Bistro Libido

Bistro Libido
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ISBN:  9781780802534
Author:  John Cole
Word Count:  61,044
Format:  eBook

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The CageThe Cage

'I think I'll milk him now.'
   From somewhere - I didn't see where - she produced a single surgical glove which she donned as she approached me, snapping it onto her hand like a consultant about to perform an operation. She walked on her toes, as if wearing invisible stilettos. Her long legs scissored their way across the floor. She stepped round behind me and reached forward with her gloved hand...

A man loses consciousness during a dinner date with two mysterious young women. When he comes round he is naked, bound, at their mercy - and in a frenzy of lust!

Fleur answers an intriguing advertisement and finds herself shamelessly employed as an object of lust. Not only does it prove to be a most gratifying occupation - she comes to realise it's a life-changing experience.

The antics of a wanton woman prove too much for the village elders and the uncompromising punishment rituals of a quaint, rural community are revealed when she finds herself 'On The Frame'.

From bondage, corporal punishment and gangbangs to adultery, voyeurism and lesbian lust, Bistro Libido serves up a menu for the most ravenous customers as the various manifestations of desire and depravity are artfully explored in this steamy collection of explicit stories.

He was wheeled out first, according to the custom. Looked like an ageing invalid in a bath chair. Felt like... he didn't quite know what. And the crowds...? Were they... cheering?
   She was led out once he had been installed in the position that furnished him with his obligatory and perfect view. And the crowds were definitely cheering then. They were baying. They were veritably slavering.
   It cannot be said with what emotions he and his good wife were assailed during these preliminaries. Shame, anger, regret, trepidation. Arousal? Perhaps. One way or another, the law is the law. And, in this Province, the law was arbitrary... but fair. Tough but measured. Unorthodox, but fitting.
   This is how they had come to be where they were.
   He did not think he was a poor husband. Indeed, he loved his wife very fiercely. Nevertheless, some folk would question his nuptial qualities. He had been unfaithful many times. And now he had been unfaithful one time too many. For a long while his wife had been oblivious to his peccadilloes. More recently she had heard rumours. Finally she had caught him in flagrante delicto. Her reaction to this disappointment was not untraditional. She had decided to see how he would like a taste of his own treachery. When she made it known that she had been dallying on a secluded swathe of the riverbank with a youth who had been unable for some time to conceal the fact that her sweet smile and voluptuous figure stirred him considerably, her husband's response was to seek out the youth and punch him on the nose. (In truth, having lured the hapless lad down into the mossy bower, she had found that she could not bring herself to capitulate. She was simmeringly aware that passions bubbled within her breast and feared that to unleash them might drive her to uncontrollable excesses and prove her undoing in the greater scheme of her life).
   However, incensed at the injustice of the assault perpetrated by her husband, she poisoned his supper - precipitating a brief but violent sickness which occasioned a visit to the Village Healer. As it happened, within a couple of days of this consultation, the 'wronged' youth had also needed recourse to the Healer. His visit was necessitated after the object of his unrequited lust discovered that he had been boasting of taking his pleasure of her down amongst the reeds and intimating that she had responded like a 'bitch on heat'. Understandably less than happy about the proliferation of this calumny, she had made her complaint to its instigator in the form of a lusty pair of clouts about the ears with a set of hearth bellows, resulting in injuries far more irksome than the bloody nose he had sustained from his meeting with her husband.
   The Healer had been in no doubt as to how the agency of the husband's malaise had been administered. And the obvious suspects hardly numbered a multitude. Furthermore, the young fellow with the boxed ears was in no mind to conceal the identity of the antagonist in his own misfortune, reiterating for good measure that he had earlier been tricked into making love to the woman who had demanded to be penetrated vigorously and repeatedly until she howled like a she-wolf!
   Now the Healer was also a member of the Council of Justice and, deciding that these domestic aggravations had gone too far in their violence and their unbridled promiscuity, he convened a meeting of that august body so that proceedings could be brought, offenders assessed and means of retribution formulated.
   Most of the truth came out during the hearing, with the crucial exception that the youth managed to persuade the Council that he had indeed been cynically seduced by the wanton hussy who was clearly little better than her husband when it came to venereal intemperance. The 'innocent party' was therefore exonerated of all blame and the judicious officers set about composing a punishment process commensurate with the misdemeanours committed.
   After lengthy and meticulous deliberations it was decided that public humiliation, enforced enlightenment and a certain degree of corporal punishment would together constitute an effective check to the waywardness of the offenders. For him it was to be The Observation Platform. For his wife, the spectacle, the pain and the degradation of The Caning Frame.
