Tie and Tease Page 3

  Just stroking myself was lovely, feeling the soft, furry mound of my pussy and the wet, open centre, with the heat of my sex a wonderful contrast to the cool air of the wood. Too aroused to worry about where I was, I pulled my jumper up and off, exposing my naked breasts, cupping them and bumping my fingers over my nipples. I lay back, kicking my legs high and spreading myself to the wood. My panties came down further, and off one leg, leaving them hanging from my right ankle. Only of course they weren’t my panties at all, but a spare pair belonging to the WPC who had looked after me. I pushed off my skirt to leave myself nude but for trainers, socks and her panties, then went back to stroking my pussy, only now thinking of her. Barbara, she was called, a pretty, freckle-faced girl, bigger than me so that her panties had felt oddly loose around my hips. For all her sympathy, there had been something matronly about her, and it would have been great to be spanked across her knee, in the nude, kicking and blubbering as I was punished.

  My legs were right up to my chest and wide, too, leaving me just as spread as it is possible to be. I was rubbing hard, my clitty burning under my fingers, my pussy starting to contract. My orgasm started, rising in my head as my bottom clenched and my spine arched. I slid my spare hand down between my cheeks, found my bumhole and teased her open, feeling so, so dirty as my finger eased into the slimy interior of my bottom. I pictured Barbara slapping my bottom, punishing me, telling me off as she smacked my naked cheeks and then without warning she had turned to Beth, holding me tight to her chubby little breasts, cuddling me, stroking my beaten bottom. She’d squeeze my cheeks, let her hand stray between them, spread them, probe my dirty little hole, all the time whispering soothing remarks in my ear. At last she’d lose control and put me face down for a spanking, punishing me, beating me, until I was a snivelling, tear-stained mess at her knees . . .

  I came, squealing aloud in a beautiful, long orgasm that had my back in a tight arch and my head swimming in ecstasy. Beth’s name came to my lips and I called for her, although even in that moment of pure bliss I didn’t know why it was her I wanted.

  Two

  I MADE MY phone call and Amber picked me up, well away from the wood and the police station. On the way back to her house we swapped stories and I found that things had gone much as I had anticipated. They had lost me completely in the wood, my panic-stricken dash throwing them off so that the pincer movement had closed on nothing. Shortly after that the sirens had started and eventually they had put two and two together and very sensibly kept out of it. When questioned they had simply stated that they were guests on the estate enjoying a walk after riding earlier, all of which could be proved. That was that, to my great relief.

  Experiences that are erotic, or have erotic undertones, but which are not actively sexual tend to make me a little obsessive and determined to explore the full sexual potential of the situation. The fox-hunt left me wanting to expand on a number of experiences, including the sense of helpless panic during the chase, the embarrassment and exposure of the medical examination, and the feeling of sexual impropriety that the sergeant’s attitude to my story had provoked. All three relied to a greater or lesser extent on me relinquishing control, which always makes fantasy fulfilment difficult. After all, if I create a fantasy I must, by definition, remain to some extent in control of it. Nor would I risk any situation where my partner or partners did not understand my needs and limits, or something might really be done to me against my will. For a female submissive there can be a fine line between perfect ecstasy and utter disaster, and I need time to find a way to get as close as possible to that line, safely.

  One other thing has stuck in my mind from that day, as more of an irritation than a need. This was Beth. Not only had I come over her, but the more I thought about the things she had said to me the more I felt I needed to argue with her. Basically she had been unable to see me as anything other than a victim, and it had never so much as occurred to her that I might have been a willing participant in an erotic game. She had used the phrase ‘remember you’re a woman’ several times, obviously intending to comfort me. There had been other remarks, too, all of which indicated a mindset so different from my own that it was impossible not to be fascinated.

  Fascinated and antagonistic, not in the sense of wanting to hurt her, but because I found it impossible not to take her attitude personally. I knew it was petty, but I felt put upon by her automatic assumption that I thought and behaved exactly as she did. At the least I wanted to make her understand that I could enjoy things she found dreadful. At best I wanted her to learn to enjoy them herself.

