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  ‘Something over one hundred pairs in over ten years. Less than one a month. You could be worse, I suppose. And over those ten years you’ve never been tempted to go further?’

  ‘You know I’m not like that, Gabby.’

  ‘I do. I will be stressing the fact that you have never escalated your behaviour in my report. I will also neglect to mention that you collect what you steal.’

  ‘Thanks. Where are they, by the way?’

  ‘In a drawer, on top of your other pornographic material. I have taken a considerable risk for you, Monty.’

  ‘I know. Ta. You’re great, Gabby. I owe you.’

  ‘Consider it my social duty.’

  ‘Well, you know…any time you want your nappy on and that.’

  ‘I will bear that in mind. So, I understand why you steal panties: a combination of fetishistic obsession, resentment of rejection by women and a desire to collect and order, together with a degree of anal fixation. Yes?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You sound resentful. It is important to understand your urges.’

  ‘I do. I just don’t like the way you say it.’

  ‘Then remember how often you have changed my nappy, also spanked me.’

  That put the familiar grin back on his face.

  ‘So what exactly did happen on Sunday night?’ I asked.

  ‘Serious bad luck,’ he answered. ‘When you said you weren’t coming down it left me really randy, thinking about what we’d have been up to and that. Anything else seemed a real let down, except going out to do a bit of peeping. I tried these woods where there’s often a lot of stuff going on in cars. Blokes’ll sometimes show off their girls so other guys can watch from the bushes. There was nothing doing, maybe because it was so cold, and I gave up pretty soon. I went round some of my favourite flats after that, where there’s a good chance of seeing in the windows. I got a bit, but nothing special, and just ended up hornier than ever. I was going to give up, but I got lucky, just as it was getting dark. I’d been on football pitches, to watch, and I was walking back to the car along this alley behind some houses. A light went on and naturally I looked, to see this woman come into a room in just bra and panties. She was good-looking as well, long black hair, nice tits, nice firm bum, a bit of a tummy, but I don’t mind that. There was nobody about, so I ducked down and got out my binoculars to watch. It was good. She was doing ironing and kept moving around, making her tits jiggle and that. She had me so horny I’d have wanked off right there if I’d dared.’

  ‘And the panties were hers?’

  ‘No. I’d been hoping she’d strip, at least take her bra off, but she put a housecoat on after a bit. I moved on, hornier than ever, and I was going to go back to this bit of wasteland by the pitches and wank off when I saw the panties. There weren’t many washing lines out, but it was dry, and this one house had one of those stand-up ones, with these little see-through blue knicks hanging there, just staring me in the face. All I needed to do was nip over the fence and snatch them. There weren’t even any lights on in the house, and the back gate was half off its hinges. I went for it, snatched the knicks, stuffed them in my pocket, and came back out. There were two policemen walking up the alley. They came from nowhere!’

  ‘Unlucky, I must admit. Leaving the moral issue aside for the moment, surely you see that the consequences of your actions outweigh the benefits?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right – but, you know, it’s fun.’

  ‘It is also an invasion of women’s personal space, which might lead to serious trauma…’

  ‘What, losing a pair of knickers? Get real! I bet half the time they don’t even notice.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but when they do they will feel invaded.’

  He shrugged, his face colouring as he looked away, not meeting my eyes.

  ‘If I intended to judge you, Monty, I wouldn’t have rescued your collection.’

  ‘Yeah…sorry. You’re right anyway, I suppose…it’s not worth it. They’ve taken all my mags, you know, just stuff I bought in newsagents, nothing heavy, my vids too. What did you take?’

  ‘About as much as I could safely carry. The two magazines devoted to spanking, and…’

  ‘You got my Blushes, the one with the majorette?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ace! Thanks. That is my best. The look on her face when he’s making her strip, fuck me! What else?’

  ‘The bondage magazine, and many of the videos, the hardest, and the spanking one.’

