Immoral Views: An Illustrated Anthology of Voyeuristic Erotica

Immoral Views: An Illustrated Anthology of Voyeuristic Erotica

by Kay Jaybee, Lexie Bay, K. D. Grace, Rebecca Bond

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Immoral Views is a collection of titillating tales of voyeuristic sex, written by five of erotica's sultriest mistresses. A deliciously dissolute anthology of sex in public, illustrated by John LaChatte!


Immoral Views is a collection of titillating tales of voyeuristic sex, written by five of erotica's sultriest mistresses. A deliciously dissolute anthology of sex in public, illustrated by John LaChatte!

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Sweetmeats Press
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5.10(w) x 7.70(h) x 0.80(d)

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Immoral Views

By Kojo Black, John LaChatte

Sweetmeats Press

Copyright © 2014 Sweetmeats Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9570037-1-2


The Circus

* * *

One hundred notes a ticket!

Carrie still couldn't believe Scott could afford to pay so much to secure her a seat in the small, run-down theatre. It wasn't as if she was even guaranteed any action. Everything was deliberately uncertain. But then, as he had assured her, that was part of the attraction.

Perspiration was dotting down the back of her neck, and the more Carrie thought, the more she wondered if perhaps she didn't actually want anything to happen. That it might be better just to watch, better not to win the lottery that would change her from being a mere observer of events to a prime player in the evening's entertainment.

Even though the room was packed, every thinly covered velvet seat taken, no one looked at anyone else. No one regarded their neighbour. No one gave a friendly smile of greeting as they waited for something to happen. All eyes were focused towards the stage. There was a hushed buzz to the neglected theatre, as if the ghosts of a thousand performances had been trapped within the walls.

In the centre of the stage sat a collection of left over props from dramas long past. At first glance it appeared to be merely abandoned clutter, but as Carrie examined the items more shrewdly, she began to suspect that everything had been carefully and cleverly placed.

An oak coffee table and bench supported two legs of an iron-framed double-bed, which was devoid of either linen or mattress. Next to the sloping bed, heaped to the left side, a pile of old wooden chairs were haphazardly stacked. On the opposite side was a fallen umbrella stand, apparently tipped over by the weight of the walking sticks, canes, and what Carrie suspected were Victorian style shooting sticks. She felt her pulse quicken. You didn't have to be Einstein to work out what that lot could be used for.

Carrie could feel the heat of her skin prickle beneath her chestnut ponytail. She sat wishing that Scott hadn't been called away on yet another dire work-related emergency, and that he could be there with her. More than a little self-conscious, she fidgeted with her outfit. Playing safe, she'd decided to wear black. Black thigh length boots, black pleated mini skirt, black stockings, and a black chest-hugging lace-up basque, with strings that only just managed to conceal the pale freckled chest over which it had been stretched. She knew she looked like a slutty walking cliché. But then again, in this place, at this time, that was entirely the point.

The unnervingly tinny music that had been droning from a speaker in the far corner of the room abruptly stopped. Carrie could feel the tension in the theatre double, and for the first time she allowed herself a fleeting survey of the other members of the audience. The competition. An almost even split of about sixty men and women, all dressed as either Dominants or Submissives, all aged between about twenty-five and forty-five. The room rippled with erotic anticipation.

When Scott had told her about The Circus, the new show that had taken over the city's long empty theatre, Carrie had thought it really was a circus. A family show with clowns, scantily clad acrobats, and the odd juggler. She had, to his amusement, waxed lyrical about how much she'd loved the circus as a child. She was soon disabused of her naivety.

Increasingly aware of the clammy sheen of nerves on her palms, Carrie still wasn't quite sure how Scott had talked her into coming here without him. But her curiosity had gotten the better of her, just like he'd known it would. He had insisted that, considering her private personal preferences, she would be in her element having her bum smacked in front of a select group of eroticists. Carrie wasn't so sure. Having her ass roundly whipped by Scott in the sanctity of her apartment while he ordered her to crawl around the floor was one thing — but this was different. This was voyeurism on speed. The almost animal gleam to her lover's eyes, however, when he told her how much he was looking forward to a blow-by-blow account of her experience, added an extra dimension to the tingle of fearful anticipation that played in her stomach.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a gravelly masculine voice bellowed over a speaker system that crackled from the effects of dust and lack of use. "Welcome to The Circus. I would ask you all to abide by your hosts decisions, and only mount the stage if and when you are invited to do so. Sit back and enjoy. It's show time!!"

