Vintage Pleasures
Vintage Pleasures
By
Billy London
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
Vintage Pleasures © 2013 Billy London
Editor: Katriena Knights
Cover Art: Marteeka Karland
Books are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
Contents
Chapter One. 5
Chapter Two.. 8
Chapter Three. 10
Chapter Four. 13
Chapter Five. 16
Chapter Six. 18
Chapter Seven.. 25
Chapter One
“Tristan’s here,” Lauren hissed over the stall of the ladies’ room. Sabra, partway through adjusting her breasts in her corset, halted.
“How long ago?”
“Just turned up.”
Sabra breathed out softly, biting into her bottom lip to hold back a triumphant grin. Of course he was here. Why wouldn’t he respond to the blatant invitation? She’d been angling for his attention for months, much to Lauren’s annoyance. Lauren was supposed to be her friend, after all they had so much in common having met on the burlesque circuit. She was a Domme in her own right. Fascinated by exertions of power by such a tiny little thing, Sabra had been allowed a peek into Lauren’s world.
“Small community,” Lauren explained when they’d attended Sabra’s first fetish club. “Everyone knows someone who knows someone. You probably already know people in the life who just haven’t shared it with you.”
“Think they’re ashamed?” Sabra asked, stepping around a prostrate gimp and apologising to its mistress.
“Do you talk about your sexual deviancy over a Sunday roast dinner?”
Sabra shrugged. “Depends what I’ve done the night before. I like sharing.”
Lauren stopped her. “It’s good to be curious. But I’ll say it now. I don’t believe for one minute that you’re a sub.”
“Because I like nipple tassels?”
“Because you like being in control.”
“Maybe I haven’t met the right master.” Sabra gave a shudder at the word master.
“Doms are ten a penny. Take your time. The worst thing you can do is jump into this eyes closed.”
Sabra’s version of research for the right Dom took up a lot of time on the Internet fending off would-be abusers. I find my sub appreciates me truly after she’s finished my laundry.
Pfft! She barely appreciated doing her own laundry. That’s what dry cleaners are for.
You can find that out when you meet me. Come to my home. On dead teenager lane? Yes, of course. Next!
I don’t allow my subs to say no.
Excellent. What about safe words? No.
In her quest for the right Dom, Sabra had realised just how small the world was when she was nicknamed Switch Tease. At one of Lauren’s fire breathing nights, a Dom approached her, demanding respect, which immediately ruffled Sabra’s ostrich feather skirts.
“You’ll never find what you want unless you try someone out.”
“You mean you?”
“I’m the best there is.”
“Anyone who says that has overestimated their skills,” Sabra dismissed.
“Then why are you even here?”
“I’m working. Off you go, dear, before I accidentally spray you with gasoline. Wouldn’t want to set your pants on fire.”
“Cheeky bitch,” he grumbled, storming off to the other side of the club. Flipping the bird to his back wasn’t at all childish.
Lauren came over to her, batons smoking from her performance. “Someone’s asked if you can do a range of cards and pictures. Money!”
Sabra made a face and followed Lauren to the changing rooms at the back of the club. “I’m not photogenic.”
“Bullshit. Here’s the card from the director. She was the one you brushed with your feather fan. Get some shots done, send them over, become huge, never forget me.”
“You’re running away with yourself,” Sabra warned, hunting in her bag for a normal, two-clip bra.
“Not at all. I even know who can take the shots for you.” Lauren moved the scattered make-up from the dresser and opened up her netbook. “His name’s Tristan. We’ve known him for years. He’s the one who did the shots for my website.”
Sabra perked up. Lauren, mainly for business reasons, kept the secrets of her darkly erotic photographs like a state hiding money. Sabra wondered how attractive the photographer was. Lauren pulled up Tristan’s website and showed a variety of his work. From film noir to Japanese anime to Victoriana, he was exceptionally talented.
“He’s good.”
“Don’t,” Lauren warned.
Sabra looked at her. “What?”
“I mean it. Don’t. Don’t touch. He’s not for you.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. I’ve already said you’re not sub material, and that’s what he needs. You messing him about is really low on his list of things to do in 2013.”
“Challenge accepted.” Sabra smirked. Before she could say anything else, Lauren closed her netbook with a grimace. “I’m sure he’s big enough to tell me he’s not interested.”
“I know you. You’ll make him interested.”
“And the problem is?”
“He’s the best photographer I’ve ever had. Don’t fuck him up.”
Sabra felt her grip on her temper slipping. “Stop it. I’m not a heartless whore. And he should be able to separate business from the pleasure I’m going to make sure he has with me.”
Chapter Two
A few days later, she rocked up to Tristan’s studio without an appointment and, surprisingly, just one outfit and her make-up box. His personal assistant hadn’t blinked twice that a potential client had messed up his boss’s schedule. Sabra simply sat back in the reception area with a vintage lingerie magazine, circling new costumes, until her name was called.
