Catherine The Matriarch

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Lowdown Ecstasy

In a way, I regretted Honey’s departure. She knew how to excite me with her shiny heinie. But that was the problem: She seduced me into watching her and thoroughly addicted me. With her out of sight, I could think clearly and face my serious bind. Honey’s games started out like a big, role-playing joke. I thought she talked about cash because, as Freud said, money symbolizes s*x. That’s why I’m a banker. Forget the symbolism. Honey grabbed for the money itself. She made no secret about leveraging me into financial submission. She meant to bury me in debt and keep me in her golden handcuffs. I had to escape.

Glancing around the basement, I saw a door that was ajar. But then I spotted a toilet and sink inside. An enclosed bathroom offered no hope of an exit. The windows, of course, were sealed and barred. The only way out was the stairway. I’d have to con Honey into thinking I wanted to stay, and then run for the stairs at the first chance.

So I had a ray of hope. Why was Honey taking so long? Oh well, until she returned, I could plan my escape. Suppose I raced up the stairs and ran outdoors. What part of the city was I in? Would it matter? Nothing good could come from running naked through the streets of New York City in January, whether we were in Brooklyn, Manhattan, or any other borough. On second thought, maybe I could pull off such a stunt in some parts of Manhattan—say, Greenwich Village—without incident.

Nah.

The clack-clack of Honey’s high heels on the stairs destroyed my concentration. She was wearing a butternut latex mini-dress, the mocha leather gloves she had worn Saturday, and mocha pumps. “Did you miss me?” she smiled. She carried a bucket in one hand and a plate in the other.

“You’re worth the wait! Your wardrobe is one of the sexiest I’ve ever seen.”

“Why not the sexiest?”

Thinking of Mrs. Roman again, I dodged her question. “You look great in earth tones. And I can’t get over how stacked you are!”

She placed the bucket beside the bed and held the sandwich inches from my mouth. “Do me two favors and you can have some.” After I lurched, she added, “Some food.”

I pointed to the bucket. “I can’t eat a sandwich with that smell. Please take it away. But let me guess what you want me to do. First, kiss your foot and then kiss your ass.”

“Close! I want you to f**k my feet and then kiss my ass. After you clean up the mess you made with the oatmeal.”

“What?? You are one weird lady!”

“I thought you might be tired of hand jobs.”

“Does the phrase ‘missionary position’ mean anything to you?”

She ignored me and took the plate with my sandwich to a table out of my reach. I watched her shiny ass. Returning, she looked puzzled. “Do masochists like regular s*x?”

“Depends on the masochist. Some guys substitute pain and humiliation for s*x. Not me. Abuse from a beautiful woman is like very rough foreplay—arousing, but not fulfilling.” Of course, I could have added that my desires depended on the woman, too. I’d settle for anything from Catherine the Great.

“And you think I’m weird!” She pinched my cheeks playfully. “Maybe when my sliding fee reaches thousands of dollars, I’ll let you have some of the real thing. Meanwhile ...” She turned her back to me and placed her hands at her waist. Sliding her hands down her hips and buttocks, she looked over her shoulder and asked, “How’s my ass? Do you get turned on looking at it?”

“God, yes!” The sight of her dark gloves tracing the curves of her backside, encased in butternut latex, excited me more than if she had been nude.

“Good.” She turned and smiled at me. Drawing near, she reached behind me and unfastened a buckle that had kept me cocooned in a woman’s long-sleeved latex top. Then she unlocked the two pairs of handcuffs at my ankles, leaving the cuffs dangling from the bed knobs. “Don’t try anything funny,” she warned. “Remember what I told you about the last guy.”

“He OD’d on heroin, didn’t he?” I swung my feet out, stood, and flexed my arms and legs.

“The coroner said heart failure.”

“We all die from heart failure. Our hearts fail, and we die. To my knowledge, Clark never used heroin before. What happened that night?”

She took my head in her hands and forced me to look directly into her glaring eyes. “He had heart failure because he asked too goddamn many questions!”

“I get your point. Sorry if I was rude.” I think I actually felt sorry for her. Honey waved Clark’s death like a threat before me, but otherwise she clearly disliked talking about it. I doubted that she killed Clark. Or that she ordered him to be killed.

“Apology accepted,” she said. “Now, clean the bed.”

