Monday, 20 April 2015

Blue Monday - Ashton Peal guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

This week's guest post is from the story The Sound of the Chime by Ashton Peal.  It's the opener to the new anthology Spy Games, edited by Jill Boyd.

From the sunny streets of South Florida, to the bars of Paris, to the backstreets of Rome where a secret club for old spies lies hidden, Spy Games is a collection of nine tantalizing tales in which spies and detectives seduce and deduce in all corners of the world.

Edited by Jillian Boyd and featuring stories from the likes of Zak Jane Keir, Slave Nano, Emily L. Byrne and F. Leonora Solomon, Spy Games is filled with danger, desire and the thrill of sex and spying. Unleash your inner Mata Hari and devour this collection… should you choose to accept this mission, of course.

The rapid shifts are disorienting, making her eyes roll and her teeth clench.

Chime closes her eyes. Without thinking, she brushes her fingers across her lips.

The old familiar caress, the motion that was her way of imaging Operator’s distant touch, sets off a series of chain reactions. Suddenly every part of Chime’s body cries out for attention. A trail of itching desire runs down her chin, over the soft bones of her neck, between her breasts. Lower. The hair on her head stands at attention as her scalp pinches tight, the repercussions traveling in waves through her bones and into her pelvis. It’s been over a year, she realizes, since she felt this alert.

The heavy breathing, the soft half-moans of pleasure from the couple outside Chime’s door are a cloud of sound. Eyes closed, no longer distracted by the broken beams of erotic imagery, she can hear it and feel it all. The world opens up to Chime and the waves and echoes paint the world for her from every angle.

“You’re a spy,” the woman says, her words drawn around a smile. “Then I can make you talk.”

Chime hears the shift of the woman’s weight as she kneels on the carpet and The Drake’s surprised gasp with the first smooth sound of her tongue sliding along the shaft. Maybe, Chime thinks, she can hear it as he grows beneath the wet sounds. More unaffected gasps in between the furrowed rasps of long fingernails dragging down his thighs. Unrelenting suction, rocking back and forth, the woman’s sharp exhale through her nose.

Chime remembers the night that Operator called. She remembers the sensations and her longing, the way she wanted to call out. But she was too scared then to embrace it all. And when she tried, Control put her in her place. Chime’s moment of weakness opened her up to The Company’s ears for ears for ears and stripped her bare, broke her down.

But that was then, in the safe prison of her hotel rooms and offices. This room is the black box. There are no eyes for eyes for eyes. Just Chime and The Drake and the woman. And now that Chime has closed her eyes, it’s just her.

She can do whatever she wants with her hands.

Chime runs her fingers across her neck, drawing the glisten of sweat together into a single bead that runs down between her breasts. The woman outside the closet moans, mouth still full, as Chime unbuttons her blouse just enough to slip her hand in and begin to massage herself.

Feet move, weights shift, as someone stands up, and then the wet, hungry sounds of mouth on mouth. Chime’s fingers slip between the edge of her bra, the tips pressed tight against her skin as she circles her areola and feels the nipple swell. It’s aching to be touched, to be pulled. So when the bedsprings groan at the couple’s vigorous and unexpected entrance, Chime obliges and under the cover of the noise allows herself her own little moan. The sheets rustle as the couple jockeys for position, making Chime’s own movements.

“Are you a spy, too?” The Drake’s play-acting brogue makes every part of Chime damp. “Say it for me, lass. I have ways of making you talk.”

The woman gasps and thrashes, then shrieks.

“No please. Please!  I’m too ticklish.”

The writhing stops, replaced by the dripping sounds of something thick and firm rubbing against something softer and wetter, more accommodating.

“Well then, lass,” The Drake draws out his words, the pressure building between Chime’s legs, swelling with each syllable. Her free hand moves down to the hem of her skirt, but hesitates there. “I guess it’s time to use drastic measures.”

The slick sound of his entrance and the woman’s gasp push Chime over the edge and her skirt up over her hips. As the bedsprings beyond the door begin to creak beneath the rhythmic percussion of skin on skin, Chime rubs herself furiously. The couple moans while Chime pants in her warm darkness, working at her own frustrations. The friction and the rocking both inside and out sculpt mirrored worlds in echolocation. Chime can hear the shape of them fucking and the shape of her now fucking herself.

“Say it for me,” The Drake says as the woman beneath him wails in ecstasy.

Chime hears the echoes of the past and Operator, but without the specter of Control, there is nothing to hold Chime back.

“Say it for me.”

Chime is pushing it harder and harder, a finger inside herself, now two. The couple outside are locked in an epic battle, but it’s nothing compared to the one raging in Chime’s hands and in her body. She feels herself becoming less and less here and more and more everywhere. Chime is ringing in new vibrations and about to sing.

“Say it for me.”

“I’m a spy!” The woman screams, The Drake groans, and Chime finally bursts. The sound of her pleasure is muffled, hidden to the others by their own cries, but to Chime it is this new crystalline sound of her own release that resonates in her ears.

The rocking stops as The Drake falls into the bed beside the woman. Their breathing is deep and rhythmic, uniformly spent. They whisper to each other, but Chime is uninterested. Instead, all the different echoes of liberation in the eaves and belfries of her body enthrall her.

The Drake and the woman are drifting off to sleep, but Chime hasn’t felt this awake in ages.

When the couple drifts off, Chime slides the closet open. The couple is spooning and, if she wanted to, Chime could just glance at The Drake’s face. She could finally see him.

But she neither needs nor wants to. Not now. Probably not ever.

Instead, Chime slips out quickly and silently, easing the door shut behind her. In the hallway, she adjusts her skirt, buttons her blouse and walks to the elevator.

Buy at:
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