  Even so I’d have put her out of my mind quickly enough had it not been for her looks. With her delicate face, chubby little breasts and rounded bottom it was impossible not to find her appealing. Sometimes when I develop a minor crush on an unreachable or unsuitable girl, or a man for that matter, a couple of good orgasms are enough to clear my head. This didn’t work with Beth, especially as I knew that although she was undoubtedly unsuitable for me, she wasn’t unreachable.

  I had her jumper, which had a name tag in it, like the ones we had to have sewn to our clothes at school. She was Elizabeth Diez-Joyce, a name that explained the subtle olive tone of her skin and that could hardly be difficult to find in a telephone directory. She’d had no car and been pretty familiar with the bit of country we’d been in, so the chances were she lived in Berkshire and wouldn’t be too hard to find. It wasn’t hard at all. E. Diez-Joyce lived in Streatley.

  Amber had to be told, and she gave me exactly what I deserved. We were in her kitchen at the time, both feeling pleasantly mellow after a light lunch and a shared bottle of Riesling. She doesn’t mind me playing with other girls, so long as it’s not behind her back, so I jokingly mentioned that I was taken with the idea of getting into Beth’s panties.

  A second later I was over her lap, squealing in shock as my arm was twisted hard into the small of my back. I kicked and struggled, but I was giggling too much to be convincing and she’s much stronger than me, so I got spanked. My jeans were undone first, despite my protests and efforts to protect myself. With the button popped they came down, tugged off my bottom in a series of firm jerks to reveal my panties, then pulled all the way down to my ankles. The panties followed them, as they always do, Amber firmly believing that a spanking is simply not a spanking unless the victim’s bottom is bare. With that done and the knowledge of how my pussy would be showing between my thighs I gave in. That’s always the best part of a punishment for me, that awful moment when my panties come down and suddenly it’s all showing and I’m helpless, and bare, and I’m about to be spanked.

  After the first couple of smacks I was wishing I’d put more effort into my struggles. It was hard, firm slaps to the fattest part of my bottom, delivered with the full weight of her arm. Each one jammed my insides up high and I was soon panting for breath and babbling apologies and pleas for mercy in between my cries of pain and shock. She ignored me, saying nothing as she spanked me and twisted my arm ever tighter to keep me in place. In no time I was kicking my legs about and bucking my bottom up and down in my pain, squealing too, like a stuck pig, and beating my free hand on the floor. One of my shoes flew off, and that leg came free of my jeans and panties, leaving them flying from the other like a flag. Amber laughed at that and stopped, as suddenly as she had begun, leaving me red-bottomed and breathless over her lap, completely subdued and ready to do whatever I was told.

  I lay there, passive and defeated as her hand settled between my thighs and a finger probed my pussy. I was wet, just as I knew I would be, and she gave a little knowing chuckle as her finger went up me. For a moment she explored me, then put it to my mouth to make me taste my own excitement. I sucked eagerly, hoping that she would take mercy on me and frig me off across her lap with my smacked bottom stuck high as I came.

  Her knee came up, forcing my bottom higher and I purred in pleasure, sure that she was going to do what I wanted. Sure enough, she leaned across the table, and a moment
later I felt something warm and squashy between my legs: butter. She rubbed it in, smearing it over my pussy and up between my bum-cheeks. Fingers went inside me again, two in my pussy, then three, then four and I realised she was going to fist me. In it went, the whole of her hand, eased slowly up my buttery vagina to leave me feeling gloriously full. Her hand began to squirm inside me, pressing to the back of my ditty and bringing me fully on heat. I began to squirm my bottom and hips, sure that I could bring myself off if I just got the motion right. Amber chuckled and pulled her hand free, leaving my vagina to close on empty air as a wash of disappointment ran over me.

