Linda and the Lash

I had been in Los Angeles about a year when my boss told me he wanted me to attend an annual librarians' conference. The only snag was it was to be held in LA!

"Don't worry, Linda," he laughed, "I'll make it up to you by putting you up in the swank hotel next to the conference venue so it will seem like an out of town trip."

Which was eminently fair, I thought. After all, though I was only 21 and young for a librarian, I was possibly the best researcher on his staff. I deserved a "perk" for a change.

On the evening before the conference opening I checked into the hotel, put on my favourite little black dress, brushed my long fair brown hair - I'm almost a blonde - till it shone, put on my glasses and went to the cocktail bar.

I'd hardly been in my seat after ordering an old fashioned for a moment or two than a tall, dark-haired man smiled down at me and with what I thought was real forwardness said: "I hope you don't wear those glasses all the time!"

"If I didn't I wouldn't be able to make out your features, you smooth-talking hunk," I replied, trying to match his banter.

The tall man with the almost gaunt face and long but handsome features laughed aloud and sat down opposite me, clutching what looked like a glass of white wine.

"Hi, my name's Brad and I think you look absolutely wonderful but for those god-awful glasses," he said. "Pardon me for my bad manners. But you know what Dorothy Parker said."

I've heard the line so many times. "I think I do. 'Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses', is how it goes, isn't it?" I smiled. Then I removed my glasses and his features became slightly blurred. "How's that?"

He leaned forward, allowing me to inhale a slight but obviously hugely expensive after-shave and inspect his beautifully cut Italian suit. "You are absolutely gorgeous," he smiled. "From ugly duckling to swan. I shall call you Leda."

I accepted the compliment, then put my glasses back on. "My name's Linda and I'm a librarian," I told him.

"Hmmm," he pondered, "then I shall call you Linda the Librarian. From the public library?"

"No," I replied, "I work for a large publisher and he has sent me to a librarians' conference."

His face fell, though whether it was mock disappointment or not I couldn't tell. "So you're not from LA?" he asked, his voice tinged with what I hoped was not feigned disappointment.

"Yes - well, yes and no. I work here, and my boss is footing the bill for me to stay in this swanky hotel to make up for the fact that I'm not getting a trip out of town for the conference. But I'm a country girl - I'm from just outside Des Moines."

"And you find books for people?" said Brad.

"No, silly," I chided him. "Being a librarian these days is much more about finding information, or being able to access information than finding dusty old books."

"I stand corrected," he said. "Now I shall continue with my bad manners and invite you out to dinner. Or don't librarians do dinner?"

"They do and I'm famished," I said. "Where?"

"I know a nice little steak joint nearby, let's go," he said.

It was both. Nice, the steaks were superb. And little, five tables, maybe six.

He told me all about himself. His name was Brad, he was single, aged 40, and a famous writer, only he wrote under a pen name. He lived out in the valley and was just in town to get away from the computer and work, since he was between books. His top-selling character was a private eye called Brad Bradley.

"I use my own name for my favourite character's name, I hope you approve," he said, after he placed his black Amex card on the waiter's tray for the bill.

"I approve," I said, "I think it's a lovely name."

After he had walked me back to the hotel and I got my key from the desk, I made an instant decision. I knew he liked me, and although he was 19 years older than me he was handsome, seemed gentle and I hadn't had sex with a man for almost a year.

"Would you like to come up for a ... er, a nightcap?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

"It would be my pleasure," Brad smiled, and then we were in the lift, down the corridor and into my room for the start of the biggest adventure of my life!

No sooner than the door behind us had swung shut, than Brad removed my glasses and took me in his arms. He was tallish, about six foot, which made him three inches or so taller than my coltish 5 feet 9.

His mouth brushed against mine, gently, then harder until our mouths were locked in a kiss which was one of the tastiest I've ever experienced.

I broke off, my heart thumping wildly. "Let me get ready," I whispered, "and you get into bed." Putting my glasses back on I made it to the bathroom without fainting from excitement.

He was removing his jacket as I rushed into the bathroom, stripped nude and looked at myself in the mirror. My breasts were perky, nipple hard and despite the fact they're not 36 or 37 inches, they'll have to do at a tidy 34. I'm quite proud of them.

I dabbed some toilet paper on my sex and looked at my pussy in the mirror. Thank goodness I'd shaved down there this morning! I'm not hairless, but I like to keep it trimmed neatly back.

