Anne-Marie herself wore a red rubber cat suit with high-heeled ankle boots and gloves, but it seemed she was not intending to play an active role in the proceedings, at least not just yet. Instead, she unclipped my wrists from either side of my chain belt and pointed to Andrea. 'See if you can make her come,' she instructed. 'Just stroke her balls and what you can see of her cock but don't worry about her nipples. They're falsies, as you know. They may look impressive but she can't feel a thing through them. I tell you, Andrea, we ought to think about getting you real tits; you don't know what you're missing.'
With my hands free again, I suppose I could have removed my gag easily enough and protested that I would rather go to sleep, but the truth is that the sight of Andrea in all her white leather restraints was a huge turn-on for me and I wanted to see just how well I could control her for a change, having twice now been helpless at her hands.
I beckoned for her to come closer and this she did, lowering her eyes. Hesitantly, I extended one arm and carefully cupped her glistening sac in my rubber-gloved hand. I heard a sharp hiss from behind her gag and felt a tremor run down through her body. So far so good, but would she fight against it, or go with it?
I squatted down, wishing I had my tongue free, for that dark purple plum was just asking to be licked. Instead, I managed to work one latex-covered finger in past my gag, wetting it with my saliva. I withdrew it and carefully transferred the spittle to Andrea's cock-head, massaging it around until it gleamed with my wetness. My reward was a further groan from her stuffed mouth and an even greater swelling of the imprisoned shaft. I shuddered myself imagining how painful it must be growing for my poor victim, but I knew I was expected to continue until I had finished what I had started.
Inside me the two dildos suddenly seemed to have grown larger, as if in sympathy with the tethered flesh-and-blood version I was now tormenting. I stroked again, cupping and squeezing with my other hand, and Andrea began to whimper. I hesitated again, looking up in some alarm, but Anne-Marie urged me on.
'She's perfectly okay,' she whispered. 'Just suffering the most delightful torture of all. Take your time and don't rush it. Let her suffer as long as possible. She takes some bringing off, as you know, but all this might be a bit much for her, so go easy and make it last.'
It was a more than surreal situation, one almost helpless slave torturing a completely helpless slave to the very verge of erotic madness, or so it seemed. Andrea's feet began to move, performing a slow dance in time to my stroking and squeezing, yet not once did she make as if to pull away from me. She groaned softly, little mewling sounds like those of a trapped kitten squeezing past her gag. On what I could see of her strapped shaft, the veins bulged a dark blue, the thin leather bands seemingly about to cut through that tender flesh.
'Perhaps you should fuck her now,' Anne-Marie whispered. 'You've both earned it. You take your belt off and I'll loosen her straps. Better I do that in case you pinch her too hard.'
My two dildos slid out as one, dropping onto the carpet between my boots with soft thuds that should have had me cringing with embarrassment, but all I could focus on now was the cock that was being prepared for me. With each strap that was removed it seemed to grow bigger and bigger until only the scrotal strap remained, as had been the case the previous evening.
Anne-Marie turned back to check that I was ready, and then stepped aside. 'She's all yours, Teenie,' she smiled. 'Do your worst.'
Still gagged, I could only gesture or push and this I now did, guiding Andrea back until she was against the bed and then pressing her against it, first to sit and then to lie stretched out on her bound arms, probably a most uncomfortable position, although I could tell she was now past caring about such things. Thanks to the ball strap her cock jutted conveniently upright and I lost no time in drawing myself up, my knees straddling her so I could poise my already soaking quim over it. I lowered myself onto the bulbous head, letting it press against my opening as I rocked back and forth a little, teasing her and making her wait for the moment of ultimate possession. Then suddenly I felt the rounded tip slip inside me as she strove desperately to push up into me. Only for a second did I consider rising up to continue the deprivation before I let myself sink, devouring every inch of her erection in one swift killing dive, crushing my buttocks hard against her outspread thighs and bringing forth a choked scream of sheer ecstasy from behind her gag.
'Fuck her slowly, Teenie,' I heard from behind me. 'Make her wait and draw everything from her. She'd do the same to you and no doubt will before long... that's it, my two sweet little girl slaves. Yes, that's perfect!' I saw the flash and realised dimly that Anne-Marie was now photographing this curious scenario, but I did not care. For one thing, I was unrecognisable in this outfit, and for another more important reason, I could not have stopped now had I wanted to...
And so it was eventually back to Dorset, this time deeper into the county and to the village of Marlin Cross, really no more than a hamlet comprising seven or eight cottages, a garage that looked as if it had been closed for a decade or more and a pub that had been closed for even longer, its faded paintwork and boarded windows witness to a diversion of the former main road that had left it high and dry.
'Not very promising,' Andrea observed, stating the obvious. 'No sign of the Carpenter empire here.'
We had discovered during our final sortie into Somerset House and another visit to the British Museum that Saul Carpenter had almost certainly been born Saul Carpentier, son of a French aristocrat of Jewish descent, the family having fled to England to escape the terror and afterwards changed their name to the English spelling. Beyond that, however, we were no wiser than we had been before.
'Looking at these buildings,' I said as I leaned back against the side of the car and stared up at the crumbling pub facade, 'I'd guess they were probably built after eighteen thirty-nine. The style is mid-Victorian, probably between eighteen sixty and eighteen ninety, although those two end cottages at the bottom of the street are probably a bit older.'
'You do know your history,' Anne-Marie complimented me. 'They all just look old to me.'
'You can tell from the windows,' I explained. 'These are much later, but the two buildings down there may well have been built as early as the mid-eighteenth century. Possibly estate workers cottages; they're about the right size.'
