by Penny Birch
Unfortunately I felt a moral obligation towards him, and was fairly certain that rejection by me would make him return to peeping and panty stealing, which I did not want. So I ended up shelving the problem and allowing him to stay on the Saturday night. He was oblivious to the emotional effect he had had on me by sodomising me, or by making me walk through the streets with my panties bulging with snow. Nobody saw us, but that was not the point. I had been made to walk through the streets looking as if I had soiled my panties.
He should have taken over, perhaps fed me from a bottle, put me to bed in my nappy, stroked my hair until I fell asleep, something kind and gentle. What he did was make himself the most enormous pile of sandwiches while I got the snow out of my clothes and cleaned up. He then sat there, eating them, watching cartoons on TV and making the occasional obscure and supposedly witty remark about the characters. In the end I went to bed to lie in the darkness, sucking my thumb and feeling used, until I went to sleep, still with the TV on in the background.
It was the same in the morning, with him bumbling around the flat looking for food, then coming into the bathroom to watch me shower while he ate cereal from a mixing bowl. Before long he’d got his cock out and I was made to suck him off, down on my knees in the shower with the water cascading over my back and bottom. He kept on eating as I sucked, only putting the bowl down when he was close to orgasm so that he could take his cock and spunk in my face and hair. Having come, he simply wandered away.
I knew full well that if he stayed I would be spending my Sunday as his sex slave, or more accurately as his slave full stop. What I needed to do was think and relax, so I bundled him out late in the morning, letting him take a final leisurely grope of my bottom and breasts by the door before he went. I was still in my robe and feeling sensitive and rather fragile. An afternoon in nappies seemed a good idea, as I badly needed the relaxation it would bring and knew that I was going to have to masturbate before long.
A second cup of coffee was a still more urgent priority, and I went to make it, all the while thinking about Monty and the fact that I was no longer anally virgin. Rationally, I knew the concept was meaningless, that the fact that I had had a cock put up my bottom made no difference to who I was, or anything else. Emotionally, it was impossible to be detached, with the memory of how it felt to have a man’s penis working in and out of my anal passage burning in my head. It was also impossible to deny that it had felt good, and that the real problem was not that I’d been sodomised, but that I hadn’t been cuddled afterwards.
By the time I’d got to the couch with my coffee, it was getting very hard to hold myself back. I wanted to touch my bottom-hole, to feel where Monty had put his cock, and to soothe my poor aching ring. Giving in to my feelings, I fetched cream and arranged myself on the couch once more, my panties off, my legs wide and my robe open. Squeezing some cream on to one hand, I went back to drinking coffee as I began to explore.
My bottom-hole felt sore and a little loose, slightly open and exceptionally sensitive. I stroked myself for a moment before dabbing the cream on and starting to rub, in little circular motions, soothing myself, my eyes closed. Before long my finger was in the hole, just the top joint, probing gently, to open myself as I concentrated on how it felt to offer my bottom for penetration. Monty had pushed his cock up without giving me much choice, but so many times he had made me bend to show off my bottom-hole, always imagining how his cock would feel where my finger now was, in the hot, tight hole of my anus. Finally it had become too much for him, and he’d sodomised me.
I put the cup down and pulled up my legs, spreading myself wide to the cool air. My finger probed deeper, well into the cavity of my rectum, to feel the hot, slimy interior where Monty’s cock had been, which he’d filled with sperm. I pushed in a second finger, holding myself open, now in full, blatant anal masturbation, fingering myself with my creamy little hole held wide to the air. I thought of how Nurse Trainer had opened my bottom-hole, three big fingers holding me wide as I licked her sex. I thought of Poppy and Natasha, and how they’d forced the icing nozzle into me and filled my rectum with cake-mix, then made me push it out into my panties.
Poppy had been right when she’d said they’d been cruel to be kind. It was what I needed, sometimes, to let me surrender completely, to be taken charge of, to be punished even. Only that way could I reach the deepest pleasures, the most beautiful experiences, total abandonment.
