Cradle Snatcher

by Alan C. McDonald

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Magic, Fiction, FemaleDom, .

Desc: Sex Story: They need each other, perhaps. But one of them wants something more than the other is prepared to give. A horror story, with a twist in the tail.

"Put me on a highway.
Show me a sign.
And take it to the limit one more time."


"You could take me home and fuck me", she said.

And Dominic wanted to. There was no doubting that. The girl was an absolute doll. Five four, long and straight black hair, big green eyes. Lips with gloss so pink and luminous that they seemed liquid. Pert, elfin nose. Slim, equine neck. A babe.

The words had been delivered directly into his ear on a wisp of warm breath. She was on tiptoe, her fingers touching the back of his hand as though to provide herself with an illusion of support. At the points of contact, his flesh tingled. He remembered Linda, and leaned back, half hoping that he'd discourage interest with his body language. Half hoping that he wouldn't.

And he didn't. Despite the increased distance, the girl's fingers stayed in place.

"Wish I could", he told her, his voice catching a little. "Really wish I could." He let his eyes wander down her body for perhaps the fiftieth time, noting again her slender waist and broad hips, the way that the crotch of her tight black cotton pants undulated over her pubic bone, dipping into a tantalising hint of a vee between her legs. The trousers matched black, low heeled, patent leather shoes and contrasted with a bright pink blouse, open to two buttons, revealing a broad expanse of creamy flesh. He didn't get the impression that her breasts were large, but they were high and proud. Which, unfortunately, was the way he preferred them. Unfortunately, because she was arousing him, and he couldn't afford to be aroused. He'd only just got back with Linda after a difficult period, and he believed that he needed to work at the relationship rather than undermine it.

The girl raised an eyebrow, a wonderfully teasing gesture. "And you can't because?", she wondered, sing song.

"Because, miss, I'm a married man", he told her sternly.

"Martine", she corrected, raising her shoulders a little, subconsciously presenting herself to him. "Although I do like miss. You're very polite. And I like married men. More experience."

"Added to which", he strove on bravely, "you're a little too young for me."

That wasn't necessarily true. She looked about nineteen, and he was only eight years older than that. But it served to place a barrier between them, and he felt that he needed all the barriers he could get.

He tried to remember how he'd got into this position. It was difficult.

Linda had come back only two weeks ago after a long affair. Well, a series of affairs actually, but he'd only found out about the others because of the last one. He'd confronted her with it after being told by a friend. She'd responded by shrugging her shoulders, admitting that she'd been shagging around for years and announcing her intention to leave on the spot. To go and live with the wonderful Bill. But the wonderful Bill had not been quite as wonderful as she'd expected. He was, she soon discovered, a morbid drunk. And he was only a few short steps from bankruptcy. Nonetheless she'd stuck it out, obstinately, for six months. Dominic had continued to plead and beg, to abase himself. Eventually, he'd won. She'd returned to him.

But there were to be ground rules. She'd continue to go out, on her own, with the girls, on Friday nights, and he would neither complain nor follow her. In return, she'd promise to behave herself. She'd learned her lesson, and he'd simply have to trust her. She had friends, he must understand. She wouldn't be shamed in front of them. He, for his part, would be freed on Saturday nights. It would be good for their relationship that he should meet new people. It might stop him being so stuck in a rut. So unimaginative. So, although she didn't use the word, boring.

Today was the first of those Saturdays, and Linda had told him quite firmly that she didn't expect him back until two AM. Which, at least after the pubs had closed, had limited his options to nightclubs, because none of his few friends could invite him back. All of them had loving partners.

The club he'd chosen, the Sundial, was the nearest to home, but it was still a twenty minute taxi ride from it. He'd entered unhappily, had bought a high priced pint, and had made his way to the edge of the dance floor. Only then had he taken his bearings.

The other men here varied widely in age. Some were younger than he was, some older, fifty per cent around the same age. But the girls were all in their late teens or early twenties, showing more flesh in most cases than a red blooded man could be expected to have to look at for too long without taking a cold shower. Dominic had given the observation about five minutes, watching the dance floor, then, sensing his blood pressure rising, had turned to cast an eye over the darker part of the club.

Martine was standing two feet away, leaning against a post. She seemed to be staring directly at him. He looked away, embarrassed, but was soon conscious that her own gaze continued remorselessly. So he'd turned back to her.

"Hi", he'd said, unsure of how to approach a very unusual situation. "I'm Dominic." She'd grinned, making him think of her momentarily as a pixie.

