Tie and Tease Page 5

  I came almost immediately, despite her best efforts to tease, kissing my pussy lips and burrowing her tongue into my vagina. As she tongued me her nose was pressed right to my clit, and it was just too much. Taking a firm grip on her head, I squirmed myself into her face, rubbing my pussy on her nose as it all came together in climax.

  She came up to kiss me, her face sticky with my juice. Our mouths met and we stayed like that for a while. I was in the rosy afterglow of my orgasm, but keen to return the favour. Amber likes to masturbate sitting on my face, with my tongue up her bottom. I offered Beth the same, but it shocked her and she refused, asking instead for the same treatment she had given me. I obliged, enjoying her plump little breasts and soft, smooth contours, but resisting the urge to kiss her bottom after what she’d said. In the end, with my face buried in her pussy, she came with a sigh and a sweet little whimpering noise, all the while stroking her breasts.

  We cuddled afterwards, before showering, which was fun, as I at last managed to get a proper look at her body. She was slim, but by no means scrawny, and full enough at chest and hips for my taste, if less than voluptuous. I told her, and she replied that she needed to lose weight and described her figure as ‘English pear’, which wasn’t really fair although I could see it as an excellent phrase for the future humiliation of somebody who would appreciate it.

  She made a big fuss over my fading bruises from the fox-hunt, although they weren’t really all that bad, and the ones from the twigs were worse than those Anderson had given me. Fortunately she didn’t know enough to tell the difference between a riding-crop mark and a lash from a branch. She let me soap her breasts and back but was shy about her bottom, which I badly wanted to explore. Not wanting another lecture I held off, and contented myself with another session of kissing and stroking when we went to bed. It was nice, and it made a change, but afterwards I was wishing I’d had my bottom smacked, or really done anything a bit rude, so I couldn’t resist mentioning it.

  ‘It is nice to be spanked, you know, Beth,’ I said, speaking quietly and snuggling up to her. ‘It doesn’t have to be hard, or nasty.’

  ‘No, Penny, it’s wrong. It’s taking power over another human being.’

  ‘But what if I want it?’

  ‘You don’t, really: that’s just the way your mind has defended you against Mark’s abuse. You’ve got a lot to learn, Penny, but I’ll be here to help you.’

  I bit my lip in frustration but made no resistance as she pulled my head on to the soft pillows of her chest.

  Three

  I’VE LOST COUNT of the number of women I’ve had sex with, although I think it’s somewhere in the twenties. Beth was nowhere near as experienced, for all her assumption of confidence, and I wasn’t surprised to learn that I was the second. She was pretty insecure about it in the morning, which is always a giveaway, much more so than somebody’s behaviour in bed. I’ve known girls to get into spanking and even peeing games in the heat of the moment and then be sullen and withdrawn in the morning, all because it was the first time and they felt guilty.

  With Beth it was more a question of justifying herself, pointing out that she wasn’t a lesbian but that the empowered modern woman should be able to make her own sexual choices, escaping the moral boundaries set by the paternalistic society. For once I agreed with her, although in my experience women try and set moral boundaries on other people as much as men. She went on to explain what she wanted in a man, and although she didn’t express it that way, basically she was waiting for Mr Right, with her concept of male perfection based on the editorial slant of Metropolitan magazine. Unfortunately Mr Right was as much a fantasy creation as the sadistic Mark.

  He had to be a strong character, yet willing to follow her line. He had to be attractive and passionate, yet show her a puppy-like fidelity. He had to be well paid and in control of his own finances, yet willing to let her spend his money more or less as she pleased. Inevitably she had never met such a paragon, but it didn’t seem to occur to her that this might be because no such man exists.

  So she had drifted through a series of unsatisfactory boyfriends, none of whom came close to her impossibly high standards, and had sex with a girl because she didn’t want to miss the pleasures of lesbian sex she had read so much about. She had felt guilty about it, and gone to bed with me because I so obviously needed comforting. I almost laughed at that, thinking of the care and effort she had put into making love to me, kissing and caressing with textbook thoroughness.