My fingers were deep in, as far up my bottom as I could push them, until I felt something hard, deep inside me. Easing back a little, I began to push my fingers in and out. My anus was straining and sore, but I was too far gone to care. I felt so wonderfully open, with my newly buggered bottom-hole spread to the air, and my sex too, wide, without the slightest concealment, totally exposed. My thumb went to my clitoris, rubbing; I clutched tight, holding myself by my pussy and bottom-hole, delighting in the sexual response of my body, my nudity, my penetration, the knowledge that I could fuck, that I could be buggered…
I came, gasping out my orgasm, my thighs high and wide, my fingers deep, deep up my bottom, wriggling in the hot slimy interior of my rectum, my thumb flicking over and over on to my clitoris, riding my climax, on and on. At the very peak I imagined being caught in the position I was holding by a man, taken by my ankles, buggered and spunked up as I masturbated, to let me come on his cock, or with sperm spurting and dribbling from my anus.
It took a long time for my orgasm to subside, and it left me feeling a great deal happier. I always do my best to persuade my clients of the benefits of masturbation, and it is something I firmly believe in, wonderfully self-indulgent, pleasurable, soothing and completely harmless; an ideal therapy.
I showered and dressed, then began to tidy up the mess Monty had made of my flat. Tidiness comes naturally to me, and I hate things out of place, while Monty seemed to regard the world as his personal dustbin. Certainly he’d treated my flat as one, which was particularly galling when I considered the fanatical precision with which he had categorised and labelled his collection of stolen panties, as well as such things as his CD collection.
Thinking of his panty collection reminded me that I still had them, and that they could probably now be safely returned, along with his magazines and videos. That meant a trip to his house, with the inevitable consequences, something which raised seriously mixed emotions.
I had just about restored the flat to order when the buzzer went. Expecting somebody in an emotional crisis, as likely as not Jo Warren, I went to answer it with considerable irritation. Sure enough, as soon as I heard the misery in the voice at the other end I knew my guess was right, only it wasn’t Jo, or any of my clients. It was Poppy.
She came up at a run, but stopped on the landing to look at me, her face tear-streaked and miserable, her lower lip trembling uncontrollably. In either hand she held a large, old-fashioned suitcase. I put my arms out for her and she came into them, instantly bursting into tears on my shoulder. All I could do was hold her and stroke her hair and back, until finally she brought her sobbing under control and stepped back to dab at her eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, although with the two suitcases I had already guessed.
‘I’ve left Anna.’ She sniffed. ‘Can I…can I come in?’
‘Yes, of course. Let me help you.’
I ushered her in, following with the suitcases. Obviously she was hoping to stay with me, and there was a little voice in the back of my head shouting with elation, despite my outward feelings of sympathy and surprise. She let me take her coat, and followed me into the clinic. She didn’t sit, but she stood by my couch, looking utterly forlorn.
‘Do you want to talk?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘Coffee?’ I offered. ‘Tea?’
‘Anna beat me,’ she said, ‘for last weekend. Really hard.’
‘But, you knew she would, yes?’ I answered cautiously.
‘Not like this,’ she said, and turned her back.
&n
bsp; She was in a dress, cotton with a print of big, red flowers, knee-length and belted at the waist, fifties style. Underneath her legs were bare and so was her bottom, a sight which would normally have had me thinking sex as she rucked up the dress to the level of her waist; not now.
When she had said she’d been beaten hard she had not been exaggerating. The entire surface of her bottom and the backs of her legs were a mass of bruises, dark, angry cane-welts, purple and black between raised lines of rough, red skin. Just looking at it made me wince, and it was only too easy to imagine her pain and distress, and sympathise.
