Book Title: Chiaroscuro
Author: Roxane Crawford
Genre: Dark Erotica
Release Date: April 21, 2016
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions
When I tell men what I look for in a relationship, they either run the other way or think a light spanking during sex is enough to get me off. It isn’t.
The only man who ever understood what I need is a man whose name I don’t even know, and whose face I didn’t even see.
My name is Alexandra Sinclair, and I’m a masochist.
WARNING: If you have ANY kind of trigger, this book is not for you.
After a long bath in the decadent bathroom in my suite at the hotel I dial the concierge to inquire about the nightlife.
“What did you have in mind?” he asks me in French.
I haven’t spoken French with a French since we’ve moved from Paris to Weston what seems like ages ago but which is, really, barely 4 years.
The words come easily, and I flat out tell him what I’m looking for. “Anything kinky will do.”
“Then you’ll surely enjoy the masked ball at the Xpose club. You’re in luck; it’s only once a year. I’ll bring you appropriate attire. Size 0, are you not?”
At 5’1’’ and 105 pounds, yeah, size 0, genius. “Yes,” I say.
I’m in my red silk kimono, applying mascara when there’s a knock at my door. I open and the cutest concierge stands before me; tall, blond, with deep, green eyes – a green darker than mine.
I smile instantly, and he hands me a small package. “Do let me know if you’d like something different. I will gladly fetch you something new.”
Fetch? Yeah, I don’t need a lapdog; I want to be the lapdog. “Thank you,” I say. “I’m sure this will be satisfactory,” and as I say the words, I realize with horror that I sound just as pompous as my brother.
The concierge bows, I tip him, and he leaves.
In the package is a pair of silver Troelsens stilettos and matching clutch, a stunning slinky white evening gown, an equally stunning white faux fox scarf, and a white masquerade mask encrusted with zircons. I scoff, insulted that the concierge would hand me fake diamonds, but I realize that a diamond encrusted masquerade mask must not be something readily available, so I forgive him.
I finish my make up with a red lip instead of my usual nude one. My complexion is pale and creamy; with a white dress and a white mask, a nude lip wouldn’t look so sharp.
I stuff my essentials in the clutch, slip on the shoes and the faux fox scarf, grab the mask and get down to the lobby, where the fair haired concierge is waiting at attention. If I can, I’m having some of that blond meat later.
I hop in a cab and ignore the knowing smirk the driver gives me when I tell him where I’m going. He’s in his late twenties, I think. Bit too young for me. I like them about twice my age. Of course, I can make exceptions; musicians, for example. They can be my own age and I’ll happily fuck them. Musicians bring us closer to the divine. To copulate with a musician is sacred.
The Xpose is situated at a dead end. Its door is huge, made of heavy wood, and there are two sconces of real fire illuminating the entry way. Two bodybuilders in white tuxes guard the door, and elegantly dressed, masked patrons are waiting in line. I slip on the mask, give the cab driver a hard hundred and get out of the car.
I spend five hundred to get in the club without waiting and am disappointed when I get past the heavy black curtains.
A few masked couples are going at it, sucking and lapping, a girl with a very nice rack and a fox mask is up on a stage dancing around a steel pole, and that’s it. Nothing exciting is going on, nobody’s getting whipped or anything.
With a sigh I sit at the bar and order a Lagavulin. I down it and order another. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tall, dark haired guy but when I turn my head towards him, he’s gone. Shaking my head, I down my second Lagavulin and look at a couple giving one another hand jobs.
I’ve been to orgies before. Not what I had in mind for tonight.
I stretch my neck, about ready to leave, when a terribly tall plague doctor comes my way. I perk up when he sits beside me, and asks, through his mask, “Not what you expected?”
I gasp; I am not fond of masks which cover the entire face. They’re freaky. “No,” I say.
“What were you expecting?”
His voice is muffled but I can tell his French is perfect.
“More whip. Less cock,” I say, staring into two black pools instead of eyes.
A frisson goes through me. I’ve seen eyes like these before. I don’t like it; I look away.
A gloved finger under my chin forces me to look back into the black pools. The plague doctor cocks his head. “What if I were to give you all whip and no cock. Would you enjoy that?”
A smile comes up without me having to force it.
“Very well,” the plague doctor says, stands, and offers me his hand.
I gladly take it, expecting him to take me to one of the back chambers, but to my surprise, he takes me on stage instead. The girl dancing on the pole bows her head and skitters off stage.
The doctor takes my wrists and what seems like out of nowhere, shackles appear. I look up and see the steel grid there, with shackles and ropes and chains ready for use. I smile some more and a soft chuckle comes from the doctor.
He ties me up, places my clutch and scarf on a small table and bends to look me in the eye. “May I touch you?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say.
“Yell ‘red’ if what I’m doing to you is not enjoyable. Understood?” he asks with the softest voice I’ve ever heard.
I nod, but he repeats, “Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
The doctor runs a gloved finger along my cheek and I imagine somewhere behind his mask, he’s smiling.
Slowly, the doctor walks around me. I keep my eyes up front.