  ‘Little Red Apples?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good girl! I love that. The girl, the dark-haired one, she’s just like you, little round arse and legs that go on for ever, and the way her arsehole winks while that dirty old bastard’s spanking her! And the tennis scene, with those little skirts, and then she gets put over the net, with her little white panties showing, and spanked by the other girl…’

  ‘Yes, Monty.’

  He stopped, blew out his breath and adjusted his cock in his trousers.

  ‘Do you play tennis?’ he demanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame. I’d love to see you in one of those tennis skirts…I’d love to fuck you in one of those tennis skirts, bent over with your pants pulled down and your bare arse stuck up for me. Come on, Gabby, let’s fuck.’

  ‘No. I…’

  ‘I’ll put you in nappies, or you can go in that little pink baby-doll?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I am menstruating.’

  ‘Oh…on the rag, eh? Shit. Still, you know what girls normally do for their boyfriends when they’re on, don’t you? They take it up the shitter.’

  ‘That I doubt. And, as I have explained repeatedly, you are not sodomising me.’

  ‘Blow-job?’

  ‘Monty!’

  He didn’t answer immediately, but reached for his fly to pull out his cock. He was erect.

  ‘Look what you’ve done to me,’ he stated.

  ‘That was not my intention. Put it away.’

  ‘Come on, Gabby, get down on it. You know you want to.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Yeah? You love it. You suck like a fucking angel, like you’re going to eat me.’

  ‘Perhaps. Not today.’

  ‘I thought girls were supposed to get horny while they were on the rag?’

  ‘Some may. I do not. More importantly, I am supposed to be finding out about your obsession with stealing women’s panties, not indulging your sexual needs.’

  ‘When I’m with you I don’t need to steal panties.’

  ‘I had worked that out.’

  ‘Come on, Gabby, go for it.’

  ‘No, but if you wish you may masturbate.’

  ‘Well, at least pose for me, then.’

  ‘As I said, I’m menstruating.’

  ‘Get your tits out, then, or give me a panty show. I bet you’ve got nice ones on. What colour are they?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Not the pink frillies, then?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘I wish you were. You do look cute like that, in a little pair of pink frillies and nothing else, or maybe a shirt, so your little bum-cheeks peep out underneath…’

  He had begun to masturbate, tugging at his cock, with his belly held away as usual. It was impossible not to smile, at his sheer lack of acceptance of ordinary values. I could think of nobody else who could so casually expose their genitals and demand attention in such inappropriate circumstances. Abruptly he started to speak.

  ‘I’m thinking of you in that tennis skirt,’ he said, ‘real short, so everyone can see up it. Only you’re not wearing panties, you’re wearing a nappy, a big, pink nappy, in the street, so everyone can see.’

  I smiled again; it was impossible not to, thinking of the image. He grinned back, wanking faster.

  ‘And I’d spank you,’ he went on, ‘in front of everyone, with your tennis skirt up and your nappy down at the back, with your bum spread wide and that lovely little arse
hole on show…’

  He stopped, puffing, to adjust his position on the settee and pull his balls out of his fly. For all his fat, there was a powerful masculinity about him, with his big cock, which always seemed to be in a state of excitement, always ready for whatever soft, female receptacle he could find. He began to preen it, showing off for me, either oblivious or indifferent to the way he looked, perhaps even delighting in it. I watched, considering giving in to his demand and going down on the floor to suck him.

  ‘Tits out,’ he demanded suddenly.

  I sighed, but reached for the buttons of my blouse, unfastening one, then a second. Monty began to wank faster again. I snipped open a third button, and a fourth, giving in to his need. My blouse came open, my bra up, exposing myself.

  ‘Gorgeous, so perky,’ he said, tugging harder still. ‘Fuck, but I wanted to see those so badly last weekend. I’d love to spunk all over them. I’d been saving for you. I still am.’

  ‘No, Monty…’

  ‘This is for your tits. I’ve got to.’

  ‘Really, no…’

  ‘Your face, then. Come on, Gabby, I’ve got to, you’re so fucking gorgeous.’

