textfiles/sex/EROTICA/C/2contract.txt

The winter sun had nearly set behind the skyscrapers of
Metropolitan City when the man left the Packard taxi and entered
the soot-gray art deco apartment building.

He strode across the tile foyer, pulled the gate and squeezed
into the elevator cage. At the fourth floor, he checked the
contract in his hand. "L.L. 16:00, Wednesday. Weekly."

As the four o'clock hour pealed from the belfry of the nearby
Temple of Extremely Reform Judaism, he rapped twice at Apartment
436.

Promptly, very promptly, she opened the green door. One glimpse
and she nervously backed up a step.

He was at least six-foot-six, gaunt like Rushmore, attired in
tuxedo with velvet lapels and a black cape. He was anywhere
between 40 and 60. Neither his demeanor, nor the dark pompadour
with a front shock of silver gave his age away.

But he was not there to pay a social visit.

"Mr. Kant," he announced himself with all the ardor of a
professor calling roll at the end of a semester.

"Yes, come in," she said as demurely as possible under the
circumstances.

It was then that Miss Layne, 24, a secretary of adept shorthand
and long dark secrets, noticed the long leather sample case that
preceded him across the threshold.

"The contract," he intoned.

She bowed her head, the Gibson-girl brunette sheen swishing
slightly beneath the topknot clasped by a copper barrette.

She knew what was to happen. After all, it was in the contract.
"Yes, the contract," she repeated, her voice trembling.

He surveyed the darkened apartment, decorated fastidiously in
cherrywood and oak, the polished planks of wood covered partially
by an ivory rug. He set his case on the low marble-topped
commode, the monogram "C.K" discreetly facing away from his work
area.

She shifted uncomfortably beneath the floor-length ochre dress,
cinched at the waist and puffed at the shoulders. But, the
contract. She was a proper lady and the contract was in force for
the first time.

She lifted her chin, her ivory cheeks reflecting not pale
sunlight but sheer pride, the pride of a woman with a past -- and
a future.

As he opened the valise, she began lifting her ruffled hem and
scooping up the petticoat beneath. In two steps she was at the
rolltop desk, its writing surface opened for the occasion.

Her slim wishbone arms began the chore of removing her heavy
brocade dress.  The swaying of her hips and the softshoe two-step
of her high-laced pumps assisted the raising of her dress up
above the modesty she was to forfeit by dint of the contract.
She reached back to nimbly unlace the corset and wriggle it from
beneath her clothing with the deftness of the recently departed
Houdini, himself. She stood before him in her chemise, then stepped out of
her petticoats and bent over the desk flap, lifting her pantaloons. 

He was not bothering to watch her machinations, as he was deep in
thought selecting the proper instrument. Finally, he procured
from his case a moderate-length very thin cane.

By this time, he did notice that the lady was, shall we say, sans
culotte. Her alabaster mounds bent over the desk, framed by
violet garter belt and sheer white silk stockings.

He looked at his watch. There were no other appointments, but
this was a well inculcated habit. "Let us commence, Madam," he
said in the guttural roll of indistinct European heritage.

"Indeed," she sighed, shifting her feet slightly apart and back
so that her torso would lie as comfortably as possible across the
mottled desktop.

He rolled the cane in his right palm as DiMaggio would when
assuming his stance. He tapped her once on the top of her bared
hips. Then the hissssssswwhiippp of the first cut bit into her
soft flesh.

She had been to Miss Venus' finishing school in Arizona and was
trained to keep both surprise and emotion within. She tightened
her buttocks as the cane struck, but made no sound audible to Mr.
Kant.

He slowly drew the British-crafted cane back at a 45-degree and
aimed carefully at the lowest curve of her bottom, as if contemplating the
alignment of a 9-ball destined for the corner pocket.

wwwwwwwhhWHHHACCCKKK!

A soft "oof" acknowledged the rattan greeting.

It was over precisely as spelled out in the contract. One minute.
Twelve strokes. Five seconds of anticipation, a millisecond of
searing enforcement.

The thin stripes would weal into blisters that would last three
days, but, of course, no one else would ever see them or know.

She lay over the desk mentally composing herself, swiftly swiping
away a single teardrop, in reality a pearl she would treasure.

He was at his valise, re-arranging the tools of his trade when
she looked back and summoned the courage to depart from the
exacting terms of the contract.