Unsure whether to clap, cheer, or react in anyway, the entire audience drew a collective breath as the speaker system reverted to the eerie strains of some faint orchestral music, as the compère for the next hour strode confidently onto the stage. Dressed in a startlingly bright red Ringmasters frock coat, black figure hugging leggings, shiny PVC black boots, and clasping a traditional lion tamers whip, he was an imposing figure. Carrie, if she'd been paying proper attention, would have noticed the edge of no-nonsense control on his square features, and a gleam of power in his grey eyes. All her attention however was focused on the assistants that flanked him.

Two slim women, shining with the golden glow of delicate natural tans, stood to the Ringmasters left and right side. Bedecked in figure hugging, star-spangled turquoise lycra; the only difference between their clothes, and those of circus acrobats, was that they failed to cover their chests. Four perfect, tanned, and inescapably pert tits were on permanent display. The second she saw them, Carrie felt her fingers itch to run over the enticing flesh.

Cracking his whip against the end of the bed, the Ringmaster bought the room to order.

"Everyone in this room knows the type of punishing entertainment we issue here. Everyone is here by choice. There is, however, a safety word. If our guests utter the word 'Circus', they will be removed from the room with no questions asked. Otherwise, those chosen to take part in tonight's performance are here to be used for our enjoyment, and maybe, if they're lucky, their own.

"Before the show can truly begin however, we need to find our prime players. One man and one woman will be selected from amongst you, using the numbers on your ticket stubs."

A mass of shuffling hands retrieved tickets from pockets and cleavages, as every member of the audience reread the numbers they had memorised anyway.

"First we will allocate the female guest star. Ladies, brace yourselves...."

The compère paused, adopting the annoying style of a television presenter about to announce the winner of some second rate talent show.

"Number 23!"

Echoes of relief and disappointed ricocheted around the room, but no one moved. No one approached the stage.

"Come on, don't be shy."

Still no one moved, and Carrie shifted uncomfortably in her seat, wishing that whoever had been picked would hurry up. She knew it wasn't her. She was safe with her number 24 ticket tucked in the top of her right boot. With a sense of relief she relaxed her shoulder muscles a little.

A hasty consultation began between the Ringmaster and his assistants, who nodded their agreement to whatever he was suggesting.

"It seems that the holder of ticket 23 has failed to show up this evening. Therefore I will ask the next consecutive ticket holder to join me on the stage. Number 24, please step this way!"

Carrie thought she was going to be sick. Her stomach felt like a tumble dryer on full spin. She hadn't escaped. She was going to be on the stage. She was the subject of the evening.

Before she could consider how he knew she was number 24, Carrie found herself levered up via the backside, arms, and palms by her neighbours until she was standing before the Ringmaster.

"Number 24, don't be coy, up you come!" The Ringmaster was stepping towards her, reaching out his long slim arm to hoist Carrie up onto the stage.

"A beautiful specimen, I'm sure you'll agree, Ladies and Gentlemen!" The compère went on, shouting above the approving comments of the crowd, "In a truly gorgeous outfit!"

The very end of his whip began to trail across the top of Carrie's breasts, making her shiver further.

"However, I think a change of attire would make things even more interesting...."

Without warning, the Ringmaster tugged each of the laces that held her modicum of modestly in place, and gave the audience the briefest of glimpses of her chest before pushing Carrie towards the waiting women.

"... After all, it would be a shame to ruin such a lovely outfit."

"Amanda," he gestured to the blonde on his right, "and Sara," the whip pointed at the red head to his left. "Please take our visitor and prepare her while I find her a gentleman to toy with."

More bundled than walked to the other side of the musty curtains that shrouded the back of the stage, Carrie felt the steady pressure of the two women's warm hands tug at her clothing, disposing of her corset and skirt with maximum efficiency, but a frustrating minimum of contact.

Amanda scooped up what appeared to be an old potato sack from the floor. The bag was pulled sharply down over Carrie's head, so that her head and arms slid through three makeshift holes. The sack was then tied securely with a piece of rope around her waist. The steel glare in the blonde woman's sapphire eyes told Carrie that it would be pointless to complain about the scratchiness of the material against her bare skin.