"Hi, Dominic", she'd replied, her voice clear and light over the pounding disco rhythm. Just that. Nothing else. After which, she'd simply carried on staring at him. Frankly. He wasn't good at reading invitations from girls to show a little interest, but this was pretty direct. It really seemed that she was attracted to him.

He waited a little longer, disorientated. Then, after a few seconds, he'd become a little irritated at the discomfort she was causing him.

"Can I do something for you?", he had asked.

And that was when she'd made her brazen offer. Now, she was pressing it. "Why am I too young?", she wanted to know. "I'm quite some years over the age of consent, that much I can assure you about."

Again, he was amazed at the clarity of her voice over the loud background of music and talk. "I haven't got a place to take you to, Martine", he argued weakly. "Married men have those sorts of problems."

Again, she demolished the obstruction easily. "That's alright", she said. "I've got somewhere I can take you."

He knew that he was beginning to weaken. The heat of her sweet breath on his cheek was an aphrodisiac. Already, he was uncomfortable below stairs. And her limpid eyes were intoxicating, holding him, and imprisoning him.

He started to rationalise, to clear a way through his morals. Linda had indulged herself, hadn't she? That was what the whole crisis had been about. So. Didn't she owe him this? Didn't he need, in some way, to balance out her sin? Wouldn't this make things better, give them a greater chance? Because he would have been there. He would be able to share her guilt. Rather than resenting the things she had done.

Perhaps Martine read his change of mood, and was giving him a final push. Or perhaps she really was getting impatient with him. Whatever her reason, she was suddenly clear. "Last chance. Train's leaving."

He grinned. "Where's it leaving to, Martine?", he asked cagily.

She studied him. Cocked her head to one side, again reminding him of a pixie or an elf. Then she said, "Come and make me happy." And she turned and walked away. No handbag, he noted incongruously. And found that odd.

He followed her of course. He tried to tell himself that he did so because he was curious, not for sex. But he knew that he hadn't decided yet how far he would allow that curiosity to take him. He realised that for the first time in a number of years, his immediate future was intriguing and unpredictable.

Martine moved quickly, but prettily, her shapely rear sashaying a path between the bar and the dance floor, then through the foyer. She didn't pause to collect a coat, but unlike the absence of the handbag, this omission didn't surprise him, because it was a very warm night. She looked back briefly to make sure that he too had nothing to collect, then breezed through the main doorway.

When he arrived on the pavement, breathless, she was waiting for him, cool, serene and smiling. Instantly, she slipped her fingers into his and steered him left, in the opposite direction to his home. Her grip was dry, but warm and strong.

They had only walked for a couple of hundred yards when she attracted the attention of a cab driver. He held the car door for her, and she slid in gracefully, but didn't move over, forcing him to walk around the vehicle and get in the other side. He had an illogical suspicion that the cab would drive away, that the last thing he would see of her would be her laughing face in the rear window.

But that didn't happen. In fact, by the time he joined her in the car, matters had progressed. She'd apparently already given the man a destination, because he pulled away from the kerb without a word.

Sliding across the seat, she snuggled close, her breath raising the hairs on his neck. He wondered if she wanted him to kiss her, and decided to find out.

She most certainly did want that. As soon as he turned and lifted her chin, she responded eagerly, her lips gluing to his. Her tongue snaked into his mouth, sweet and thick like some exotic fruit. He embraced her gently, lost in her musky, intoxicating scent.

The kiss, and the journey, seemed to last forever. At some point, he brought a hand up from her waist to cup her left breast, loosening one button of her blouse and snaking his fingers past it. She wore no bra, and he felt the heat and weight and firmness with joy. It was a young girl's breast, haughty and full; the nipple was big and already stiffening and throbbing against his palm.

Martine broke the kiss, let her head loll back, her breathing deepening. Her hair spread across his shoulder, settling sensuously and softly against his neck. But soon she turned her head slightly, lips parted, wanting to kiss again. He turned a little too, and this time the contact was tender. Her tongue traced a line along his lips, and he met it with his own. He trailed his fingers in her hair whilst she caressed the back of his head. Warm breath mingled.

After about a minute, she started to open his shirt. He made to object in case the taxi driver saw what was going on, but the kiss kept him spellbound and helpless. In any event, she stopped after three buttons, and slid her hand inside to torment his nipple between the tips of her fingers, quickly and efficiently making it stiffen. Then she played in his chest hair for a time before moving the hand down, out of his shirt, over his stomach. Without apparent concern over what might be visible in the rear view mirror, she closed her fingers gently around his balls, stroked them with the pads of her fingers.

