Philadelphia Personal by Lynn Hoffman
Available as ebook only.
Valerie, a sexy and confident businesswoman places an ad in the Personals section. The ad reads:
Woman seeking Man
I'm just getting back into the dating scene after a divorce. The men I meet just don't take charge sexually the way I really like. After my fairly wild younger days, I know what I like, and it's this: I want a demanding older lover who will ravish me with his tongue, spank me, tie me up, and love to look at me. I love to be naked when he is dressed. And I would love to try some new things for my lover's pleasure. Please write and tell me your fantasies. I would be willing to meet someone in New Hope, if you sound promising. Or more exactly, if you make me feel like making promises.
Jack, an average looking male responds with a not-so-average response. He sends Valerie a very titillating story that sends her imagination running wild. They meet a few times and the emails get hotter and more graphic as time goes on. Valerie finds herself very turned on by what Jack can create with his fingertips, and wonders if he knows how to use them on actual flesh.
Lynn Hoffman creates a sensual fantasy land with the tantalizing emails in Philadelphia Personal. Twists and turns keep the reader interested while satisfying your craving for sexual deviance.
Includes: spanking, bondage, graphic email stories, belting, anal & oral sex, nipple torture
It begins with the smell of strawberries. We are in a room at the Four Seasons Hotel on the Parkway in Philadelphia and there’s a knock at the door. It’s room service and I step out in the corridor to sign and accept the tray. You hear me say “We’re not quite dressed in there.”
‘Not quite dressed’ is a bit of a misstatement, a sign of my awkwardness, a tiny violation of your privacy. The truth is that you are, except for a few pieces of cotton rope, completely naked on a piece of furniture that I am amused to call a ‘love seat’. One length of rope binds your wrists together in a handcuff knot. The loose ends of the knot are fished through a hole in the middle of a black walnut walking stick. The stick is about four feet long and at each end there is a brass fitting with a ring. Your ankles are tied, one to each end of the stick.
Lying on your back, the effect is of some beautiful animal trussed for a very special cooking. Your ass, which has a very faintly pink glow in the center of each cheek, is facing the middle of the room and your legs are bent with your arms sagging between them.
I wheel the tray to the couch and I sit down next to you. I pick a small bowl from the tray. It is one of those heavy, silverish hotel bowls that’s been polished by a thousand light scratches. Holding it near to your face, I command you to smell. You turn your head and sniff. The smell of strawberries seems oddly innocent in comparison to the transparent wickedness of your situation. I wonder if you think of that or if you are merely craving.
You exhale loudly and I frown. You have come very close to violating the Rule of Silence which obtains in hotel rooms. You see my look, realize your error and cringe. I decide to forgive you. I taste one of the smallest berries. It is not as sweet as its fragrance and I measure a heaping teaspoon of sugar into the bowl and start tapping the berries with the spoon, shaking the bowl and rotating the berries as I go.
I have time. In a minute or so, the fruit is bruised and glistening with juice. The added sugar will draw more juice by osmosis and in a while, the berries will have collapsed slightly into a puddle of their own sweet syrup.
I give it to you to smell again, set the bowl back, stand up and roll the tray away. You are watching me closely and I make sure to stand so that your legs don’t block your view. What you see is a strongly built middle aged man in hiking clothes-Timberland boots, khaki shorts, brown belt and a black polo shirt with no emblem over the heart. Clipped to the plaquet of the shirt is a small metal tag that signifies paid admission to the museum galleries that we visited an hour ago. The tag is mustard yellow and in its middle is a white silhouette of a Griffin, the beast that guards the treasure.
Your attention is drawn to the brown belt which I have unbuckled and am now removing slowly. It is a plain cowhide strap about an inch and a half wide and it makes a snapping sound as I draw it out of the last belt loops. I double it, take one end in each hand and pull; the flaccid middles come together with a sharp pop. I think of a Tibetan temple bell or a Muzzein clearing his throat.
Your eyes widen at the sound and you lick your lips. I let the belt hang by my side as I take a step closer to you. You close your eyes. Is it fear, is it a prayer? It’s a mystery.