  I had had the same thought while she was doing it to me, but had put it aside in the heat of the moment. Now it came back, and as she made coffee and toast for us I made a hasty survey of the magazines she had laid out on the living-room table. Sure enough, in the previous November’s issue of Metropolitan there was an article on how to satisfy a woman by concentrating on the less obvious erogenous zones.

  It didn’t take much to bring the conversation round to the magazine, and after coffee and a gentle parting kiss I left with it under my arm. Other than the odd idle moment in waiting rooms, I never really read women’s magazines, or magazines at all for that matter. Amber takes Horse & Hound, which I sometimes read in bed, so I expected a deliberate editorial slant, but Metropolitan amazed me. It was like reading a synopsis of Beth’s character, although of course it was the other way around.

  The tone was absolute, dictating opinions with a forthright and moral certainty that amazed me. Gay sex was OK, even actively encouraged, between men as well as women, although always within the confines of safety. Anything that smacked of exploitation, or of one person surrendering control to another was out, including spanking, bondage and fetishistic role play. Male submission to women was an exception, just about, although it was expressed as more vengeful than sexual. Rubber was all right, and leather as long as it wasn’t used to express male dominance.

  By the time I reached Paddington I was feeling slightly sick from my efforts to read on the train, and badly in need of something to reinforce my own sexual choices. The tone of Metropolitan was just so strong, so absolutely certain of the moral high-ground, and both aggressive towards and contemptuous of anybody who disagreed. I could understand how Beth was influenced, and sympathise with it, although I was determined not to go the same way. I knew I would get over it, but as I worked my way through the underground system I was feeling less secure about myself than I had for years.

  I knew the answer, which was to have an afternoon of good, naughty sex that broke every one of the magazine’s rules. My first thought was to suggest a pony-girl session to Amber, with me harnessed up and fully under her control, bit in my mouth, tail plugged up my bottom and all. However, one of the major annoyances about the magazine was the way it put men down, especially anyone unfortunate enough to be poor, short, past the first flush of youth or of less than statuesque beauty. Aside from her kinky behaviour, Amber was everything they thought a woman should be, strong, independent and successful, also young, attractive and middle-class.

  What I needed was someone with all the vices that they most disapproved of, or qualities from my point of view. It would have to be a man, preferably getting on a bit, old-fashioned, lecherous, perverse in his sexual tastes, just the sort of man they felt should crawl quietly into a corner and wait for the grim reaper. He’d also have to be clean, friendly and at least reasonably intellectual, suiting my private limits to deliberate self-degradation.

  Henry was the obvious choice, with his fatherly manner and outsize cock: in many ways the perfect spanker. He was good at pony-girl fantasy and most of the other things I like, too, but I knew it would upset Amber if I went to him without calling on her first. If I did that it was going to take ages to get to Hertfordshire, explain things to Amber, persuade her and find Henry. I wanted a quicker solution.

  The dreadful Morris Rathwell was another choice, and although he always scared me a bit he could be guaranteed to drop his work long enough to subject me to some fairly vigorous abuse. He’d certainly spank
me, and hard, then probably make me go down on his cock under his office desk. If he had the time he would try and bugger me, which I had never given in to, so far. There was also a chance of his wife Melody or her sister being there, which would be even better. Unfortunately it would upset Amber if I went to him, so I was forced to drop the idea.

  That left Percy Ottershaw among my London friends: fat, dirty Percy with his obsession with tight white panties and caning girls. He lacked Henry’s impressive genitals or Morris’s ability to frighten me just enough to be sexy, but he had all the other qualities, in abundance. The editor of Metropolitan would have hated him. He was also a wine writer and a serious gourmet, so could be counted on for a decent lunch after taking the edge off my lust.