Instantly, he was stiff. In fact, he couldn't recall being stiffer. His erection pulsated, raged against the confines of his zip. As her small hand squeezed and tormented him through the fabric of his jeans, he lifted slightly, unable to help himself. Occasionally she traced a finger down the entrapped length of his cock, and that made him shiver. There were times when he thought he might just come there and then, in the back of a slowly moving taxi, squirting his juice into the waistband of his boxer shorts. Her touch was insistent and wise, and dominated him; so much so that he couldn't concentrate on anything else, couldn't give her anything back.

Eventually, but without warning, she pulled away, her lips leaving his again, her hand drifting from his groin. "Stop here, driver", she said. "Here's fine."

The car pulled in. Dominic struggled into his pocket for money, but there was no need. Martine was already sorting that side of things out.

He was embarrassed. "What do I owe you?", he asked, while she waited for her change.

She looked at him for a moment. Her eyelids were heavy, and so was her breathing. It was clear that she was almost as aroused as he was. "Payment in kind", she breathed. "That'll do fine."

He stepped out on to the street. He couldn't have hoped to hide the stalk bulging from his groin, but fortunately there was no one about. Martine summoned him to the pavement, grasped his hand.

He hadn't followed the journey in either direction or time, and didn't know exactly where he was. So he took a look around. Martine, he realised, did not live in one of the most sought after residential parts of town. He'd passed through this area in his car; a square mile of tatty high-rise blocks of flats, all daubed with graffiti. Suddenly, he didn't feel very safe.

He was glad, therefore, that they were not out in the open for too long. Martine pulled him towards a short path, which cut through a grass verge. At the end of the path was a doorway, which led into one of the monolithic buildings. She opened the door with an enormous bunch of keys, which she produced from somewhere inside her skirt, and then she led him into a hallway.

It was not a pleasant hallway. It smelled musty, with hints of old food and stale urine. The walls were plaster and painted a vile shade of green. The door at the far end, which presumably led to ground floor flats, was halfway off its hinges.

Progress up was by way of stairs or either of two lifts. Martine summoned one of them with the press of an illuminated, arrowed button. Machinery ground, but the carriage took a while to arrive.

Martine didn't speak while they waited, and Dominic couldn't think of anything useful or chatty to say, so he contented himself with watching the numbers slowly fall on the lighted panel above him. The building, he saw, had eighteen floors.

The lift arrived, admitted them. It was a dull metal box with a strip light, and like the hallway, it held an unpleasant odour. Dominic had little doubt that it was used on a regular basis as a toilet.

Martine pressed the button which would take them to floor thirteen then, once the doors slid shut, she attacked him again, one hand cupping his balls with just a little too much force, the other hauling him down by the back of the neck into another kiss, this one of the passionate kind.

Her urgency restored his full swollen glory. His tool felt like an iron bar. His tongue delved into the well of hers, tasting her sweetness and youth. Relishing her youth. Because he was no longer concerned about how young she was. And he was no longer concerned about Linda. He just wanted to fuck. He just wanted to feel the warm, cloying flesh of Martine's cunt slither along his aching erection, ultimately to spurt his seed into this eager girl's womb.

The lift jerked to a halt with such force that it knocked him off balance, broke the kiss, and made her accidentally squeeze his testicles a little harder, though thankfully not hard enough to hurt. She led him into a musty corridor, where the odours he associated with a damp building assaulted his already abused nostrils. If there was intended to be any illumination here, he decided, then clearly it wasn't functioning, but in the half light cast by a small window to his left, he could see two doors, one on each side of the corridor. Glancing to his right, he made out another two.

And right was the direction she chose, guiding him up to one of those doors. It looked insecure within its frame, and of very light construction. Dark paint was peeling around the lock, revealing a white surface beneath. She released him for a moment so that she could magically produce her keys again. Having done so, she assaulted the lock. Clearly she experienced some difficulties, because it took a lot of pulling and pushing and maneouvring before he heard a click and they were able to enter the flat.

Inside, he was relieved to discover, things were nowhere near so bad as outside. Martine had flicked a light switch, revealing a short hall furnished only with a dark wood stand topped by a substantial aspidistra. The wallpaper was only anaglypta, but it had been painted a welcoming pink, and there was a pleasant floral border about two feet up from the skirting board.

Two doors led off to the left. He was ushered past the first, which was open, and through which he noted briefly a compact but tidy kitchen. The second was closed, but he guessed it would lead into the bathroom.