‘I don’t know how many strokes,’ she said, her voice catching. ‘More than a hundred though, with a heavy cane. She made me wait all week, and she was really cold. Then, this morning, she told me it was time, and that I’d have to be tied to take my punishment properly. I let her. I was looking forward to it. She made me kneel on a chair, and she tied my ankles to the legs and my hands to the back, low down, so I was bent right over, and couldn’t protect myself at all. She pulled up my dress and took down my pants, and left me there, for ages, until I was shaking and really uncomfortable. When she came in with the heavy cane I was scared, but I still wanted it. I thought I’d get twelve, maybe twenty-four. She told me I was getting thirty, and that I’d be made to count. I can, normally, but she did it really hard, and fast too, so that I lost control, and lost count too. She started again, as hard as before, and not on my bum, on my legs. After twenty I lost count again, and she just started again, and she wouldn’t stop, not even when I started crying, which I never, ever do, and…’
She burst into tears again, and I came forwards to cuddle her. For a while she clung on to me, sobbing, then began to speak again.
‘She only stopped when I started to scream and, afterwards, she wouldn’t comfort me, but told me to stand in the corner. I needed a hug so badly, but she wouldn’t, she just wouldn’t!’
‘I understand,’ I said.
‘I just wanted a hug! The bitch!’
‘You can cuddle me, Poppy, for as long as you like.’
‘I left,’ she said, and once more started to cry.
I held on to her, stroking her head and whispering to her, letting her cry until she stopped of her own accord. I could feel for her, absolutely, having been through the same experience, if not so extreme. I was also angry because Anna had abused her trust and hurt her, but it was impossible not to feel pleased as well. She had come to me. She could have chosen Natasha, or who knew how many other friends, but she had come to me.
* * *
It took two days for Poppy to start to recover emotionally, which I actually thought showed a lot of strength after the collapse of an eight-year relationship, never mind the caning. I let her stay in my special bedroom, and spent a lot of time cuddling her and generally looking after her. She wanted me to cream her bruises, which I did, and managed to keep my hands away from her pussy, although it drove me to distraction. I forced myself, though, even when she began to show signs of pleasure, determined not to take advantage of her while she was feeling fragile and to allow her to make the first move.
I knew it would come and it did, sooner than I expected. On the Tuesday night I put her to bed, with her bottom and legs creamed and wearing nothing but a short nightie. My hands were shaking as I went back to my ordinary bedroom, and I knew that I’d be masturbating myself to sleep over her for the third night running. I did, only to be wakened in the early hours of the morning by a gentle kiss.
Nothing was said. She simply slipped in under my covers and we began to kiss, just holding each other at first, then with greater passion as our hands began to stroke at necks and hair, backs, breasts and bottoms and, finally, each other’s sex. We came together, kissing as our fingers worked in our pussies, an experience as loving and intimate as any I had ever had. We slept in each other’s arms.
In the morning, she was back to her old self, more or less, full of life with only the occasional moment of moody introspection. She’d been nude when she came into my bed, and she stayed nude, completely at ease with me, only dressing when it was time for the first of my clients to arrive. She stayed quietly in the bedroom while I worked, as before, and afterwards made lunch for me and insisted on doing my shopping in the afternoon.
By then there was no question that she was going to be staying with me. What little she had brought with her was unpacked, and I was adjusting my lifestyle to her presence without the slightest regret or ill feeling. That evening we went to bed together in my special bedroom, by mutual agreement, and both naked. As before, sex was loving and intimate, if a touch less spontaneous, as we came head to tail, licking each other’s pussy. We snuggled down together afterwards, with me in her lap. I was on the edge of sleep when she whispered into my ear.
‘I’m going to pee, Gabrielle.’
Even as she spoke I felt it, the warm gush of fluid, spurting out between the cheeks of my bottom and running down my skin into the bed. She sighed as she did it, nuzzling and kissing at my neck as her pee came out, over me and into our bed. Soon I was in a warm pool, my bottom wet and my hip pressed into soggy, sticky sheets.
‘Now you,’ she said as her gush died to a trickle. ‘Do it all over me.’