I swung round and looked at my smallish buttocks, like a boy's I thought. I placed perfume behind my ears, dabbed some between my breasts and walked as steadily as my legs would allow me into the bedroom.

Brad was lying on the sheet, on his side, wearing a slight smile, otherwise stark naked. My first look was at his equipment and I liked what I saw. He wasn't a monster, but it looked about seven inches long and I saw that his shaft and balls were shaved. He wasn't circumcised, but I noticed with interest that his foreskin was slightly pulled back from the top of his knob, giving the impression of a semi-cut cock.

Then things got a bit blurry as I put my glasses on the bedside table and lay beside him. In an instant his hands were on my shoulders and he was pressing me down towards his groin. At that distance I couldn't help but see every detail of his lovely cock. Pre-cum was seeping from his slit and I opened my mouth and sucked and kissed his helmet gently - it was only our second kiss!

Then I plunged my mouth down on his shaft and started to suck. His hands went to my head and he tugged on my long hair, dragging me further down onto his stiffness.

"Ooooh, baby, you suck so sweetly, oh yes Linda, love me!" he said in a rasping voice. Surely he wasn't sex-starved too!

But no sooner had I resumed my cock sucking than he pulled me, firmly but gently, from his groin and laid me on my back. "Do I need a condom?" he asked, huskily.

"No," I breathed, "I'm on the pill."

He plunged into me, his seven inches of raging manhood sliding smoothly all the way to the hilt.

As he settled into a steady tempo I felt I should explain. "It's not that I'm a little tramp," I said, hurriedly, "it's just that the pill helps ease the pain I get from my periods."

"Of course it does," he panted, as he plunged up and down in my sex. It was then that I noticed his gold chain and the little dog tag hanging from it. On it, as I could make out even without my glasses, was the outline of a curled whip.

"Is that just for decoration, or is there a story to it?" I asked.

Brad grunted: "Linda, there's a story to everything. Now stop talking and enjoy your orgasm."

And with that, his wiry but strong hands cupped my buttocks and the next thing I found myself in the dominant position, so I had to drive up and down on his rampant cock.

As I did so, he pushed my upper body upwards until my breasts were hanging free above his face. He opened his mouth and started to suck and nibble at my erect rosebud nipples. The sensation was startling, I'd never experienced such a feeling before. It was as if my nipples were conduits to my clit, little shafts of energy rippled down through my rib cage to my pussy and ended at my clit as I plunged it up and down on his pubic bone.

The effect of his oral adoration of my titties was soon to drive me inexorably to a magnificent orgasm, an orgasm of such intensity it forced extremely unlibrarian-like words as "Fuck me, oh you lovely stud, fuck me, yeeeees, I'm cuuuuming!" I don't know about the spelling, only the sounds I made as I exploded to a shuddering climax on his lean, wiry body.

After I had composed myself and rolled off his lithe figure, Brad once more pressed my face down to his shaft, his foreskin now rolled back to its thick ring due to the tightness of my cunt.

"My turn now, lovely Linda," he breathed in a hissing voice, and I started to suck on his erection, savouring the wonderful taste of my pussy on a man's cock, a taste that excited me and - I hoped - drove me to perform as fine a session of fellatio as I've ever delivered.

He came with several loan-pitched grunts and I swallowed down what seemed to me to be almost a cupful of cum, although of course, in reality, it would only have been a few spoonfuls. He tasted great, as I knew he would.

As we lay back, Brad told me: "That was such a wonderful fuck - pardon my French, Linda, but it's the perfect word for what we just did."

Then he switched into a business-like gear. "When does your conference end?"

"Friday afternoon," I told him.

"When do you check out?" he pressed me.

"After the closing speeches, about 3 o'clock," I said.

"I want you to spend the week-end with me," he said. "Any problems with that?"

I kissed him softly on his sensually cruel lips. "None at all, Brad. Will you pick me up?"

"I'll be in the hotel forecourt at 3.30 on Friday," he said.

"What will you be driving?" I asked.

"I drive a Ford GT40," he said.

"Means nothing to me," I said, honestly. "Describe it."

"Well," he smiled, "it's about 40 inches high, it's bright red and it's got a white racing streak down the middle of the bonnet and the roof."

"What's the racing streak do?" I asked, teasingly.