She took him through the only door on the right, into a lounge. A second door exited this room on the other side, and was slightly ajar. Through that, he could see the back end of a bed. Martine followed his eyes. Then she squeezed his arm.

The sexual tension between them now overwhelmed all else. Consumed by it, he reached for her, but she discouraged him momentarily with a gesture, directing him to sit down on a maroon two-seater sofa lodged beneath the accommodation's main window. Obediently, he took a seat, making sure that she registered his disappointment. She did, and smiled at him, surprisingly shyly for her.

"I'll only be a minute", she said. "I promise." And then she disappeared into the bedroom.

He waited. In an effort to diminish the discomfort of his desire, he assessed his surroundings.

As with the entry hall, the lounge showed evidence of both good taste and a meagre budget. On the walls, anaglypta again, this time painted yellow. Another floral border. Two easy chairs, matching the sofa. A small TV set, with video attached. A dining table, old but polished, with three non-matching dining chairs. Tiny ornaments, cats and dragons mainly, distributed on just about every flat surface. A gas fire, with a soft white rug laid in front of it. A bookcase, full of well-used paperbacks, amongst which Stephen King was well represented, as was Patricia Cornwell.

He heard Martine singing softly to herself and tried to identify the tune, but couldn't. It was, he supposed, something way too modern for him to have heard on Radio Two.

She took her time, and despite his efforts to calm down, the combination of memory and anticipation kept him uncomfortably hard. He needed to adjust the angle of his erection on three occasions.

After about five minutes, he hit on another scheme, which he hoped might moderate his libido. There was a mirror over the fire. He stood, and reviewed himself in it. Because Martine was no doubt "getting ready", the least he could do in return was to ensure that his hair was tidy.

The idea was a good one, because his ardour started to dissipate as soon as he saw himself. Instead of lust, his head was suddenly full of questions. Questions like, why on earth had this girl fastened on to him in this way? Dominic analysed the reflection carefully, guessed that even his own mother would not have viewed him as a person capable of attracting someone like Martine. His hair was receding, and there were enough lines around his eyes and mouth to advertise his age. His shoulders were slumped from months of worry, and his blue eyes were a little duller than he remembered. He wasn't running to fat yet, which was a good thing, and there was no grey in his moustache, which was always a dead giveaway. But Martine could not possibly have looked at him, even in the gloom of a nightclub, and mistaken him for any younger than he was.

He shrugged the weak shoulders. Perhaps she was mildly perverted. But in truth, there was no value in speculation. His lack of understanding was unlikely to be remedied, either tonight or in the future. Excitement was there to be enjoyed, not challenged.

She called him, and he went to her obediently. His mood of low self-esteem compelled him to that obedience, as did resurging lust.

The first thing he noted was that the bedroom, like the other rooms, was pleasantly maintained. It included inbuilt wardrobes, subdued lighting and a double bed with a luxurious top cover, predominantly pink but carrying a light, intricate floral design.

The most interesting thing about the cover, though, was that Martine was lying on top of it. Clearly she didn't plan any slow build up. Which suited Dominic just fine.

She had indeed, as the saying goes, changed into something more comfortable. The something was a short black satin negligee which toured her strong, nut-brown thighs at least an inch above the knee. It was fastened by a sash at the waist, and the position which she had adopted, propped up on her left elbow, meant that the swell of her right breast almost as far as the nipple was on show. Her eyes were bright. Her smile was relaxed, and heavy with invitation. It seemed that, finally, she expected him to take some control.

But he was confused. Sex with Linda followed a routine. How did he approach a girl with whom he had never been intimate? His youth was too far behind him for him to extract any guidance from it.

She gave him a moment or two, then seemed to understand his predicament. "Get undressed", she instructed gently.

Well, that was a start, he supposed. An embarrassing one, potentially. But a start, and he was grateful to her for it.

He opened his shirt to three buttons, hauling it over his head. Then he removed his shirt, socks and pants. Only then did he look at her again, standing for her inspection.

"Those too", she said, indicating his maroon briefs.

He slid them down, noting as he did so that his body, like him, was responding to Martine a little nervously. There was heaviness in his cock, but it wasn't erect. The maroon glans peered out warily, nudging only a quarter of the way past the protection of the pink foreskin.

Martine, he realised, was studying the same part of him. He waited, let her do so, and in being observed he found that the problem started to cure itself. She nodded, as though deciding favourably on a potential purchase, then she let her eyes wander, taking in the rest of him.

"Is madame satisfied?", he asked, momentarily brave enough to tease her.

She held out her arms. "Very nice", she complimented him. "Bring it here."

