by Syra Bond
She worked her way towards a man who was standing nearby carrying a briefcase. She started speaking to him. He nodded earnestly. She took out some of the money from her overall and pushed it quickly into his hand. He nodded again. Knowing she was distracted, I moved back into the entrance. She didn’t see me. I waited for a moment as the ice machine churned out an avalanche of fresh ice then I went inside.
I could see the door to one of the cubicles was closed. Miranda must be in there, I thought. I went into the next one and closed the door behind me.
For a few moments there was no sound. Then I heard footsteps on the tiled floor - a man’s footsteps!
I put the box on the floor, held my breath and waited. It was ridiculous but I couldn’t stop myself - and now I was committed, trapped!
The man stopped at the door of the cubicle Miranda was in. He knocked softly on the thin metal door.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you waiting for me?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
Miranda’s voice was so cultured, so succinct, so definite.
The door opened.
I climbed up onto the pedestal seat and peeped over the top of the shiny stainless steel partition. Miranda was kneeling on the floor, her arms draped around the white WC pedestal.
‘Come in,’ she said to the man without looking around.
The man stood in the open doorway and looked down at her. Her rounded bottom was tight inside her dark grey skirt. Her hips curved delectably from her narrow waist. Her suit jacket had ridden up slightly to reveal her white shirt. It had two hand sewn seams down the back. Her long shiny red lacquered nails looked like pools of blood against the vitreous white of the WC as she clung to it.
‘I will start like this first,’ said the man.
‘Yes.’
He reached down and undid the long side zip of her skirt. He pulled the skirt down and left it around the backs of her knees. She was wearing black satin panties - high cut and pulled smoothly across the taut skin of her buttocks. A black suspender belt and black sheer stockings contrasted with her pale smooth skin.
She did not move.
The man stroked the smooth of his hand across the satin surface of her panties. He pressed his finger between her legs and squeezed the flesh of her cunt. I could see how pliable and soft it was. I imagined my lips against it, my tongue licking in its groove. As he drew his finger away it left a slight indent that ran along the length of her crack. I wanted so much to lick along it, to lick the material and feel the gentle notch in it as it was pressed firmly against the delectable slit that ran beneath it. My heart started to beat faster.
Still she did not move.
He opened his briefcase and drew out a shiny black leather flogger - a braided handled scourge with at least twenty or thirty thin leather tails. He draped the heavy tails across his hand - they fell in a soft curve, wrapping themselves around the edge of his hand, caressing it, stroking it as if inviting it to lead them to the tight pulled material of her panties.
Still she did not move.
‘I will begin,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
He flicked the whip a couple of times across the palm of his hand, letting it get the taste for flesh. Satisfied, he knelt behind Miranda, drew the whip back and brought it down across her panty covered bottom.
I heard her draw breath - a short sharp inhalation - but I did not see her flinch or pull away. He brought it down again. It slapped against her skin - smoothly following the line of her curved buttocks. Again I heard her suck in air. He pulled the whip away. A broad redness appeared on the sides of her bottom where they were not covered by her silky panties. Again it came down - swishing, hard, firm. He set up a tempo - pulling back, waiting for a moment, bringing it down, making contact, holding the flogger’s flails against her skin, removing it to reveal its blotched red mark before bringing it down again.
I realised I was pushing myself rhythmically against the partition - pressing my mouth against its edge, my breasts against its surface in time with the lashing that was being inflicted on Miranda.
‘It will have to be harder,’ said the man.
‘Yes.’
‘And more painful.’
‘Yes.’
He reached down and took hold of the waistband of her black panties. He pulled them down slowly, not stopping when the gusset stuck to the sticky wetness of her cunt or its edges clung to the insides of her thighs. He dragged them to her knees and left them there. Where they had covered her bottom the redness was less than it was where her skin had been exposed. The crack between her buttocks was tight and precise. I could not see between them and could only imagine the flesh of her cunt - squeezed up, succulent, soft and yielding. The picture in my mind filled me with a surge of pleasurable heat in my own cunt. I gave a sudden gasp.
He brought it down again. This time she flinched as the tails found the exposed flesh of her cunt. I took the edge of the partition between my lips. Its harsh coolness inflamed me and I gripped it between my teeth; they grated against the unforgiving steel.
‘Lift it higher,’ he said.
It was a straightforward command, given coldly.
‘Yes.’
Her tone excited me - so clear-cut and matter of fact.
She dropped her face lower into the WC bowl - her hair spread along its edges, her arms folded around its base. She kept her bottom high.
The lash came down again. This time she flinched, she had lifted her bottom higher just as the whip came down, exposing her cunt and making its flesh available to the cutting flails of the swishing whip.
Now I saw the slit at the centre of her flesh - precise and glistening, exposed, unprotected, tender and vulnerable.