  She cupped my pussy and began to rub at me, her thumb finding the tight spot of my anus. It went in, forcing my butter-moist hole to make me gasp and then sigh. I lay still, letting her work my anus open and wondering what she was going to put in it. Her thumb came out and she gave me a playful smack, and once more leaned forward. I craned my neck around, finding to my horror that she had the wine bottle in her hand. I felt it against my vagina, cool and hard, then the wet feel of the wine, colder still as she filled my vagina. As a trickle of wine escaped to run down between my pussy lips she moved the bottle, touching the neck to my anus and pushing gently. I relaxed my ring, letting the bottle up, then groaned deep in my throat as the wine gurgled into my rectum.

  I could already feel the rush of alcohol as my soft membranes let it in, leaving me dizzy and sighing. Twice the bottle eased into my bottom-hole, stretching my ring around the elegant neck, buggering me between my smacked cheeks. I groaned again, hoping that she would finish me off like that, with my ring clenching on the hard, smooth glass. Instead she pulled it free, leaving me frustrated again, with both my holes full of wine and my head spinning in drunken arousal.

  Her grip tightened, pulling my poor arm hard up my back and forcing my bottom still higher. A sudden smack caught me unawares, making me squeal and jump and spraying wine across my thighs from inside me. Another caught the back of my thighs, a third the pouted rear of my pussy and I was left gasping again with my mouth wide and my eyes shut in a helpless blend of arousal and hurt.

  She moved again and something touched my pussy, ever so gently. Her hand cupped my mound and began to rub once more, vigorously now, making brisk circling motions to splay my pussy out. Her thumb touched my anus and I was starting to come, my pussy and bumhole warming, then starting to burn as I realised what she had done. I screamed as the pepper sauce caught me, turning my sex to a burning, inflamed mush of flesh even as my orgasm rose and burst, making me scream again, thrashing my legs and writhing my bottom and pussy on to her hand.

  It was true sexual torture, an unbearable blend of ecstasy and pain about which I could do nothing, my body held tight in her grip as I contorted myself into a series of postures so ludicrous that she was laughing by the time my orgasm started to fade. I really screamed too, but she didn’t let me off, waiting until I was limp and sobbing across her lap before taking mercy and upending a bottle of mineral water between my legs, only then letting go of my wrist.

  ‘There,’ she said as I slumped to the floor, ‘could Beth do that for you?’

  I was beyond speech but managed to shake my head.

  ‘Well then, stick to me, and to other dirty girls,’ she advised. ‘Seriously, Penny, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but she sounds pretty prudish, so there’s no fun in it.’

  She was probably right, but I still had to try.

  I had every opportunity, with three weeks until the start of the summer term, so it was just a question of how to go about it. Having given up trying to dissuade me, Amber became helpful, and invited Anderson and Vicky over to discuss the project. Anderson thought it an excellent idea, inevitably I suppose, as it involved attempting to seduce a pretty girl. Vicky was a little more doubtful, but accepted that if I succeeded it would be greatly to Beth’s benefit, while if I failed no harm would have been done.

  The first thing was obviously to make contact with her again without making her feel threatened. That was easy. At five foot two in my bare feet nobody ever finds me threatening, while if I said I’d tracked her down to thank her for what she’d done and to return her jumper I wouldn’t even need to pretend our meeting was accidental. The next problem was to explain why there wasn’t a major hunt for the maniac who had attacked me. Putting the blame on the incompetence and misogyny of the police seemed most likely to work, as to judge by some of the remarks she had made in the car she had no great respect for them.

  After that I would be able to concentrate on seducing her, for which purpose I intended to get her completely drunk and make a pass at her. Hardly an original technique, I know, but tried and tested, while there would be no aggression or forcefulness and she could reject me if she wanted to. Of course it was possible that she didn’t like sex with other girls, but that was a chance I’d have to take. Besides, in my experience it’s remarkable how few women are genuinely antagonistic to at least the occasional lesbian experience. If she proved to drink only mineral water and believe in life-long celibacy, then I’d just have to go home.