  ‘I will suck, if I must, but you are not to do it in my face, or over my breasts.’

  I was struggling to get my blouse off as he pushed himself up from the chair. It came, and my bra followed as he waddled forwards, to cock one fat leg up on the arm of my chair and push his genitals into my face.

  ‘Monty…’ I tried, only to have his cock stuffed rudely into my mouth.

  He took my head, grunting as he pushed himself in, using my pursed lips as a slide. I tried to suck but he was too eager to let me take control, just ramming his cock in and out until I started to gag, pushing him away…

  To receive the full load of his sperm in my face. The first massive spurt landed across my glasses and nose, the second lower, a third across my chin and chest, before he got hold of himself and milked what was left out over my lenses and the bridge of my nose. My mouth had come wide in shock and disgust at what he’d done and at the sheer volume of it. Immediately his cock was pushed back in.

  He held me by the head, ignoring my muffled protests as the sperm began to run slowly down my face, and letting go only when fully satisfied. I gasped as he pulled back, swallowing what he’d done in my mouth before I could find my voice.

  ‘I said not in my face, Monty!’ I protested. ‘Look at me!’

  ‘Sorry, Gabby. I got a bit carried away there. Take it as a compliment. If you didn’t have such a pretty face I wouldn’t want to spunk all over it.’

  ‘Fine, only now I have to completely redo my make-up, and I can barely see out of my glasses. Honestly, Monty, I don’t mind sperm, but must you always save it up, and must you always do it in my face?’

  ‘Like I say, pretty girls get their faces spunked over. It goes with the territory. Anyway, you pulled back. I thought you wanted it.’

  ‘You were choking me!’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Good, though, yeah?’

  ‘For you, no doubt.’

  I ran for the bathroom, holding a tissue under my chin to stop any sperm going on the floor. It was impossible not to look in the mirror. My entire face was plastered in sperm, my glasses heavy with it, a great thick slug lying across my nose and down to the edge of my mouth. There was more on my forehead and one cheek, bits in my hair and even in one ear. A single long streamer hung from my chin. It was on my breasts too, little blobs and streaks, one right on a nipple, hanging down from the erect teat.

  It was hard to believe a single man could produce so much come, even after over a week of abstinence. Monty seemed to manage it on a regular basis, possibly because he ate so much, or because he devoted so much of his attention to sex, keeping his balls working overtime. I was not sure. The theory was beyond me. The fact was all over me.

  * * *

  I spent my weekend as quietly as possible, which I felt I deserved. My bottom and legs still ached, despite the amount of cream I had rubbed on and the various oils I had used in an attempt to soothe myself. I was still menstruating as well, and in no mood for sex, so declined Monty’s invitation to visit him, along with a warning that if he managed to get caught stealing panties, peeping into women’s bedroom windows or anything even vaguely similar, I would disown him entirely.

  What I did get was a visit from Jo Warren, who had changed her mind about her novel yet again, having decided that the historical epic was due a comeback. She intended to transplant a female character, based on her ideal self as always, into a Second World War environment, complete with modern attitudes and a feisty, confident outlook on life. The plot followed the heroine’s triumphs over assorted ministry men, partners and ultimately Nazis, all of whom were thoroughly misogynist in their attitudes. Finally she would sail for the US and meet a dock worker who would prove to be the man of her dreams; sensitive, caring and every inch a nineties-style ‘new man’. It struck me as almost laughably bad, but I assured her of its likely success, certain that what she really wanted was praise. She also failed to mention Natasha for the first time since the enema incident, which was definitely progress.

  Once she’d gone, I sat down at the computer to check my advert, although not actually expecting anything worthwhile. To my surprise there were three answers. One was from a transvestite who was sure he could accommodate my needs. I gave him a polite refusal. The second was from an obvious psychotic and completely irrelevant anyway, going on at length what should be done to gay men who had sex in toilets. I ignored it.