   Strapped into the purpose-built chair, his head immovably pinioned, his eyelids fixed open with clips, he was positioned on the platform some small distance from the frame, three quarters on, affording of the proceedings a clear and close scrutiny which he could by no means eschew. On his head were the horns of the cuckold. Between his shackled legs lay his exposed member, released from the containment of his breeches and painted with woad: the sign of the libertine.
   As his wife was brought along the clear path that led to the frame, dragging her bare feet in a futile gesture of reluctance, powerlessly hauled towards the forbidding structure by the ropes attached to her wrists, no expression could be formed in her husband's enforcedly staring eyes, although small murmurings dribbled from his lips. The Master of the Frame was a large, stoutly built fellow, biceps the size of small boulders, forearms like prize salmon, his strong torso bulging beneath the studded leather of his tunic. Once the wanton had been brought to the place of her chastisement, the Master attached her to the top corners of the frame by the ropes about her wrists. Her ankles were manacled to a bar which spread them widely apart and she was ready for the commencement of her judicial ravishment.
   Offenders on the frame were frequently blindfolded but in this case it had been decreed that she should be allowed to witness every possible detail that went to make up the demeaning spectacle of her punishment, not least of which would be her unavoidable awareness of the observation imposed upon her husband. The Master applied a bright blue braid to secure her abundant auburn locks into a tight bun. Those long, long tresses would not be allowed to impede the implementation of the caning - or what was to follow. Moving to stand before her, he took her daintily sculpted chin between his thumb and forefinger, raising her face towards him in an attitude of mock supplication. He stared into her eyes with an expression of extreme ferocity and then turned to look at the crowds on either side with a vicious leer, eliciting a cacophony of cheering and a barrage of obscenities.
   Without further ado, he spat into her face, released his grip from her chin and tore her white calico bodices asunder with one mighty wrench. The delirium of the throng redoubled in appreciation of the rapine gesture. However, unsatisfied with the extent of the prisoner's denuding, the Master took a small stiletto from a pouch at the top of his thigh-boot, cut through the shoulder straps and threw the destroyed garment into the crowd, precipitating yet more wildness amongst the small group who jostled one another to try and claim the trophy.
   With her wrists bound to the top corners of the frame, as described, and her arms raised consequently high and wide, her large breasts made a magnificent spectacle displayed in such fashion. She had begun to shake slightly now that the ordeal was truly unfolding and that involuntary movement set those abundant mounds of firm flesh quivering succulently. Inspired, no doubt, by the engaging sight, the Master withdrew the cane from its housing on the side of the frame and flicked it to effect a light tap on one of her big, fat, crimson nipples, drawing a faint gasp from the penitent's lips. (Pain, of course, is not the only sensation that may encourage a gasp). He waved the cane in front of her so that she could appreciate its construction. It was long and thin, guaranteeing that its strokes would be mercurial and keen. He swished it through the air to his side in order to demonstrate its elegant power and then released a catch on the frame which lowered and brought forward the top of the structure so that the slut was now bent into an L-shape over the rail which nestled against her pubic area.
   The Master was indulging himself by mauling the great bosoms which hung down invitingly in the woman's now semi-prone attitude when a gaily clad Steward in burgundy and gold livery suddenly took up a position on the platform, beside the prisoner in the chair. After surveying the audience for a few moments he cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted: 'Do we want to see her arse?'
   The response was deafeningly affirmative. Not wishing to disappoint, the Master moved swiftly around behind the adulteress, made several cuts with his stiletto through the waistband of her skirts and then proceeded to tear the fabric into a multitude of shreds which littered about her manacled feet in a jumble of broad, white ribbons.
   Now it was the turn of the onlookers to gasp as they observed the luscious, shapely globes of her full buttocks. The Master patted each large round cheek lightly with his hand to indicate their robustness. Not an ounce of flab. As a backside it was a model of firmness and indeed a thing of beauty. Once again the Steward cupped his hands and yelled: 'How many strokes?'
   The resulting din was incredible. There was not a great deal of articulation to be discerned. Occasionally a figure would be heard clearly, many of them practically absurd: 'A hundred!'; 'Two hundred!'. Some of the lustier males were perhaps mindful of what was to follow in the wake of the caning and did not want to have to wait too long. They were shouting: 'Twenty!' or 'A dozen!'
   The Steward was laughing most heartily as he allowed the baying crowd to bellow out their suggestions. He stood there with his fists on his hips, throwing back his head to give full rein to his guffaws. Once or twice he bent down and thrust his leering face into that of the seated prisoner on the platform who would perhaps have looked miserable had his facial expression not been rendered immobile by the clips around his eyelids.
   Eventually the Steward held up his hand to silence the throng before announcing: 'There will be SIX strokes of the cane!'

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