  Assuming that she was likely to work, and probably not in Streatley, I waited until Sunday, then took the train up. Streatley is small, a couple of proper streets and a cluster of houses by the river with a few lanes along which most of the more prosperous houses are set. Beth’s address proved to be a flat over a shop, hardly luxurious, but in a lovely setting with a view over the Thames. She was out when I arrived, and so I spent an hour wandering around and running over my plans.

  As I stood leaning on the parapet of the bridge and looking down into the river I found that I was enjoying myself enormously. This was fantasy yet also reality, with an adventurous spice I adore but which is so hard to come by. My sense of mischief was running at full throttle, with an added piquancy from the fact that if I was successful I would end up in bed with a beautiful girl.

  I was still leaning on the bridge when Beth appeared, walking from the Goring side of the river. I watched her for a while without hailing her, studying the delicacy of her features and admiring her figure. She seemed pensive, even slightly vulnerable in her expression, which seemed at odds with the deliberate confidence of her posture and walk. The contrast intrigued me and I was positively bubbling inside as I hailed her.

  She saw me, looked puzzled for an instant, and her face broke into a big smile. A string of questions followed, which I answered as best I could, handing her the jumper and explaining how I wanted to thank her for her help. She accepted everything, happy that I had sought her out and agreeing heartily that the police were worse than useless. I offered dinner and she accepted, and after a brief detour to her flat we ended up at a table by the riverside, sipping Chablis and chatting as if we had known each other for years. I only realised how badly I was overplaying it when she suddenly stopped talking and said that she thought I must be the strongest woman she had ever met.

  With the effect of the wine and my general excitement it took me a moment to realise what she was talking about, and then I remembered that I was supposed to have been raped and brutalised by a sadistic maniac only the previous week. I back-pedalled hastily, giving a heavy sigh and looking at the ground. Her hand folded around mine and when I looked up I found her eyes full of sympathy.

  ‘It’s not as simple as it looks,’ I said, making my voice seem tired and drawn. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘You can talk to me,’ she promised, ‘but I don’t mind if you’d rather not.’

  That was a lie for a start, as she was obviously desperate to hear my story. Unfortunately I didn’t have one, other than the truth and I was pretty sure she wasn’t ready for that. So I nodded, and sighed and filled our glasses, then sat staring out over the river with an expression of vacant sorrow, all the while frantically constructing my story. She held on to my hand all the while, stroking my fingers, which was enough to make it hard to keep my mind on what I was trying to do.

  I gave her hand a little squeeze
and tried a weak smile, hoping that I wasn’t hamming the whole thing up too dreadfully but really having too much fun to care. The story was evolving in my mind, a nice blend of the prurient and the alarming, which I hoped would both shock her and secretly turn her on. I drained my glass, refilled it and took another sip, checked that nobody else was within earshot, and began.

  ‘I told you a little lie earlier,’ I said, borrowing a leaf from the horrible Dr Goebbels, ‘and I lied to the police as well. You see I know the man who did it. He used to be my boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ she answered. ‘I knew that. I was sure of it! Oh, Penny!’

  That was another lie: she was nearly as bad as me.

  ‘Yeah, my ex-boyfriend,’ I went on. ‘He was so jealous, you see, and he kept wanting me to do all these really kinky things . . .’

  ‘And you refused?’ she interrupted.

  ‘No,’ I answered, ‘I let him.’

  ‘Oh, Penny!’

  ‘I know, Beth, but I loved him. What could I do?’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t have. As a woman you have to take control of your own life!’

  ‘I couldn’t. I’m not strong, you see. I’m really weak.’

  ‘Oh, but you are, inside. You are, all women are.’

  I didn’t want to get into an argument about feminist philosophy: I wanted to tell her my dirty story, so I sighed and shrugged, then went on.

  ‘It wasn’t so bad at first, just little naughty things like wanting to spank me . . .’