I rolled over to take her into my arms, even as my legs came up, opening my sex to her. It took a moment of concentration, but it came, my pee squirting out to patter against her skin and the sheets, spraying out over us. I could feel her trembling as I urinated on her, and her kisses were growing rapidly more passionate. When I’d finished we came together, thighs locked, to rub our pussies, squirming and wriggling, delighted in the puddle we’d made, until we came, Poppy first, then me, rubbing on each other’s legs with our bottoms and bellies and legs wet with our pee.
Inevitably we had to change the bed and clean ourselves up, which was done with a lot of giggling and bottom-slapping. I threatened to put her in a nappy, and would have done, had I not been so tired by then. As it was, I decided to be sensible and we ended up going to sleep, still naked, in the other bed.
Thursday was Monty’s day, his fourth and final session. There was really very little to say, even when it came to his attitude to my feelings. After all, I could hardly deny enjoying anal sex, when I’d come with him inside me, and as I was with Poppy, I was no longer particularly concerned with his lack of post-coital emotion. He had, in any case, promised to give up the panty stealing, although more due to what he now saw as an unacceptable risk of being caught than for any moral reason.
As usual I ended up on my knees, sucking his cock with my skirt pulled up at the back and my panties well down to show off my bottom. I half expected him to tip me over my couch and bugger me, but he contented himself with coming in my face and leaving my glasses coated with sperm, a sight which left him grinning with delight, as always. Fortunately Poppy was out shopping at the time, but she came back while Monty was still there, and exchanged a few polite words before he left.
‘So that was the infamous Monty?’ she said as the outside door banged below us.
‘Yes,’ I sighed.
‘Did he…’ she asked, glancing at my face.
‘Yes,’ I admitted, not wanting to lie to her.
‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘You’ve still got come in your hair.’
I went for the tissues, thoroughly embarrassed. She merely giggled.
‘Natasha said he likes to do it in girls’ faces,’ she said as I frantically cleaned up the little bits of sperm which had escaped my initial attention.
‘Lots of men do,’ I said.
‘It’s a power thing, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Like marking women as their own by putting their sperm over our faces, showing off their virility.’
‘Possibly,’ I answered, ‘with Monty I think it is more that he likes to deny a woman’s right to sexual concealment. He loves to make women display themselves in blatantly sexual situations.’
‘I suppose he’d like to have us all walking around topless
.’
‘Probably, but I think he prefers it if the woman’s embarrassed as well. He finds women being exposed funny as well as arousing. That is one of the things I find hard to take about him.’
‘Tasha said much the same. Still, I think it was unfair of her to palm him off on you like that.’
‘Palm him off? She introduced me to him in the hope that he would make a suitable nurse for me. He did not.’
‘No, she didn’t. That’s not what she told me anyway. She said she couldn’t handle him, and so she set you up with him instead.’
‘She did?’
‘That’s what she told me. Her boyfriend was about to come back from France apparently, and it was going to be awkward if he was around. So she introduced you. I thought you knew?’
‘No. I did not. I had guessed, yes. I asked her. She lied…’
I trailed off. Poppy was telling the truth; there was no possible doubt. I had wondered about Natasha’s motives, and whether her denial had been truthful, but now I was certain, and equally certain that she would find the situation hilarious, especially when she discovered that I had surrendered my anal virginity to Monty. I am not normally vindictive, but the situation cried out for revenge.
‘So are you going to drop him now?’ she asked. ‘Now that we’re together, I mean.’
It was her first real acknowledgement that we were lovers, and it pushed everything else out of my head. I smiled and nodded, then went to kiss her. She responded, and in minutes we were in a tangle of discarded clothing on the floor, kissing and licking at each other’s body, until we had both reached orgasm. Afterwards we lay together for a long time, until the approach of another appointment for me forced us to break apart.
I spent an hour listening to my client’s difficulties with her boyfriend, who was apparently obsessed with the small size of his penis and constantly required reassurance, often during the middle of sex, also having his cock measured. Ignoring the temptation to suggest gagging him during sex, I dug out some statistics to show that he was actually more or less average in size, and suggested she praise his cock during foreplay in an effort to forestall interruptions later. She left happy, or at least interested, studying the sheet I’d given her on cock size with fascination.