Barely glancing up as she put a big cross over a forties-style nightgown, Sabra did a double take. Lauren, you sneaky cow. Tristan was completely her type. Outer geek, inner dom. Behind black-rimmed, square glasses, moss-green eyes looked straight through her, as if he could see exactly what she wanted. “Sabra? Hi. I’m Tristan.”
“Hello,” she replied, extending her hand. He caught it and gently pulled her to her feet.
“Do you want to come through to the studio?”
“Yeah, um. Sure.”
“Don’t worry about your make-up box. Jono will take that for you.”
She followed him, noting he was taller than her by several inches, even in her four-inch heels. Walking in the trail of his scent, rich with sandalwood, Sabra felt herself drift into lust. Goodie, goodie, goodie. He sat her down and sat opposite her, his denim-covered knees a few inches from her own.
“Lauren called me. Warned me, I should say,” he added.
Sabra’s mouth dropped open. “That’s so out of order.”
“I know. Told her as much. Especially as I already know about you.”
“Pardon moi?”
“Remember Theo?”
“No,” Sabra lied without thinking. Of course she remember
ed him.
“Yes you do. He ran for councillor in South London for the Conservatives.”
Sabra winced. “Yes, well, he should have thought about his political career before dating a burlesque dancer. Kate Middleton’s cousin is a burlesque dancer.”
Tristan blinked butterfly-long lashes at her. “I wasn’t talking about his political career.”
“I did not forward any photos to any tabloid. He was cheating on me!”
“I didn’t mean the photos, either. Not to worry. What are you looking to do today?”
“Well, I need some test shots for a potential business venture, and I wanted them to be like the peep shows that used to exist. I was thinking more fifties style, black and white, and the twenty pence is about to run out.”
Tristan’s mouth lifted at one corner. “I got it. What do you want to wear?”
“Strands of pearls, stockings and heels.”
He breathed out slowly. “Are you sure you want to give these out? Sounds like you should sell them.”
Sabra bit down on her bottom lip, looking up at him innocently. “Depends on your work. Shall I get ready?”
“Of course. I’ll set up the studio. Peep show style.”
Her skin rippling with anticipation, Sabra only had to remove her cotton dress. She’d worn no bra or underwear to ensure her skin would be unmarked. Using her favourite body powder from Marc Jacobs, she pressed the large body puff all over her skin. Tristan would have to help her with her back, as she couldn’t reach. Devilish, she thought. But necessary in seduction. She applied ruby red lipstick to match her short red nails and the Louboutins she sported, then flicked black liner over her false lashes and hollowed her cheeks with highlighter and bronzing powder. The stockings weren’t going to stay up by themselves, so she slipped on a suspender belt and attached the seamed silk. After throwing seven strands of pearls over her neck, at varying lengths, she deemed herself ready to seduce. Cradling the body powder against her stomach, but remaining careful to not press the pearls into her skin, she walked out of the changing area to the studio, where Tristan had fashioned a peep show box with paper screens, theatre lights against a black wall. A single, whitewashed stool had been placed in the middle.
Chapter Three
“Where do you want me?”
Tristan straightened from adjusting the lights to look at her. His eyes stroked over her like the lightest of touches. “Do you want me to do your back?” He nodded to the powder box in her hand.
“Yes, please.”
He put down his camera, and she turned her back to him, arching her spine to present her bottom in the most irresistible of poses. “Sabra,” he said softly.
“Yes?” He didn’t say anything, and she looked over her shoulder to see him clutching the box as if it would help him.
“Go and sit down when you’re ready.”
The gentle pressure of the cotton buff over her skin sent a shudder over her. Just the thought of him doing the same with a cane or, oh, God, a violet wand? She felt a creaminess moistening the tops of her thighs as she sat down on the stool.
Tristan put the powder box down and adjusted his glasses on his nose before arranging the strands of pearls around her breasts. He lightly brushed his thumbs over her nipples. “The pictures will be better if they’re erect.”
“As you will.” Leaning up, he collected what looked like wooden clothes pegs; he snapped them to each breast. Sabra’s mouth parted in a silent scream as soon as he did so. He touched his finger to her chin and closed her mouth.
“That’s better,” he murmured, turning back to his camera and starting to snap away. She felt utterly confused, why wasn’t he touching her? Why was he working? He jogged back over to her and removed the clothes pegs. Her nipples felt like they were on fire with the release. “Good.” He looked approving as he brushed his thumb over one burning nipple. “But you look annoyed. Wasn’t I supposed to do that?”
“You should have done something else,” she muttered.
Those moss-green eyes narrowed ever so slightly behind the lenses. “Peep show, Sabra. Looks like you’re enjoying the idea of men on the other side of a wall, stroking themselves, imagining how much it would cost them to get through that wall, pick you off that stool and put you right on their dicks just so they can explode inside you. That--there. Don’t change that expression!”
