baby seed deep into her cunt. He groans. She gasps. He moans. She rasps.

"You've frightened me..." whispers 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 lasagnes and lemonade when 'Uncle' Sandy stayed over at the weekends.

He shudders at the memory of his father, just after his mother has died, drowning his pain in bottles of champagne and how the despair made him jump around the living room laughing dementedly and repeatedly 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 starts to relate to Conan the story of when she had to attend a school disco in just a bin liner but his loud snores curtail the recital...poor thing, the strenuous love making 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 Adventures of a Private Eye. His choice of music too speaks of his exquisite sensibility, Kiss' Heaven's on Fire purring in the background.

"Conan..." said Alexandra a little apprehensively, "I think I love you..."

Steel throws his champagne glass against the wall, narrowly missing the dart board 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 could hear him rattling about in the wardrobe. She flops on the couch and lights a cigarette, blowing smoke rings out of her pussy. Conan enters the room naked except for a white turban holding a pungi, the flute like instrument sourced from a gourd that snake charmers use to entice a serpent from a basket. He begins to play it expertly, and as its reedy melodies swirl around the room, Alexandra's eyes are inextricably drawn to Conan's flaccid member, dangling around his knee caps.

The music casts an incantatory spell on Alexandra, she cannot take her eyes off his monster dong which is beginning to slowly stiffen and harden in synchronisation with the melody and drone as it increases in pitch and intensity. Like a zombie she approaches him, drops to her knees and hungrily sucks his ball. Conan's prick is now totally erect, bobbing up and down like an ostrich's head. It begins to twitch. Finally, a stream of ejaculate shoots across the living room hitting the dart board. Conan lowers the pungi.

Bullseye, he exclaims. Conan orders her a taxi and givers her money for the journey. In the manner of a somnambulist she disappears into the night.