He moved to join her on the bed, and she skipped under his arm, her lips meeting his in a soft, luxurious kiss. From the start of it, her tongue flirted with his teeth and squirmed along his gums. He let his body burn against her soft skin, trailed rolls of her hair between his fingers, and breathed in her clean, floral scent. It wasn't very long at all before his erection was thick and strong, straining to the pulse in her pubic bone. He played his fingers in her hair a little longer, and then grew more adventurous, trailing them down her ribs, over her lower back, across her ample rear. She shivered with delight, and his travels consequently became more reckless.

He danced his hand into the surge of her belly, then out of it into a wispy forest of pubic hair. He broke the kiss to look at her face, wanting to study her when he delved into the warmth between her thighs. But Martine had an agenda of her own, which involved swifter progress. Her big eyes bore into him, intense and hopeful.

"Go down there", she whispered. "Please."

Her meaning was clear, but it was something he rarely did. Linda wasn't a particular fan of it, at least not with him, and neither was he, at least with her, because the taste of her was never predictable. He did, though, harbour good memories of old girlfriends, and Martine was about the same age as they had been, then. So why not? She had, after all, asked so nicely.

He slid down her body, tacking his tongue between the bunched muscles of her neck and shoulders, inhaling that perfume again, a fragrance so breathtakingly, intoxicatingly sexy that it made his head spin. Down and down, her body lifting and undulating beneath his quest. He missed her breasts, a joy for later, but tormented her navel, tasting the salt from the sheen of sweat that was beginning to appear on her skin. Past the sharpness of her hipbones, detouring to the smooth meat of her right buttock, returning over the tautness of her raised thigh.

Her legs were long and brown and smooth. Desperate now to find out what lay between them, he pushed sensitively at her knees, and she parted them, revealing herself to him.

Her cunt was beautiful. Tiny, it was the most finely sculpted thing he had ever seen. Cherry pink outer lips flowed smoothly, mirroring one another precisely. The already moist flesh between them surrounded a thin, short, glistening slit. Her dark pubic hair, whilst curly and luxurious atop her plump mound, spread only sparsely beneath it, allowing him unrestricted access.

The sharp aroma of her excitement was as clear a request as her words had been. He started with her clitoris, touching the tip of his tongue to the little grey button. Responding to the contact, her back arched, and she moaned, an almost masculine growl that seemed to originate from her throat. Encouraged, he gripped her unsteady thighs and burrowed deep inside her, enjoying the ribbed, slick texture of her vaginal walls, relishing, as he'd hoped that he would, the taste of her, or rather the lack of any distinctive tang. Determinedly and vigorously, he worked on her, his hands massaging her calves and buttocks as his mouth moved wherever it could, over her slick surface, sucking and biting, up and down her tight slit, around her stiff little bud, into her moist mystery.

Martine was whimpering, and after a time which might have been moments or minutes, her legs started to shake, her hips to grind. Recognising that climax was imminent for her, he plunged his tongue deep again, rotated it, trailed it along the roof of her passage. She was sodden by then, juicy enough that his caresses were no longer silent. He was congratulating himself about that when her body jackknifed.

Suddenly, she was wild. Her thighs gripped his neck and her hips drove up at him, with such force that he had to grasp them, try to hold her still. Huge shudders coursed through her, and she heaved up, so that only her head, feet and shoulders were in contact with the bed. "Oh, baby", she panted over and over again. "Oh baby, oh baby, oh baby..."

It seemed an age before her body relaxed. By then his neck and his back ached, and his face was slick and hot. He came up for air, not even trying to hide his grin.

Looking up at her across the luscious landscape of her body, he evaluated his achievement. Martine's eyes were heavy, and she seemed exhausted. In truth, he felt a little weak himself, but it wasn't a weakness which affected his virility. He was painfully hard.

He grinned at her. "Was that satisfactory too, milady?", he teased again.

She smiled back. "One of the best", she assured him. "You can give up the day job."

He made a grimace of mock disappointment. "I was aiming for best", he told her, but his mind was only half on the conversation. He was equally interested in watching her high breasts rise and fall with her breathing, the nipples rigid and haughty.

She reached down to stroke his hair. "I'll need to give it some thought", she said. "You do have a lot of competition."

Dominic wasn't sure whether she was joking or not. "A lot is what?", he hunted half-seriously, knowing that he was being unforgivably ungallant but too curious to resist. He hoped for a clue to the conundrum of why she had brought him here. "Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? The entire male population of London and the Home Counties?"

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Magic / Fiction / FemaleDom /