  I turned back on my tracks and made for Warwick Road tube, praying Percy was in and not at a wine tasting or abroad. He was out, leaving me standing on the steps of his block of flats in a welter of frustration. I had really worked myself up, imagining how pleased he would be to have me visit him for sex, and the glorious mixture of shame and pleasure I would feel offering it. I even had white cotton panties on, which he loved, and it was just so annoying to think I was going to miss out.

  It was lucky I lingered, because as I finally turned to leave there he was, his portly figure unmistakable as he plodded along the pavement. He was every inch the dirty old man: dark suit, blue bow tie, face red and puffing, great belly swaying beneath a fancy waistcoat. I smiled and waved, to which he responded with a beaming grin and a gesture of one podgy hand.

  I knew him too well to need to dissemble, and had broached the subject of needing a punishment before we were even in his flat. He laughed aloud as I explained things to him, and then said I ought to be caned for wearing jeans, as women ought to be in skirts, preferably dresses. That was perfect, and I could just picture the editor of Metropolitan, speechless with outrage at his chauvinist attitude. There had been a letter in my issue complaining about those few remaining institutions that refuse to admit women in trousers, and the response had been pretty uncompromising. The suggestion that girls in trousers ought to have them pulled down for a half-dozen strokes of the cane on their bare bottoms would have caused apoplexy.

  I wear what I please, and always have, but that wasn’t the point. Percy nodded thoughtfully and reiterated his opinion that a caning would teach me to behave like a lady. I apologised meekly for being unsuitably dressed and accepted the justice of the coming punishment, hanging my head and folding my hands in my lap, all remorse and misery, anything but assertive or in command. Caning hurts, and my tummy was already fluttering, while if my lower lip was stuck out and trembling then it wasn’t all show.

  ‘Good,’ he went on, ‘I’m glad you have chosen to show suitable contrition, but you realise I still have to do it?’

  I nodded miserably.

  ‘Bare, of course. Shame is an important part of the punishment.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right, you had better pop your jeans and knickers down I think, Penny. You can bend across an armchair, as I have no wish to make your experience unnecessarily uncomfortable.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  My hands had already gone to the button of my jeans, fumbling it open with my fingers trembling. I had to swallow a lump in my throat as I pulled down my zip, and I turned my back to him looking over my shoulder as I began to pull down my trousers. He watched, his little piggy eyes fixed on my rear as my jeans slid down, displaying the seat of my panties beneath the hem of my top.

  Holding my jeans around my thighs, I waddled awkwardly over to the armchair and climbed into it, kneeling so that my bottom stuck out towards him. I reached back, eased up my top, tweaked my panties up tight between my bumcheeks and I was ready, exposed and unprotected for my punishment.

  ‘Knickers down, I said, Penny,’ Percy remarked in a horribly reasonable voice. ‘Do you think you’ll feel a proper measure of shame without that little fanny showing behind?’

  His words put a shiver the length of my spine as I shook my head. My hands went back, delving beneath the waistband of my panties, starting to pull, easing them off my bum, feeling the cotton pull from my crease and I was bare, showing it all to fat Percy.

  ‘Very sweet,’ he remarked. ‘I do love the way a girl’s fanny lips pout in that position. You’re showing your anus, too. You do know that, don’t you?’

  I nodded miserably. My sense of humiliation was beginning to cut in, and the thought that he could see the tiny puckered hole between my cheeks really added to it.

  ‘I trust that brownish colour is your natural pigmentation?’ he said, ever so casually, and I found myself calling him a bastard under my breath.

  He chuckled and stood up, leaving the room to return immediately with a long, yellow cane with a crooked handle. I braced myself instinctively, clenching my cheeks, only to let them apart again because I just had to be showing my bumhole when he hit me. The cane came up, high over my naked bum, then down with that horrible swishing sound and a line of agony sprang up across my cheeks. I squealed and kicked out, biting my lip in my pain. Percy gave his dirty little chuckle.