  The third was actually interesting, if strange, offering me a chance to spend an evening as a grown-up baby girl in a house in Dulwich. It was from a woman calling herself Nurse Trainer, nothing more. There was an oddly impersonal tone to the message, which made me wonder if she was a professional. There was also a drawing of an enormous woman in an old-fashioned nurse’s uniform, with a slipper held threateningly in one hand. Obviously she was yet another spanker, although if the picture was anything to go by suckling her would be heaven. Unfortunately I had my bottom to think about, and after a moment’s consideration I decided against it, but forwarded the email on to Natasha, who was sure to be amused.

  Five

  I received Natasha’s reply the next morning, responding in mock terror to the picture of Nurse Trainer, also asking if she could pass my mobile number on to Poppy. I agreed happily, looking forward to the prospect of seeing her again, although with a little guilt, as the request at least implied that any rendezvous would not include Anna Vale.

  The week went smoothly enough, with nothing particularly challenging. Thursday was my second official appointment with Monty. I was already pretty clear on his motives, as I was on his attitude to women. After all, I had been on the receiving end often enough. So rather than delve further into his panty-pinching behaviour, we discussed peeping and voyeurism in general.

  His attitude was that he had a moral right to look at anything which was on public display; women in revealing clothing, sunbathers and of course women undressing beside windows. The argument was simple – if they didn’t want to be looked at, they shouldn’t show off. My argument that women should be allowed to dress and behave as they pleased without interference met with laughter and an accusation of impracticality. I knew the argument and so did he, and as there is no solution we quickly abandoned it.

  Again I found myself trying to persuade him that he should allow women their personal space. His resentment came out in response, arguing that if women failed to treat him with respect, there was no reason he should do so for them. It was difficult to counter, especially without suggesting that he identify himself as of lower significance, which was sure to be disastrous. So I switched to an individualist viewpoint, arguing that he had no cause for resentment against strangers on the grounds that he would not know what their response to him would be. He was going to say that the response was always the same, but he had Natasha and I as examples, and hesitated, shrugging, with
the first hint of remorse for his behaviour I had seen. I stopped immediately. I had no intention of turning him into the sort of neurotic and brow-beaten specimen magazines so often portray fat people to be.

  Returning to examples, I listened to his stories of spying on girls on beaches and through windows. To his credit, he always tried not to be seen or to scare the objects of his attentions. Contrary to some popular theories, his aim was neither to provoke fear, nor to gain some form of detached control, but simply to provide himself with a sufficiently sexual experience to reach orgasm, usually at a later time. One example illustrated his attitude perfectly.

  He had been in Cornwall at some sort of convention, and staying at a hotel in which there was also a particularly attractive girl. She would spend a lot of time by the hotel pool in a bikini, and when Monty saw her walking down towards the dunes he guessed she intended to sunbathe topless or nude. He had followed and, hidden among the dunes, watched her change, oil herself and sunbathe. All he had seen were her breasts and a brief glimpse of her bare bottom, yet it had been enough to keep him in happy orgasms for the rest of the week. He had made no attempt to accost her, and swore that had she seen him it would have ruined it for him. What was interesting was that he evidently took as much pleasure, albeit not sexual pleasure, in the act of spying as in its results.

  Inevitably he started to get aroused, and by the time he had finished describing an assortment of peeping incidents he had his cock out of his fly. Keen not to be given what he so eloquently described as a facial again, I turned in the chair and allowed him to masturbate over the sight of my bottom, with just my skirt pulled up. His response was to rise at the last moment, tweak out the back of my panties and come down them, full into my bottom-crease. As he had nearly overrun his time and I had another client immediately afterwards, I ended up spending an hour sitting in a pool of his sperm, which he thought hilarious. Clearly I had an uphill struggle ahead.

  By the Saturday my bruises had faded to a few dull smudges and, while they were still noticeable on careful inspection, there was nothing to suggest I’d been caned. To celebrate, I decided to treat myself to an entire day at the Haven, naked, relaxed and free of all nuisances.