Larceny: A Bit of Bondage & Spanking

By Emma Jones

"She kissed me like she meant it. Long and slow, the heat building as she broke away and nibbled on the lobe of my ear, then lifting my hair up and planting wet kisses on the nape of my neck. Goosebumps rose on my arms.

I ran my hand through her long silky hair, bringing a handful near my nose so I could smell her. Lilacs. She continued to kiss lower, cupping one of my breasts and bringing the nipple to her mouth. Her fingers gently squeezed my tit, pushing the nipple out even further, a ripe piece of fruit to be plucked by her lips. She did so, pulling its length into her mouth to be ravaged by her tongue."

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Jones
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005770105

Emma Jones

I am a freelance erotic writer who loves writing stories under various genres of erotica

Book preview

Larceny: A Bit of Bondage & Spanking

By Emma Jones

Published by

Cougar Publications at Smashwords

[e-mail]

Copyright 2021 Cougar Publications

Distributed by Smashwords

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entire coincidental

Authors Note:

All characters depicted in this work of fiction are at least 18 years old or above. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

It was one night in an endless string of dark, cold winter nights in New York City. The trees lining the Avenue of the Americas had long ago lost their leaves, standing barren, and waiting patiently for spring. The high temperature for the day was twelve degrees, with the wind chill taking it down to a balmy minus ten.

I left my high rise office building in Midtown Manhattan just after six, and it was already pitch black outside. There was a large Christmas tree in the lobby and garlands hanging from the lamp posts outside celebrating the arrival of Christmas, but no one on the street seemed to be in the holiday mood, just in the mood to get home out of the howling wind and the cold.

I fought though the crowded sidewalks to the bus stop for the 55 line, careful not to slip on the black ice that lurked under the light dusting of snow that fell that day. I arrived at the bus stop with about fifty other healthy souls. Our collective breaths appeared as a large cloud of steam, to be carried away by the stiff icy cold breeze that whipped between the skyscrapers lining Main Street for corporate America.

I was clutching the handles of a brown paper bag that held leftover cake from a party celebrating my fifth work anniversary, mindful of the people around me inadvertently bumping into the bag and crushing the cardboard cake box inside. The wind cut through my down coat and the clothes underneath, making me dream of a steaming hot bath when I got back home. The bus arrived, and the assembled crowd boarded in a more orderly fashion than I would have expected, given the intolerable conditions outside. I was one of the last to board, and stuffed myself between two businessmen and a woman with a young child, holding the paper bag close to me and trying to find solid footing for the ride.

As the heat level rose inside the packed bus, it lurched forward into the commute traffic. I grabbed for the handle above me as I bumped into a businessman wearing a sharp navy cashmere coat. He managed a weak smile as I apologized. Through the window I saw a couple leaning into the wind as they walked on the sidewalk alongside the bus, making faster progress than the gridlocked vehicles.

I transferred to the 21, for the crosstown portion of the trip. Another packed bus, people pressing against one another in their heavy winter coats. My silk blouse was now sticking to my back, my bra straps were digging into my shoulders, and my feet were sweating in my snow boots. It felt like a sauna inside and there were no vent windows to open. I closed my eyes and willed the last fifteen minutes of the ride to pass as quickly as possible.

The bus finally got to my stop, and I pushed through the standing room crowd to get to the rear exit, alighting the bus into a small snowbank that was taller than the tops of my boots. Fresh powder fell inside them and onto my sweating feet. A blast of cold air gave me a harsh reminder that I was outside again, and the sweat that had formed on my brow started to freeze.

I trudged through the newly fallen snow to my apartment building on the Lower East Side, a pre-World War Two brick four story walk-up. I checked my mailbox. Three bills, including an electric bill addressed to Christian Cooper, and a brochure for an all-inclusive resort on some Caribbean island. Couldn't they get my name right? I'd seen every possible way to spell Kristin (Cristin, Kristen, Christin ... you get the idea). I threw the mail into my paper bag.

I hiked up the stairs to my fourth floor apartment, still clutching the bag holding the cake box, with the snow inside my boots having melted and causing the inner soles to squish with each labored step. At the top of stairs I wanted to do nothing more than throw off my coat and kick off my waterlogged snow boots.

There was still snow on the shoulders of my down jacket when I opened the door to my apartment, a modest one bedroom with a partial view of the East River. The apartment was hot. The radiator, also circa 1930, was crackling and belching heat, ignoring the dictates of my thermostat.

I put my soggy snow boots into the plastic tray I bought for just that reason and hung up my wet down coat. I hung the scarf my mother knitted for me on the coat