Meanwhile, Sara knelt and removed Carrie's boots, stockings and silk underwear, carelessly tossing them to the very back of the stage. Clad only in the ripped hessian mini dress, which accentuated her chest and curvy ass to their ultimate potential, Carrie was painfully aware that, should she be ordered to bend over, the rough material would ride up her backside, and she would have absolutely nothing to hide.

Continuing their mute preparation of their subject, the women picked up a long thin strip of supple black leather. The nerves which Carrie had managed to keep to herself suddenly became very visible, and an uncontrollable shaking took hold of her shoulders. Ignoring her obvious rising fear, Amanda wrenched Carrie's wrists forward, so Sara could wrap the leather around them, quickly and effectively disabling her hands.

With her heart thudding in her ears Carrie examined her bound wrists. She knew that there was no point in wriggling to see if they'd come free. These girls knew their business well.

As the panic rose in her throat, Carrie thought back to earlier that evening. Only two hours ago she had been alone with Scott, happily bound, her ankles and wrists looped together in gentle silk restraints, her back pressed firmly against her slightly steamed bedroom mirror. An agreed submission with no surprises, a million miles from this. Why on earth did I agree that this would be a good idea? Why was Scott so sure I'd enjoy being humiliated in front of lots of strangers?

"It's time." Amanda spoke with a glee that could only be called sadistic.

The noise of the crowd was growing, and Carrie could feel it vibrate through the creaky floorboards beneath her bare feet. Feeling like a kidnap victim about to be thrown to a ravenous pack of wolves, Carrie experienced a treacherous twitch at her crotch as Sara stood and pressed her lycra-clad body to Carrie's trembling one. The sacking grazed roughly and provocatively at Carrie's nipples as Sara kissed her firmly on the mouth. The passion of the moment astonished Carrie, but she couldn't help but greedily reciprocate, as their mouths clashed together in a brief frenzy of kissing and biting at each other's lips.

No sooner had Carrie gotten into her stride, when the fantastically forceful mouth was removed, leaving her lips and chest feeling neglected and desperate for more attention — exactly as the women had intended.

Amanda beamed as she observed Carrie's tightened tips poking at the sackcloth. "The only way you will get what you need, girl, is to get out onto that stage."

Carrie stared at the back of the velvet curtains, her mouth going from moist to uncomfortably dry in seconds. All she had to do to get more of what she desired was to walk through those curtains. But she knew that if she did go through, she would have to experience a hell of a lot before any climax came her way. Conflicting questions bombarded her lust addled brain. Will Scott understand if I chicken out? I could pretend I went through with it. Scott would never know. Would a quick orgasm in the nearest public toilets be enough if I got my clothes and ran for it? She knew it wouldn't, and for a split second Carrie wondered if she did go through those curtains, if anything would ever be enough again.

The decision was taken away from her as, against a crescendo of impatient chanting from the stalls, her semi-naked warders grabbed her shoulders to half push and half steer her towards the main event.

As the dusty velvet drapes brushed her skin, Carrie was greeted by a wall of noise. The hot hands of the assistants deserted her flesh, and she was shoved into the arms of a man she hadn't seen before, presumably the second selected member of the paying audience.

Muscular to the point of gym obsession, his bare pecs, and the air of arrogance that hung about him, made Carrie suspect her new companion had more money than sense. In fact, with his cruel grin and his tight leather trousers, he was the type of man that would normally turn Carrie right off. But at that moment she didn't care. All that mattered was the aroma of heavy expectation that hung between them — an aroma already tinged with more than a hint of sex. If she was going to do this, she wanted it to start soon. She just hoped she could get through the public spanking without the humiliation of shouting out the safety word.

Mentally blocking out the catcalls of appreciation as the unknown man pulled at her bound wrists, Carrie found herself positioned before the bedstead. Reluctantly releasing her, he took a step back, his chest falling and rising with his struggle not to grope his fellow guest further.

With a flourish of the whip, the Ringmaster stepped forward, his arms outstretched. A temporary hush fell upon the crowd.

"My friends!" His massive voice echoed around the ancient space. "Here you can see the lucky winners of tonight's participation draw!" He pointed his whip at them by way of introduction. "Miss Carrie and Master Robert!" When Carrie dared to glance at the audience, she saw they were all huddled forward, jostling to get a better view of the trials to come. Goose pimples gathered on Carrie's forehead as, bound and dressed as a slave, she realised just how much Scott hadn't told her. This wasn't going to be just a jovial spank session.

