| "Toying With Danny Boy" (MF, cons, toys)
copyright 2000-2001 by Souvie
Author's note: This is a work of erotic fiction, and was
inspired by a an erotic photograph by Ashely Redding. If
you're not of legal age to be reading it, then please
don't. The is copyright by me, Souvie, so please no
reposting unless you've gotten permission from me first.
Archiving at the Dulcinea Memorial Writing Festival website
is allowed. In the spirit of the Blow Job Principle, I
welcome any and all comments. In fact, I get off on
feedback. Email me at femNOSPACEecricain at netdot dot com
or use the handy form on my website:
"Toying with Danny Boy"
Daniel straightened his tie as he looked in the mirror
over the sink. The investors had arrived and would be
expecting his report in exactly... he glanced at his
watch... seven minutes.
There, the tie was perfect. He thought about Alexa's hands
straightening it just before he left this morning. Long
fingers with clear buffed nails raking down the center of
his chest, mimicking her actions of just hours before when
they'd been lying on sweat-soaked sheets. He'd left her at
the door with a promise to hurry home as soon as he could.
They'd ordered some new toys from an online store and they
were due to come in any day.
Alexa had waved to him and promised to let him know at
lunch if the mail had come or not. Then she'd blown him a
kiss and pulled back her robe to show him what she wasn't
His stomach clenched now at the thought of Alexa, her
milky skin and long wavy black hair. Lord that woman made
him hotter than a six-peckered alleycat.
"Daniel, they're ready," his partner said, sticking his
head into the men's room.
"Coming." He banished all thoughts of Alexa and her
luscious legs to a remote corner of his mind and headed for
the conference room.
Seven people waited for him there -- his partner, Roger,
and the six investors. He'd worked, along with Roger, for
over a year to get their project off the ground. Now that
it was fully underway, the investors insisted on weekly
updates, in person, not by fax or conference phone. The
week to week progress was so minute these meetings were
nothing more than a waste of time. Time he could be
spending out on the job site.
"Morning, gentlemen." He gave them a hundred-watt smile
and snapped open his briefcase. "I've prepared the weekly
update for you all, as usual." He shuffled some things
around and started passing out the thin folders. There,
underneath the handouts, was a pink piece of paper, folded
in two with his name scrawled in Alexa's handwriting on the
outside. He picked it up and a Polariod fluttered out and
landed face up on top of his notes. His eyes widened as he
saw it and he shoved it back in his briefcase. His eyes
widened more as he quickly read the note.*
His index finger went up and ran along the inside of his
collar. Suddenly his tie was too tight, his clothes too
binding. "Ahem," he cleared his throat. "I'm afraid
something has come up unexpectedly. If you gentleman don't
mind, Roger here will finish up the presentation." He
snapped the briefcase shut and locked it, the pink note and
photo safely inside.
Roger drew him aside. "What's going on?"
"An emergency at home. Alexa . . I'm needed at home." He
slapped him on the shoulder. "You know this stuff as well
as I do." He smiled tightly and nodded at the investors.
The only female in the group caught his eye. The wide smirk
on her face and the knowing wink let him know he hadn't
shoved the photo back in his case fast enough. He beat a
On the way home he pushed the speed limit, daring a cop to
stop him. He arrived home with a high-pitched squeal of the
tires and was out the car without even bothering with the
"Alexa," he called out, flinging the door open and then
slamming it shut. He dropped his briefcase in the hall and
started loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, as he
walked through to the living room. She wasn't there. He
heard humming and turned toward the bedroom.
She was sitting on the bed, gloriously nude, hands behind
her back, a wicked grin on her cherry-red lips. Just like
in the Polaroid. "Hi, honey. You're certainly home earlier
He grinned lazily at her and finished with the tie,
sliding it slowly out from under his collar and
letting it fall to a heap on the floor. His soon
joined it. "I found this note and in my
"Uh huh," he stepped closer. "That package we ordered came
in already didn't it?"
"And you set up the photo yesterday and slipped it in my
briefcase this morning?"
His grin got bigger. He unfastened his belt. "Aren't you
going to help me with this?"
She stood up and turned around. Only then was he able to
see that her hands were behind her back by force; the
vintage handcuffs they had ordered held them snugly
together. Her long hair tickled the small of her back as
she clasped her buttocks in her hands. "I have a small
problem," she murmured, looking at him over her shoulder, a
shameless grin tugging at her mouth. The position pushed
her rounded out, her whole body on display for his
"I can see," he said. He strode forward, turning her to
face him and pushing against her shoulders. She fell onto
the bed with a slight whoosh of air.
He picked up one slender foot. The of the polish
matched her lips and stood out, an obscene splash of color
against her creamy white skin. "Niiiice." He rubbed his
face against her foot and lightly nibbled her big toe.
"Ooooooooooooh yes." She licked her lips and groaned in
His eyes darkened with lust; with her leg raised he had a
good view straight down. He could feel himself getting hard
at the erotic sight of her long fingers squeezing and
pulling the cheeks of her ass. "I think you're too tense,
sweetheart. There's some kinks you need worked out," he
drawled, resting her foot on his chest as he unzipped his
* The pink note read: I moan as you gently rub your
fingers across the top of my right foot, moving towards my
toes . . . each one you individually massage . . . with the
palm of your hand you rub the sole of my foot and arriving
at the heel, you gently squeeze a few times . . with your
thumbs you now begin rubbing the bottom of my foot in
circular patterns increasing the pressure . . . your
fingers stroke the top of my foot . . .