Brad laughed: "Makes it go 10 miles an hour faster, stupid!"

On Friday afternoon, I couldn't wait for the conference to end through its dreary closing speeches, and I almost sprinted back to the hotel, packed in a flash and was outside the hotel at 3.20pm when I saw a racy little red sports car drive up.

Brad climbed from behind the wheel and looked in my general direction. "I'm looking for a woman who looks like a librarian but fucks like a whore," he said rather loudly, I thought, as I approached.

"There's no such person, sir," I said, "but will I do?" Then I flicked my glasses off and fluttered my eyelashes.

"Oh, will you ever," he laughed, and we were off to his valley mansion.

He cooked superb medium rare steaks on his barbecue, and accompanied the meat with a delicious green salad and a bottle of Penfold's Hermitage Grange, which made me decidedly squiffy.

"It's better than anything we can make, as I would put it, and it's got far more guts than anything the French can make, as the Aussies would put it," he informed me. "And it's a delightful leg opener!"

After we had made love, he told me: "This is, as you can see, a very secluded spot. Tomorrow you can walk around the house in the nude, only I'd like you to wear high heels. I love the way they accentuate a woman's calves."

"And if I may, I'll also wear my glasses," I said, "or I'll be crashing into all the furniture."

"Perfect," he said, "which means I won't fancy you at all and I'll be able to get started on my next Brad Bradley adventure." I punched him in the ribs.

The next morning, we awoke and I dressed only in my black high heels and glasses. Brad went naked and told me he wanted to sketch out a preliminary plot for the new book, and just to wander around the house.

I investigated and then, when I wandered upstairs again to his large bedroom, I spotted a little office set off it. I stepped inside and found a computer screen, printer and all the usual components that make up a small office.

But what really caught my eye was the shelf of books at shoulder level as I sat nude in his large leather chair. I looked idly at them at first, but then the titles - all by the same author - really grabbed by attention.

Titles such as Loving the Lash, Kiss the Rod, Taste of the Tawse, Her Flogged Flesh and so on, dozens of them, all by Lash Linklater.

I pulled one titled Slashed Into Submission from the shelf with trembling hands and read the blurb on the dust jacket: "Lash Linklater at his pulsating best. You will thrill to every stroke of the flogger as it burns the nubile captive's back, sigh as her every scream is music to the cruel whipmaster's ears. Another Linklater masterpiece!" The critique was accredited to Flogger's Fortnightly.

Opening the book I read an extract. It burned my ears, but it also excited me in a strange way, and I found my free hand straying to my pussy, which was gushing juice!

The words I read went: "The 20-year-old struggled vainly against the cruel bonds as the whipmaster's next stroke curled around her sweat-streaked young body, the tips of the flogger cutting wickedly against her throbbing and previously tortured nipple.

"The whipmaster licked his lips as he observed a slow trickle of urine slide down the woman's sun-tanned inner thigh. There were murmurs from the audience as they, too, noticed she was starting to lose control. The whipmaster's arm drew back for another sadistic stroke and ...."

Suddenly I was jerked from my erotic reverie by the sight of Brad standing by my side, his naked body gleaming in the strong Californian sun streaming through the wide office window. His penis was fully erect, the funny foreskin pulled slightly back from the helmet.

"So you've discovered my little secret, have you, my darling Linda?" he asked, in a quiet but not annoyed manner.

"These are by you, Brad?" I asked, waving Slashed Into Submission in front of me.

"Every one of them, my dear," he replied, standing closer and stroking my hair. "I trust you admire my style?"

"It's very, er, how shall I put it? Arousing?" I told him.

"I'm glad you like it, Linda," he smiled. "And now you know the little secret behind my gold dog tag with the whip etched into it.

"You see I'm a member of a small but elite literary group, there's 12 of us, and we all write books which deal in the main with flagellation - flagellation of lovely young women, to be precise.

"I tear one or two off in between the Brad Bradley books, I find it helps me relax. And once a year we have a convention - last year's was in Salt Lake City, believe it or not, only we don't hold our convention in large city hotels. We're rather more discreet."

I was curious. "Do you make money from it?" I asked.

Amazingly, yes," said Brad, still stroking my hair and occasionally stroking a breast. "We've banded together to form a publishing house - we call it Punishment Publications and after printing costs are deducted it pays for the annual convention, plus one or two delightful young ladies to be flogged!"