Striding the length of the stage, the Ringmaster continued, "Let us waste no more time." With a nod to his assistants, they all three came up beside Carrie, hovering close enough for her to feel their breath on her neck as the room waited in edgy silence.

Crouching before her, the Ringmaster placed his hands on his knees and spoke just loud enough for only Carrie to hear. "Scott tells me you will enjoy this."

Carrie swallowed. "Scott?"

He nodded slowly, a knowing smile on his face, his expression clearly telling her that no more information would be forthcoming. She quivered at the quiet menace in his voice, as he straightened up to his full height and his almost feminine hands crept forward to finger the top of the sack dress.

"Amanda, if you please."

Standing just off centre, so that the audience could see the action, the Ringmaster put his hand out to the blonde, who passed him a large pair of sharp, shiny scissors. Carrie froze to the spot as the cold metal of the blades brushed her skin, scared that the Ringmaster might cut her as he snipped away a rectangular piece of material from the top of the sack. Abruptly free from the irritation of the gruff fabric, the stale air of the theatre caressed her naked breasts as she was pivoted on the spot so every member of the room could get an eyeful of her globes.

Never had Carrie felt so vulnerable, as the Ringmaster's whip tickled the very end of each of her teats. Her skin was clammy with fear, yet Carrie couldn't deny the thrill she felt as the leather tab met her chest; and with that realisation a taut shame engulfed her.

Turned again, like some sort of inanimate toy, Carrie tensed further as Sara made her face the old props. Tantalising the crowd like a true exhibitionist, the Ringmaster began to inch the hem of Carrie's dress up one tiny fold at a time, until the bubble of her round bottom was as free as her tits.

With her heart knocking rapidly in her throat, Carrie tried to think about anything other than her current situation. She tried to think about doing the laundry, about work, anything to drown out the roar of the crowd and the nagging voice that wondered just how well the Ringmaster knew Scott. She failed.

"You will bend."

The clipped instruction that came from the compère subdued the audience with authoritative poise. Not daring to disobey, Carrie put her hands on her knees and lowered her head toward the floor. She closed her eyes as she felt the sackcloth ride up her tacky skin, giving the whole room a view of her totally exposed ass and, surely, a glimpse of an even more private place.


Excerpted from Immoral Views by Kojo Black, John LaChatte. Copyright © 2014 Sweetmeats Press. Excerpted by permission of Sweetmeats Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Kay Jaybee is to be found most mornings in the far corner of her favorite cafe, with a large black coffee in one hand, and a ballpoint pen in the other. She spends each and every morning immersed in thoughts of all things kinky, thoroughly enjoying the fact that her fellow coffee sippers have no idea what she's writing. Upon the release of Immoral Views, Kay Jaybee has written over 80 short stories and published 14 solo works.

Lexie Bay began writing so that she could immerse herself in a fantasy world where women are adored and men fall at their feet... But it wasn't long before she realized that sometimes men do that so you can stomp all over them in your stiletto boots! Since then, Lexie's been creating stories that stay true to her original romantic dream while exploring the erotic, the kinky and the downright filthy. She writes about anything that emerges from the murky depths of her imagination, whenever she gets the opportunity.

K. D. Grace describes herself as a hopeless romantic, born with an obsession to write. Unbeknownst to many, her romantic streak can get gloriously of course she was welcomed with open arms at Sweetmeats Press! K. D. is the creative force within her own raunchy universe and she thoroughly enjoys spending so much of her time writing erotic stories.

Rebecca Bond is a reader, writer, lover and caresser of erotic stories. A natural and passionate writer, Rebecca uses a combination of urban and rural inspiration to carve stories steeped in fantasy and imagination.

Lucy Felthouse is a well known name in the world of erotic literature. A prolific author of erotic and romantic fiction and fantasy, she has numerous books and anthologies in print.

John LaChatte is a French artist working in London. After studying Graphic Design in the South of France, he moved to London to further his career. Working mostly in black ink, his two main inspirations in life are fashion and comic books, which he uses to enhance his erotic illustrations.

Kojo Black has compiled nearly a dozen collections and anthologies, and considers himself to be an unrepentant purveyor of the playfully perverse.

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