"Sir? It would please me if you could stay another moment or two.
My poor bum is, indeed, well-striped, but, prithee, might you
offer a tender ministration?"

"The contract," he grumbled.

"Sir, I complied rather well with the contract. No one shall have
to know about this."

He hesitated but a moment, checked his fob and his datebook.
"This IS my last appointment. And yes, Madam, you were quite
proper."

As he took the first step toward her, she reached into a
pigeonhole of the desk to remove a flat tin. He thought presently
it might be snuff, but as she handed it to him, he saw it was a
can of imported mutton tallow. Her rump cheeks rose higher, her
hands flattened against the front of her thighs as counterweight.

He placed his right hand, tissue thin on the back but lamb soft
on the palms, between her parted thighs and stroked her trimmed
brown brushy carpet authoritatively. He drew it back and upward
with all deliberate speed and crooked his bony forefinger, then
poked her widened puckered aperture. With his left hand, he undid
his braces, untied the cummerbun and let the loose trousers down
far below his plaid sock garters.

He laid his experienced, yet still rigid, length of manhood flat
against the crease of her bald bottom, feeling for the first time
the river of blood that ran through him.

The silky head of his uncircumsised penis jabbed forward toward
her opening. He put his hands atop hers on the front of her
thighs to force her bottom yet higher. He daubed his long fingers
in the tallow, and with deft prestidigitation lubricated the
lady's back parlor.

She widened on cue and took the mysterious contractor into her,
her spasms and jerks -- ladylike as they were -- pulled him
deeper inside. 

He went about his business adroitly, pulling on her hips, back
and forth to obtain maximum flexion. As he satisfied himself that
they fit tightly, he let his Michelango fingers slide up the
front of her brocade dress to pinch her firmly swaddled breasts. 

For the first time, Miss Layne vocalized, in an almost operatic
twelve-tone scale of tra-la-las, missing neither a half tone nor
a beat. Her sighs and moans transposed themselves into a
syncopated lilt as Mr. Kant worked himself harder and deeper,
slapping his wool tuxedo trousers arhythmically against her iron
hot callipygian hillocks.

"FUCK ME!" prim lady Layne suddenly erupted! "FUCK ME FUCK ME
HARD!"

Mr. Kant drew a deep breath, then rammed every inch of his regal
rod into her, exploding her zeppelin of repressed reserve. She
screamed. He corkscrewed himself further and further, reminiscing
at the moment of vintage Jassy 1909.

The lady was writhing and pounding her upper torso upon the
weakened writing surface of the desk, wiggling her ass in a way
that her former tutors and headmistresses could never imagine.

"MORE!" she implored. "KILL ME WITH YOUR COCK!"

His long arm twisted backward to just reach the top of his still-
opened valise. He took the grooved handle of a riding crop that
had done its first work at Upson Downs decades before.

He worked his penis furiously in and out of her, and each time he
withdrew a centimer, he whacked her lovely arse with the crop.

FUCK SMACK HUMP WHACK MPPPPH SLLLLASSSHHHH. He was fucking and whipping
her. She was dying from passion and becoming reborn with
each fucksmack. 

As she slumped drained to the floor, he caught her, scooped her
up and laid her on the davenport. She was weeping tears of
unimagined passion and still thrusting her felinity up and down
as she lay, knees bent and apart, on her back.

He still gripped the crop, twirled it like a baton, and caught
the leather tongue between his thumb and forefinger. The tightly
wrapped grip-handle hung above her frontispiece like the sword of
Damocles. But she had no fear. He sensed that, and pressed the
flat top surface of the handle against her swelling love bud.

She screamed and purred all at once. The lady reached down to
pull apart her nether lips, and the contractor obliged by gently
manipulating the crop handle inside.

She was in the throes of yet another priceless and uncountable
orgasmic fury. He thought back to all the ladies he had
disciplined and swained over his life, but never had he felt an
erotic cruxifixion and resurrection like this. Each movement from
either of them was a sex act in itself, multiplied a
thousandfold. It was, he mused, death by a thousand cunts.

"Darkness, my dear," he announced as the temple bells rang 17:00.

She looked up at him, her gaze fixed in blank admiration like the
wife of a president.

He opened the door, turned his head, a cowlick from his pompadour
sweeping across his forehead, and reminded her. 

"The contract. Next Wednesday. 4 o'clock."

She opened her mouth to form the word, "contract" but all she
emitted was a ghostly, "YesYesyessssyessssyesssssssssssssss."