He snapped away as Sabra was lost in the image he had created with his words. Using her arms, she rubbed the pearls against her overly sensitised nipples and crossed her legs to enjoy the pulsing pressure of her swelling clit. All she needed was his touch. If he put his hands on her it would be so per--
“Okay. We’re done.”
“What?”
His eyebrow lifted. “We’re all done, Sabra. I’ve got plenty here for you to choose from. Come and look.”
Standing up, she looked down at the stool and saw the smallest patch of sheen. If he didn't know by now... She ignored it and came to stand beside Tristan. The photos, both in black and white and in colour, were vintage sensual. In each photo her face transformed from slightly horny, to astounded, desperate for cock. Yeah, she’d better sell those rather than give them away.
“Don’t need Photoshop for a minute.” He grinned. “Happy?”
“Yes. That’s brilliant.” She looked up at him, and he met her gaze. His pupils dilated as she smiled. “You’re very good at giving orders.”
“Is that your style?”
“I’d like to think so.”
He lowered the camera and made his way to his desk and computer screens. “I have very specific tastes.”
“And you don’t think I can entertain them?”
“I don’t know, Sabra.” He glanced at her over the rim of his glasses. “Your face when I put clothes pegs on you. Weren’t you expecting ice cubes instead?”
“Yes… but. The surprise was good.”
He laughed. How did he get more gorgeous? “Sabra, you figure out who you are and then I can tell you if our styles mix.”
Oi! “I know who I am.”
“I get the feeling you’re still trying to figure that out.”
Sabra headed for the changing area. “Your loss.”
“Trust me; I’ve got zipper marks on my appendage that understands that.”
Thrown by his take on their obvious attraction, she pulled her dress back on and packed her make-up away. The hell did he mean, figure out who you are? Just because she was called a Switch Tease, didn’t mean she couldn’t play sub as well as Domme. Typical sexual Neanderthal. He’d be singing a different tune if he were tied to her bed and he was watching her apply lubricant to a strap-on. She slapped a hand over her mouth. Ah. That’s what he meant.
He was seated at the computer, clicking away when she emerged. “Shame,” he said softly, glancing at her over the screens.
“Send me your invoice,” Sabra insisted and handed him a flyer for her next show. “You should come and see me. See if I can’t change your mind.”
“I’m sure you’d try,” he said, lifting his gaze from her breasts, unbound beneath the cotton, to her face. “But you’d ruin me.”
“That would be the idea,” she said, swaying out of the studio.
Chapter Four
For months, she’d had no idea if he'd attended one of her shows, even when one of the pictures he'd taken went stellar and everyone seemed to want the print in their homes. She’d been a good girl. No more Dom-hunting. Not when the possibility of her and Tristan existed. Lauren did get fed up of being pumped for information and developed a strange sixth sense whenever Sabra even thought about asking her how and where Tristan was. “For the last time!” she snapped as they readied themselves for a private birthday party performance. “No he hasn’t found anyone else.”
“I didn’t say a word!”
“You didn’t have to! God, you get this look on your face that makes me want to lock you on a St Andrews and leave you there.” But the fish had bitten, finally. And he'd better
bite all over. It’d only taken him the better part of a year to see to her way of thinking by coming tonight. At the least, he could say thank you to her for being so patient, instead of camping out at his studio, tying herself to a chair and putting a ball gag in her mouth. Now he was here, at her Mad Men night. The dress code was strict, the patrons could smoke in the club and the drinks were as hard as her fingernails. This was definitely Tristan’s style and a calling card for him to see what could so easily be his.
“I’ll be out in a minute!” she yelled back to Lauren, exiting the stall and briskly washing her hands. With slightly shaking hands, she reapplied her usual ruby red lipstick and tapped a gloss over it. She blew a kiss at her reflection and made her way back into the throng of the party. Normally hating themed events, she knew Tristan wouldn’t be able to resist attending this one. He was a visual artist, after all. This time tomorrow, she’d be good and trussed up, and Tristan would have a level ten paddle to hand.
She caught sight of him first, resting a broad hand on the bar, waiting for his drink. No one looking at him would think he was the type of male that gifted the sharp, stinging swat of a cane. She assumed most people just considered him a good-looking nerd. Foolish women. Good for her.
“Hello, Sabra,” he said before she opened her mouth.
“Ever observant.” She laughed, going on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
His smile darkened his eyes behind his glasses. “I’d know where you were anywhere in a room. I’m rather wired to you.”
“You make that sound like a sentence!” She picked up a napkin and gently caressed the red stain of her lipstick from his skin. He caught her hand.
“Not at all.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and held it for a brief moment as he called for another glass. “Bordeaux for you?”
“Yes, please. So we’re not dancing around...” She pointed between the two of them.