Spit was running from my mouth. I gripped the steel edge of the partition hard between my teeth, its metallic sterility made me drool even more. I inhaled its harshness - pure, inorganic, lifeless. I thought I could stay there forever - watching the flails coming down on Miranda’s buttocks, watching them redden, watching her flinch, watching the glistening wet crack of her cunt exposed to the angry smacking leather.
‘Higher.’
Still the cold tone.
‘Yes.’
Still the matter of fact response.
She dropped her face lower into the bowl and lifted her bottom as high as she could. I could see her cunt clearly now - reddened by the flail, wet, perfectly formed.
This time when the whip came down Miranda twisted in pain. She could no longer remain still - the pain was too much to bear. Again and she twisted so much she buried her head down into the bowl and I heard her choke and splutter as her face dipped into the water at its base.
He did not stop - harder and harder, faster and faster, more and more pain delivered in the swishing tails of the tightly gripped whip.
I pressed my nipples against the stainless steel partition - they were so hard and aching. I slobbered and drooled. I felt the edges of my teeth against the metal. I wanted to bite into it, to suck at it, to devour its inanimate lifelessness. I wanted to melt it with my heat so that I could drink it and quench my lustful thirst.
Miranda kept her bottom high even though she could no longer absorb the pain.
Suddenly he stopped. She went still. He reached into his briefcase and brought out a transparent polythene bag. It was filled with ice. He held it against the red smudged skin of her cunt. She tensed in shock and bent her back in a high contorting arch as the freezing ice made contact.
‘Stay down!’ he said, suddenly angered by her behaviour - her resistance, her independent action.
He pressed the ice bag hard against her flesh. Her buttocks tightened involuntarily as the coldness delivered a new pain - a contrasting pain, a different experience of suffering. He was displeased by her involuntary response
- it seemed too much like disobedience. He scowled.
He pulled the ice filled bag away and continued the beating. Again he stopped and repeated the process - pressing the freezing bag of ice against her hot and agonised flesh. Unable to control her body to start with she tensed but, struggling against her body’s involuntary reaction and using all her will power, she managed to make herself stop. He pressed it harder. She twisted in contorted anguish then again brought herself under control and remained still. I could see she was filled with the burning of heat and overcome with the freezing pain of ice. I could see it was barely tolerable.
I realised I was licking the bare shiny metal of the partition - stroking my wet salivating tongue against it, pressing the flat of its flesh against its smooth gleaming surface.
Miranda was clinging desperately to the WC; her groans and cries echoing against the vitreous material of the inside of the bowl. I wanted to crawl over the partition, to take her place, to feel the heat of the lashing whip against my cunt, to feel the freezing pain of the ice as it was pressed against its soft flesh. I wanted to feel the intolerability of it all. The thought of it! I imagined my cunt stinging, I imagined myself wincing, unable to protect myself, no longer in charge of my body, clinging to the WC - a victim of the man’s anger and strength, of my own lack of control, of my own seizures of delight.
He bore down on her viciously. I could see she was barely holding on - barely able to bring herself to stillness after she writhed in agony, barely able to recover enough to take the next agonising pain, barely able to stand the howling cries that echoed in her ears. He crushed the ice pack against her cunt - now laced with red lines from the lashing flogger that he wielded so cruelly. He pressed it flat against her burning flesh - squeezing it, setting it on fire with its coldness, confusing her senses and throwing her into turmoil.
I watched my spit running down the other side of the stainless steel partition. It flowed from my mouth in a bubbling stream and glistened on the shiny surface as it traced its way towards the polished tiled floor.
I could not make out words in her cries, I was not sure what I thought I heard, what I imagined, but they drew me towards her. It was her pain, I think - her supplication, her inability to take it - and it sucked me in like a vortex. I could not hold back. I clawed over the top of the partition - bringing my knee up and lifting it over the edge. I thought she was crying for help, pleading for mercy, saying how sorry she was. I knew what I was doing, I knew I was exposing myself to goodness knows what but it didn’t matter - I could not resist.
Suddenly, he turned and saw me. There was surprise on his face but anger as well - he was annoyed by my intrusion, enraged at being stopped. He threw the flogger down. Miranda sighed and flopped to the side; she must have thought her ordeal over. He reached up and grabbed me by the hair. He pulled me over the partition. The top edge scraped against my breasts, my nipples, the points of my hips and, as I twisted sideways and my legs opened, the crack of my cunt. I winced in pain as I fell giddily to the hard tiled floor on the opposite side of the partition. For a moment I thought I must have hurt myself, but I had not.
Miranda stayed where she was - on all fours, her arms wrapped around the WC pedestal. I bent over her - stretching my arms down on either side of her chest, straddling her hips with my widespread knees, raising my bottom like hers and pressing my hips down onto her. My cunt pressed against her red hot buttocks. My legs were so wide, my cunt so open. There was nothing else in my mind but the sweet expectation of punishment - painful punishment. I could think of nothing else. I knew he stood back - perhaps standing in the open doorway, I couldn’t tell. I know he lifted the flogger, but I didn’t hear its tails caressing each other or its movement cutting through the air. I know he waited for a while, but I couldn’t tell how long - it felt like an eternity.
