The Journalist

The Journalist Part 1 and 2
Rate This Excerpt

Product Details
File Size: 146 KB
Print Length: 38 pages
Fortmat: ePub
Features: Flowing text
Language: English

Price(USD): $0.95


Part I

I’m already regretting not bringing a camera. Alright, it might give the game away a bit, but considering what’s on offer it’s going to be hard to get across what I’m seeing any other way. Bodies and flesh, sinuously pressed together, barely clothed. Silk gliding over breasts, caught on hardened nipples; erect members straining against their confines or, elsewhere, free and thrusting against bare hips. I’m over-dressed – conspicuously over-dressed. There are men dressed in loincloths, or nothing at all.


I had expected … something. Not this. A company like Brooks and Holt had to be having dirty dealings, which would naturally be discussed at their parties which had become infamous among the fat cat elite. Some hard drugs would have been appropriate, or evidence of money laundering; even hookers soliciting on the fringes, something normally immoral. What I’ve walked into is some kind of orgy.

“Would you like to remove your clothing?” I had been asked politely by a woman on the way in, at what one might normally call the coat check. She had handed me a white Venetian mask, her blue eyes trailing with interest over the contours of my body from behind her own mask. Beside me, a blonde woman with a breathtaking smile removed her long woolen coat revealing a jeweled underwear set beneath. Looking further, towards the party, I saw men in very little. The coats-and-more check girl was looking at me expectantly.

Smiling and mumbling something about it being warm, I had unbuttoned my shirt and handed it over. She paused. Vainly, I assumed she was checking me out. But now I see that the majority at the party checked a lot more than their shirts at the desk.

A waitress passes me by, and I snag a champagne flute, partly in an effort to fit in. Mostly I just seriously need a stiff drink. I start to drift forward, towards the throng of people but not into it. I catch brief glimpses of individuals. A man’s thick-fingered hand pulls at a scrap of silk, exposing a woman’s breast. Her nipple is dark and puckers into a hard nub, as she laughs and lets her silk dress pool at her feet. There is a red-headed woman smiling as she whispers in a blonde woman’s ear. She licks long and slow up the column of her slender neck. Then she looks up and meets my gaze.

It’s stupid, but I can feel myself blushing. Her eyes are a deep green. Her mask covers only the top half of her face, and her smile looks mischievous. The sight of so many bodies pressed together had surprisingly left me cold – but this woman, and her smile, her tongue along another woman’s neck, and her acknowledgment of my moment of voyeurism, makes my cock swell in response.

She starts to move towards me through the crowd of bodies. I have two choices. I could try to make an escape, and write about what I’ve seen. Even just the glimpse I’ve seen of what happens at these corporate soirees is enough to cause a stink for Brooks and Holt, I don’t really need any more dirt. Or I can speak to this woman. She must be with the company, or closely associated. This could be the tip of an iceberg. This could be the making of me.


As the red head pushes closer towards me, I see that she has already lost whatever gown might have originally covered her. All that’s left is a scrap-of-lace thong and a choker that looks like a thick silver chain, wound twice around her slender neck. She is freckled, all over her shoulders and down to her breasts which are small and pert. She’s more than a head shorter than me with a petite build. Slender hips sashay as she walks towards me, parting the crowd. I could pick her up and carry her off with no problems – the thought makes my hard cock throb painfully in my pants.

“Do you like what you see?” She asks when she’s close enough for her voice to be heard over the pounding music.

This isn’t the place to be coy. Not if I expect to fit in. I look her up and down once more, my eyes lingering on her lacy panties. “Of course,” I reply.

“Can’t see much of you,” she says, coming closer to speak in my ear. She leans in against me, and I feel her hard nipples graze my chest. My hand falls naturally on her hip, steadying her. “But I like what I can see.” I feel fingers brushing my hardness through cloth. My hips reflexively rock into her touch. “I’d like to see more.”

“Would you?” I ask archly, smirking down at her. Her eyes are alight with hunger and need. There’s a smell of sex in the air, but I know almost instinctively that she’s already wet for me. Her pebbled nipples, her parted lips, her blown pupils all give the game away. Taking a chance on the way I’m expected to behave, I slide my hand between her legs. Normally, this would be second or third date stuff. But normally I wouldn’t have a mostly-naked woman in front of me, teasing my hard dick. I can feel her juices hot and slick through the lace. She moans and grinds down onto my hand.

Removing the slick digits, I offer them to her. “Show me what that tongue can do again,” I say. It comes out as an order and she responds enthusiastically. Her tongue works over my fingers, tickling at the pads then pushing them open to clean between them. She sucks my fingers between her full lips, her green eyes watching me, until they’re completely clean.

“We can go somewhere quieter,” she says. I see her throat shift as she swallows down the taste of her own pleasure. “I know somewhere.”

I nod mutely. Almost all thoughts of journalism and scandal have gone from my mind. I want this woman, this stranger. I want to bend her over and fuck her hard, twist her nipples, pull her hair. I want to fuck her until she’s begging, until I feel her cunt shudder and squeeze around my cock.

She takes my hand and leads me away from the noise. Only the main room is properly lit, and I lose track of where she takes me. Left turns and right turns. We pass people. Couples kissing or fucking against the walls, a man on bended knees with a collar round his neck, his face pressed hard between a woman’s legs. The redhead ducks in through a door and I follow.

The room we enter is dimly lit and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. There is a chaise in the middle of the room, designed for reclining with only one armrest. Racks adorn the walls displaying various implements. There are dildos. There are whips. There are manacles and ropes. “I thought this might suit your tastes,” she whispers in my ear as she passes me, then drops to kneel at my feet. “Sir,” she adds as though for good measure.

She is utterly beautiful. Her head is lowered and I can see her long eyelashes against the ghostly white of the porcelain mask. Her breasts rise and fall with each short, panting breath. Her slender legs are spread so wide that I can see her pussy lips, the thong splitting them visibly soaked with her cunt juice.

“What do you want?” I ask, dragging my eyes away to consider the many possibilities this room offers.

“To please you,” she replies immediately.

I cock my head slightly, moving to the nearest rack and gently taking down some kind of whip. The many suede strands fall through my fingers, gathered at the ends to form a firm but supple woven handle. When I look back at the redhead she is watching me. She doesn’t look concerned. “What don’t you want?” I ask her.


She pauses a moment, glancing at the whips behind me. “No lasting marks. And don’t hit my face.”

Things I wouldn’t have done anyway. I’m no expert, but I’ve given a heat-of-the-moment spanking before. She’s pale, but bruises fade. That shouldn’t be a problem.

“Kneel on the chaise, legs nice and wide. But bend over the back. I want to see your cunt twitch when I hit you.”

She complies immediately, her moves graceful as she lifts up from the floor and drapes herself over the chaise. Her hips are narrow. I walk closer, one broad hand sliding over the firm curve of her ass and down her flank. My skin looks rough and tanned next to hers. I pinch hard, grabbing a handful of flesh and testing it between strong fingers. A sharp intake of breath from the redhead, but she doesn’t flinch or move away. “Good girl,” I murmur, and swiftly lift my hand to land a resounding open-palmed smack on her ass. The blow rocks her forward against the chaise. My hand stays there, cupping her as her skin warms from the smack.

What to find out what happens next? Purchasing the full EPUB here or on Google Play (just search Madam Jamei).

Product Details
File Size: 146 KB
Print Length: 38 pages
Fortmat: ePub
Features: Flowing text
Language: English

Price(USD): $0.95


The Journalist Part I & Part II