"You flog young girls?" I asked, incredulously.

"My darling Linda," Brad smiled down at me with a somewhat condescending look, "of course I do. You don't expect me to write stuff like this without doing some research, do you?"

I put the book back in its place and stepped into his arms, feeling his erection brush against my belly. "And I suppose you want to flog me?" I asked, kissing him gently on his cheek.

"Most certainly," he said.

"Will I like it?" I asked, feeling my heart thumping wildly.

"I don't know that 'like' is the correct term, my dear," he replied, "but I can promise you the most earth-shattering sex at the end of it all. You ready?"

Hardly believing my ears I heard a small voice which was obviously mine reply: "Yes, Brad, but please go easy on me. I've never been whipped before."

Brad took me in his arms, lifted me up and carried me into the bedroom, down the stairs, through the lounge and then the kitchen and down another flight of stairs to a corridor in the basement beneath the house.

Finally, he stopped in front of a heavy oak door and swung it open. He let me down and pushed me gently on my buttocks into a large, high-ceilinged room. The hum of air conditioning was the only sound.

"On the bench, and I'll strap you down, darling," he said, in a soft, gentle voice.

I walked slowly to a large leather contraption which stood in the center of the room. It was shaped like a letter X and had straps along each side of the X. My buttocks settled on the central padded seat, then Brad quickly walked around me, strapping me down.

Each arm had three straps, one at the wrists, one at elbow height, the third through the armpits and across the shoulders. The legs straps were just below groin level, just below knee level and across my ankles.

After strapping me down so I was utterly helpless, Brad ran his fingers softly through my sex trench. "Aroused, in fact dripping wet - interesting," he said.

He then fetched a padded leather pillow, with metal poles which he slid into apertures set in the padded area beneath my buttocks, thus allowing my back and head to rest on the pillow. It was angled so I could look down past by breasts towards my pussy.

Brad went out of sight, then returned clad in an open-fronted pair of black leather shorts, his cock still stiff and waving in front of him.

"These are my punishment pants," he informed me. "That's punishment for you, not for me. Whenever you see me wearing them, Linda, you kneel before me and I will instruct you as to what I wish to do to do. Do you understand?"

His voice now had a steely ring to it.

"I understand, Brad," I breathed.

"Yes, whipmaster," he snapped.

"I understand, whipmaster," I obeyed him.

Then he picked up a leather implement from a table behind the X and showed it to me. "This is a pussy punisher - or, as our English friends, the lovely old things, like to call it, a quim quirt," he told me.

"Since this is a fetishistic sport, there are rituals involved, Linda. Kiss the punisher," he said, placing the cool leather against my mouth.

I kissed it, observing that the leather was about pussy-width and about a foot long from where the golf-club type grip ended.

"Now I'm going to switch on the tape recorder, my dear," he said. "Normally, with one of my experienced slaves I would get a girl friend along to videotape the session, but since you're just a beginner I shall merely tape your voice."

"What for, whipmaster?" I asked, my heart still thumping wildly as I was both excited and apprehensive about my fate.

"Silly girl," said Brad, "so that I can play it back at my leisure and masturbate while I recall our first flogging session!"

"Now," he said, placing the leather against my oozing wet pussy, "feel free to scream as much as you like. We're totally sound-proofed down here."

I tensed, sensing that the first stroke was about to be delivered. Brad stood, prick swaying stiffly, in the bottom space of the X, a foot or so from my naked, defenceless pussy. Then he flicked the punisher up in a sharp, jerky movement.

I screamed as the blow struck me, sending an electric shock of torment through my pussy, the searing throb shooting up my body to my mouth from which emerged a yelled "Aaaaargh!"

"Lovely my dear, music to my ears, as I believe I've written somewhere," Brad said.

Then his arm jerked again. Again a stunning shock jolted my pussy as the leather splatted against my sex lips and labia, the pain coursing through me, until I again let out a shouted "Ummmmf" as the blow delivered its delicious agony.

Then Brad changed his plan of attack. Standing a little closer, he moved the paddle so it was going "Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat" on my poor pussy, five, six, seven blows landing one after the other, only far less heavily than his first two strokes.

I gave out little sobs after each stroke, then the whipmaster paused and looked at my contorted face. "Excellent my dear," he grinned, "you are doing so well. Such control - I wonder how long you can keep it up?"