This isn’t my first whipping. I just hope the man knows what he’s doing. I’d take a harsh, well administered whipping over a long hard fuck any day. I’m weird that way.
Soft hands come on my shoulder blades. “Are you scared?”
I say nothing but nod my head.
The doctor grabs a handful of my hair and yanks my head back so far I can’t breathe. My heart starts pumping.
He places his other hand over my throat and squeezes.
My nipples start to tingle.
“You should be.”
He lets go of me only to pat my cheek with a weak little slap.
When I look up at the doctor, he cocks his head and it totally reminds me of the movie Halloween. I cringe despite not wanting to, and the doctor caresses the cheek he just slapped. I can’t believe I’ve become such a wuss; afraid of a mask. But, it is what it is. After what happened to Manny and me, I’m now afraid of masks which cover the entire face.
Without a word, the plague doctor unzips the back of my dress and pulls it apart to expose my back. I wait.
And I wait.
I hear him shift, and I hold on to the binds keeping my arms up. I forgot to ask him what he wanted to whip me with. Was it a whip? A flogger? A belt? A crop? A cane?
Ohfuck, I hope it’s not a cane I’ve never been beaten with one ofth—
A hit on my back. That’s a belt. I think. We’re good.
I yelp. That guy knows what he’s doing. He’s hitting me hard. Almost too hard. I love it.
Another hit comes, and my skin starts to heat up. So does my pussy.
He hits me again, and again, and once more, and he stops.
I rest my cheek on my arm and wait, hoping he hits again.
An ungloved hand comes up my inner thigh, and fingers probe about my pussy. The doctor’s nose approach. “More to your liking?” he asks, a finger slipping inside me.
I squirm, wanting the finger deeper, but it is removed.
The doctor yanks my head back again. “I believe I asked you a question.”
He speaks softly, which is way creepier than if he’d yell. Yeah, that guy definitely knows what he’s doing.
“Yes, sir. More to my liking, sir. Thank you, sir,” I say, stopping myself before I say, “May I have another?”
“How many more?”
I smile. “As many as you wish, sir.”
He chuckles. “Tell me, please.”
“Six.” I say. A dozen hits is nothing, but I don’t know what he has planned for after. I may need my strength.
The six blows come in what seems to be one giant hit. They cover all of my back, leaving a stinging burn and I end the string of whacks with a little giggle.
I should have asked for six hundred.
The doctor covers my back with the fluffy side of my scarf and unshackles me.
“Already?” I ask, and he nods.
He wraps an arm around me and accompanies me to a comfy club chair, where he sits with me on his lap. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” he asks, and I giggle like a stupid air head, nuzzling his black cape.
He cradles me for a while as someone brings me a sip of water. I down the bottle and rest my head on the doctor’s chest, inhaling his cinnamon-y aroma. That man smells heavenly. I let out an appreciative moan and close my eyes.
I caress down the doctor’s chest and feel hard muscles under the cape and whatever he’s wearing underneath, if he’s wearing anything at all. I straddle his thigh and reach further down his stomach but he stops my hand.
“If you need to hump me like a bitch in heat, do so, but do not touch my cock unless I specifically instructed you to. Understood?” he asks softly.
“Yes, sir,” I say, and hump his thigh until I cum. It doesn’t take long.
Some women take forever to cum and treat each orgasm as if it were a transcendent experience. I envy them, sometimes. I cum so often in a day, an orgasm is as transcendent as brushing my teeth. Still, I need them just as much as I need to eat. Maybe even more.
Barely out of breath after my orgasm I straighten and zip my dress back up myself. Yoga for the win. “What now?” I ask, eager for more.
“Now? You go home, and you call me in the morning,” he says, handing me a business card.
For a second I wonder if that’s my Silver Fox from the plane, but discard the thought. Silver Fox was English. The Doctor is… well his French is impeccable so I guess he must be French.
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“I’m leaving Paris tomorrow,” I lie.
“Then you call me before you get on the plane, and we’ll take it from there.”
I stand. “You’re dismissing me?” I ask, heat quickly traveling from my sex to my cheeks. Nobody dismisses me without my wanting to be dismissed.
“I am,” he says, and even has the nerve to wave a hand as if I were a bug bothering him.
I huff, crumple his business card, leave it on his lap, grab my clutch and shoes and stomp out of the club, hailing a cab.
Who does he think he is?
I remove the mask in the taxi and hunt the concierge the moment I set foot in the hotel. I find him, discussing with a couple. He smiles at me, talks some more and, done, comes my way.
“Enjoyed your evening?” he asks, in a voice not even half as pleasant as the doctor’s.
“Oh, I apologize. I thought you might enjoy. May I recommend—”
“No. I want you. I want to suck your cock until you pop in my mouth like champagne and I want you to fuck me until I beg for more. Think you can provide that for me?”
“Why, yes. I live to serve.”
Soft spoken introvert with a weakness for music and melancholy.
Roxane was born in Montreal, Canada, of French Canadian parents and was exposed to the English language at a young age. It was love at first hearing.
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