  There’s always a moment during a hard punishment on cold skin when I wonder what the hell I am doing offering my naked bottom to some maniac with a stick or whip. It doesn’t happen with hand spankings, or when I’m thoroughly turned on first, but it did now, with no more than a few minutes between accepting the idea of being caned and ending up bent over with my bare bum stuck up for Percy’s attention.

  It was my sense of humiliation that stopped me getting up, the choking, pussy-wetting knowledge that I was kneeling for a dirty old man to put a cane across my bare bottom, kneeling with my pussy pouting out between my thighs and my bumhole on show. I got back into position, bum stuck out and knees a little bit apart, with my back pulled in to make the best of my shape.

  Percy waited until I was ready and brought the cane down again, sending another jolt of pain through my body. The strokes were hard: no playful cuts, but given just as if I was being punished for real. They stung crazily, and with two stripes decorating my bottom I could feel them throbbing and the sting where the cane tip had caught my hip.

  I find it impossible to hold still under a proper caning, and had jumped again, but got quickly back, posing my bottom for his attention and getting it immediately. The third stroke came low, only just above where my cheeks meet my thighs, and it stung even more than the others. I was gasping as I settled back into position, but the pleasure had begun to come in earnest, with my whole bottom feeling plump and warm and blatantly sexual.

  The fourth stroke came down and I heard the pleasure in my own cry, ecstasy despite the fact that I was close to tears. I was sobbing faintly as I resumed my position, pain and humiliation blending in my head, only for Percy to suddenly reach out and tweak my top up, then my bra, spilling my naked boobs out to leave them hanging under my chest. I’m not big, but they felt huge, and utterly exposed, adding to my woes.

  Percy stepped back, brought up the cane and whipped it down across my bottom, jamming me into the armchair and setting my breasts swinging. I hung my head as the shock died, groaning openly as I waited for the last stroke. It came a moment later, hard and accurate, and as the stinging pain shot through me the last of my reserve went and I burst into tears. Percy waited for just one moment, long enough for me to stop it, but that was the last thing I wanted.

  ‘Stop snivelling, you little brat,’ he said. ‘Yes, you can get up, but you are to take off those absurd trousers, and keep your knickers down.’

  I obeyed, climbing off the armchair to remove my jeans, socks and shoes. The tears were streaming down my face and I was sobbing badly, but it was more from relief than anything. I kept my top high, tucking it into my bra, and my panties down, so that everything was showing as I stood for his inspection with my hands on my head.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said as he came behind me to inspect his handiwork. ‘I see you know your place. A properly humble a
ttitude is very important in a woman: gentlemen so appreciate it.’

  A hand closed on my bottom, squeezing the hot cheek, then another, pulling them apart. I bent, touching my toes and swallowing hard with my tears coming faster as he made a minute inspection of my anus. It occurred to me that he was going to bugger me and I knew I’d let him. Not that he’d do it standing up, as he’d never make it. Instead I’d have to sit in his lap with his prick up my bottom, doing all the work until he came up me.

  ‘I trust that taught you a lesson?’ he asked, stepping away. ‘If not, we can always apply another six lines to that delectable little behind. Do you think it will be needed?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Now, I confess to having become a little aroused. You will take my penis in your mouth.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He sat down, making himself comfortable in his armchair and spreading his heavy thighs to show off the bulge in his trousers. I got down on my knees, feeling the cool air on the wet patch between my thighs as they came apart. Percy laid his hands on his ample belly, leaving me to do the work. His fly buttoned, and as each one popped open my sense of being about to do something really dirty grew. I’d been caned, bare-bottomed, by a dirty old man, and now I was going to suck his cock, suck him until he came, in my mouth.

  I freed his cock from his underpants, a slim shaft of pale meat, already near erection. He was past sixty, and fat, but with a girl in white panties to cane his cock reacted like a teenager’s. It came hard in my hand. I leaned forward, opened my mouth and took it in, sucking like the meek little thing I was supposed to be, beaten into submission and sucking the penis of her tormentor.