When it struck it was so much more painful than I had imagined. It felt as if the skin of my bottom was being ripped away. It was agony - complete, delectable agony. I yelped and pressed my cunt harder against Miranda’s bottom. I did not try to protect myself from the flails of the leather whip. I did not bring my legs together or think of protecting the soft flesh of my exposed cunt. I lifted my bottom higher and I felt Miranda’s bottom rise against me - rise with me. I waited for the next and felt it against my cunt. And the next and I cried out and yelped and pressed myself harder against Miranda as she pressed back and lifted me even higher against the reason for my pain.
I knew I would feel the ice but I did not know how long I would have to wait. When it came its coldness burned me even more than the heat of the flailing whip. It penetrated me to my core - filling me, stuffing me full of its freezing sting. I could not have anticipated what it would feel like - the contrast of the cold and the heat, of the ice and the fire, had been impossible to foresee. My mind was filled with light - there was no picture to put to it, no fantasy to identify it, no wish to fix to it; I was simply blinded by its blaze.
I felt my body tightening, relaxing, and tightening again. I know the heat of my cunt melted the ice that was pushed against me, but the wetness that dripped from my flesh was also from my flesh itself. I felt myself convulsing in spasms as the beating continued, and these jerking seizures were still gripping me, still tossing me about in the blinding white ether, when the next fire of ice was pressed against my tortured flesh.
I howled and twisted as the pain continued to inflict its delectable joy. I felt as if I was tumbling, dipping, sinking in a pure white world where there was no up nor down, no weight, no fixed point. I was captured by unknown forces in a delightful balance of suffering, sacrifice and pleasure.
He stopped. I don’t know why - I didn’t want him to, I knew that. I knew it was all over though. I slid from Miranda’s back and lay beside her, propped against the cold stainless steel of the partition, hardly aware of its temperature and smoothness. Miranda’s head was still in the WC bowl, but now I could see her face. Spit was running from her mouth, she was gasping for breath, her firm breasts were heaving, her eyes were wide and staring. I panted in time with my thumping heart - rapid, irregular, out of control.
Miranda’s lips moved. Spit bubbled from them. They moved again. She was saying something - saying something to me.
‘Go,’ she said. ‘Go. You have taken enough. There will be more, but it is for me.’
My heart was beating so fast, I could hardly speak. At last I managed to say something.
‘No, I can’t leave - ’
‘Go! Go! The rest is for me. You have taken enough. Go!’
She went silent, staring into the water in the WC bowl - vacuous, expectant, terrified.
I struggled to my feet. The man was standing with the flogger in his hand. He smiled. I pushed past him and ran out of the cubicle. I fell against one of the washbasins and had to steady myself. I stared into the mirror.
Beyond my flushed and spit smeared face I saw the Mexican girl still pushing her mop across the shiny tiled floor. She moved towards the cubicle. The man stood back as she pushed her wet mop around Miranda’s body. Miranda didn’t move, she just lay there clinging to the WC, panting, keeping her reddened bottom high, and waiting for the girl to leave so that her flogging could continue.
Suddenly, I saw the box sitting on the floor in the cubicle next to the one in which Miranda lay. I was gripped by a sense of overwhelming panic. It was my ticket out of here! I rushed into the cubicle, grabbed it and rushed out as fast as I could. Outside I leaned against the cold throbbing ice machine and shivered.
I went back to the “Firewood Grill”. I could hardly sit down. I was sure people noticed. I thought they must have guessed what had been going on. Then I realised that was ridiculous!
I guzzled a coke. My bottom was so sore!
The next I knew an hour had passed and the last call for my flight was coming over the speaker system.
I rushed though the
concourse with the box in my hand. Everyone stared - I knew they did. I nearly slipped over twice. The pretty girl at the gate checked my ticket and handed me back my boarding slip.
Breathlessly, I hurried down the jet-way. There was no one else to be seen! I ran as fast as I could. I was sure I was going to miss the plane! I tripped on one of the sliding joints in the floor and was thrown face forward to the ground. The box flew out of my hand and clattered round the corner in front of me. I jumped up and ran after it. The entrance to the plane was directly ahead. A stewardess was just picking up the box. She held it out towards me with a broad smile.
I turned back just to see if I had dropped anything else. Pastor Wick was coming down the jet way behind me! Where had he come from? How had he found me? I thrust my ticket into the stewardess’s hand.
‘You left it a bit late, sweetie. Another few seconds and we would have gone without you. “53A”, all the way down, on the right. Please take your seat and get buckled up.’
As I turned past the entrance galley she pushed the door to. Its thud filled me with relief. I was safe! At last I was safe!
I pushed my way down the long aisle, still busy with passengers taking off their jackets and struggling to load the luggage lockers. I found my seat - right at the back. Miranda was sitting in “53B”!
FLIGHT 286
Miranda smiled as I sat down. She looked so calm and assured.