Sticking my hand into the warm, sudsy liquid, probably a disinfectant, I found a sponge and rubbed it carefully along the bed, meticulously removing every trace of oatmeal or jism. I went over the entire bed twice to make sure.

Inspecting my work, Honey scoffed, “Pretty good, but you’ll have to do a lot better, and a lot faster to be my maid. Dump the bucket in the toilet over there.”

When I returned, Honey handed me the plate she had dangled before me like a carrot. “Don’t eat too fast,” she cautioned.

I was so hungry I gobbled down the sandwich in three bites and inhaled the chips.

She looked at the empty plate and sighed, “Why do I bother? You’re young. You think you’re immortal. Keep eating like that and you’ll learn the meaning of ‘acid reflux.’” She handed me another condom. “Put this on,” she said. After I slid the latex tube on, Honey shoved the plate across the floor, out of the way, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Before we get started,” she said, “take off my shoes and lick my feet. My stockings might slow you down, but you can manage.”

“Honey—”

“Don’t whine.”

I knelt before her. Honey’s pumps looked so sexy that I hated to take them off. When I removed her pumps, her feet smelled of shoe leather but nothing offensive. She probably washed them before coming back downstairs. The leather scent helped me salivate. Drenching her feet was physically easy but humiliating. The same act would have been glorious with … Oh! I had to quit my wishful thinking.

“Good boy.” Honey patted me on the head. Sitting beside me on the floor, she explained our roles. “I’ll lean over the bed,” she said. “You kneel behind me and watch my ass—think you can do that?! No touching. After you unload your gun between my feet, I’ll tell you what to do.”

“No instructions needed!”

“For now, stick your c**k between my feet. I’ll try to keep my feet together, but you’ll have to hold them and slide your c**k in and out between my feet.”

“Not to complain, but what’s the point in all these circus acrobatics?”

“Good question, Frank.” She patted me on the head. “Have you ever been able to watch a woman’s ass, neatly wrapped in shiny latex, while you were humping her?”

“Oh! I will now! And I’ll bet during high school, you used to do this trick to prevent pregnancy.”

“Bingo. Two other points. I’m wearing a garter belt and stockings so you can see a little thigh over the sexy dark rims of my stockings. Second, I’ll get myself off. So, if you like to watch my ass wiggle, I’ll give you a show!”

She leaned low onto the bed, jutting her rump toward me magnificently. I slid my c**k between her feet, an inch or two below her heels, and clamped her feet tight against my c**k. Her feet were still warm from being pressed into tight shoes, despite the cooling effect of my saliva partially evaporating. Her warmth stimulated my c**k while it was sliding back and forth. I almost lost my load watching the spectacle of her derriere squirming in latex, blending the beauty of her symmetrical ass-cheeks with the raunchiness of her roiling flesh underneath.

Honey fingered herself with focused purpose, and the increasing acceleration of her hand inspired me to fast, smooth strokes. When the hem of her dress rode up, the lure of her rear end dissolved from beauty into raw s*x. First her dark stocking rim emerged, fulfilling her tantalizing promise, and then her patch of thigh—so close to her nest!—signaled “Go” just as unmistakably as a green light starts a drag race. Although I felt spent, I shot off repeatedly.

She sighed heavily, probably disappointed, but continued m**********g. When she fingered herself to a crescendo, I leaned forward and kissed the latex covering her ass and then jammed my nose in, pressing the stretchy fabric into her crack. My booster thrust triggered her climax, causing her to arch her rump into my nose as hard as she could to add more kick to her ecstasy.

Exhausted, she rolled over and slid backwards, up onto the bed. “You’re damn good at foot-f*****g. Sure you haven’t done this before?”

“No, nasty high school girl. Thanks for teaching me.”

“By the way,” she said off-handedly, “you have a date tonight.”

“What! Why did you wear me out?”

“Rest this afternoon. But I don’t care if your c**k recovers. All you need is one finger or your tongue. Maybe your nose,” she reflected with a fond smile. “Anyway, your c**k belongs to me, and me alone. Got it?”

“You’re sexy when you act bitchy.” I was too weak to rebel. Honey could teach vampires a few lessons about draining someone’s vitality. My inner vision of Mrs. Roman’s exquisite beauty faded from her vibrant reality of just two days ago to a soft, abstract image of perfection—flawless, but surrealistic.

And then Honey dropped her bombshell: “Your date is with Catherine Roman.”