'Except there's no estate left any more,' Andrea observed, 'so what's the point of hanging about here now?'
'There's a larger village about two miles further on,' I said, consulting the AA map, 'Minsley Hampton. It looks more promising. The main road comes back around and goes right through it, so presumably there'll at least be a pub there still.'
'Oh, alcohol!' Andrea sighed. 'And food! Please!'
There was a pub with alcohol and a selection of pies and pasties, if little else. There were also several dozen cottages, a couple of larger houses, a post office and a general store manned by two elderly looking females who simply had to be sisters.
'Remember,' I said as we sat in the farthest corner of the bar nursing large vodkas and lemonade, 'we're here researching for a film company that specialises in period dramas for television and my name is Teena Brown, just in case there's a Spigwell or a Thyme connection hereabouts.'
'If I was related to any of these,' Andrea looked down the length of the room to where four very rural types were propping up the far end of the bar, 'I wouldn't like to own up to it. This is the sort of place where they've only just stopped eating their children and a virgin is a girl that can run faster than her brothers!'
'Shut up, you daft bitch!' Anne-Marie hissed. 'We need cooperation here, not you putting people's backs up before we even get going.'
We left Andrea at the table with strict instructions not to move. Two of the men at the bar were already casting covert glances in her direction and not because they suspected her true gender. Again that skirt length of hers was drawing the wrong sort of attention.
We introduced ourselves to the l
andlord, a cheery enough individual who told us his name was Norman Bartwell, and he became even cheerier when we mentioned our fictitious film company and the possibility of location shooting in the area. You could almost hear the sound of cash registers jingling in his head as he conjured up images of a thirsty film crew and countless extras invading his pub, which would have become large enough to water a small army.
'Great Marlins, you say,' he repeated, scratching his stubbly chin. 'Yes, I've certainly heard of it, though it ain't been around in my time here and I've had this place, and my dad before me, for nigh on fifty years now. There was a Marlin House, of course. The War Office, or someone, used it during the forties, but Jerry must have found out about it and they snuck in and bombed him one night in forty-two... or was it forty-three?'
'And whereabouts was that?' I prompted.
Norman scratched his chin again. 'Well, you'd want to go back down the road about a mile-and-a-half and turn off up Vole Hill Road on the left. Then, about a quarter of a mile up, you'd want to be making a right and then another left near the top of the hill, and then follow the road down until you get to the stream, or what's left of it. You'll see some woods there and the house was behind them, but there's nothing left of it now. They took away the rubble to fill bomb craters on the Brimley aerodrome just before D-Day.'
'Who lived at the house before the army people took it over?' I asked.
'Old feller by the name of Spreadwell, or something like that.'
'Could it have been Spigwell?' My pulse suddenly picked up a gear.
Norman considered this. 'Might've been,' he conceded, 'but then again, might not. It was a long time ago, and I wasn't more'n a young lad. Funny bloke he was, though, bit of a hermit. Hardly ever came into the village.'
'Was there an estate there in his time?' Anne-Marie enquired.
Norman shook his head emphatically. 'No, definitely not, it was all farms across from Meg's Mount to Sprigley Cross, all except for a stretch along by the old river course that was flooded and marshy.'
'Meg's Mount?' Again my heartbeat picked up speed. 'Where's that? I haven't seen it marked on any maps.'
'Oh, bless you, my dear, and neither will you,' Norman laughed, 'not on any official maps, any ways. No, you'll see it on the ordnance maps as Filton Hill, but people hereabouts always calls it Meg's Mount.'
'Do you have any idea why?'
'Well, it's only an old tale, but there was a story that there was once a witch lived hereabouts and she used to sit naked on the big white ridge of rock at the top of the hill whenever there was a full moon. Folks said she used to ride it like it was a stallion.'
'And her name was Meg, was it?' asked Andrea, who despite our threats had now wandered up to the bar in time to catch these last exchanges.
'Well now, young miss,' Norman replied, his eyes twinkling, 'if she'd been called Lizzie, then I reckon the place would've been known as Lizzie's Mount, don't you?'
We all laughed at that, all except Andrea, who had decided it was time for a good sulk. We ordered her another drink and pressed on with our host.
'Who else might know some of the old stories?' I continued our friendly interrogation.
'Old Jacob Henley, I reckon,' Norman replied. 'He's in his nineties and is the oldest person in these parts except for old mother Redford, who lives with her granddaughter and can't even remember her own name, so I doubt she'd be of much use to you.'
'And where might we find Mr Henley?'
He grinned. 'You can find him right here at about six o'clock when we reopen. Never missing, never late. He lives just up the hill, but I wouldn't go knocking on his door at this time of day. He likes to nap for a bit in the afternoons and he gets right crotchety if anyone disturbs him. No, you come back after six if you can and I'll introduce you proper, like. Mind you,' he added, 'better have the price of a couple of pints of Old Oakleys with you, for him, I means. Old Jacob always reckons everything has to have a price, and that's usually it.'
'This would be quite exciting,' Anne-Marie said, 'like a treasure hunt, only there's no treasure we know of and we don't even know what we're looking for anyway.'
'I'll know it when we find it,' I muttered as she pulled the car into a muddy track entrance at the side of a road that was scarcely any wider. I opened the door, climbed out and sniffed at the air. 'We're close, I know we are,' I said. 'I can feel something.'
'Like a tingling in your bones?' Anne-Marie said mischievously, smiling.
'A feeling in her waters, as my granny used to say.' Andrea swung her legs inelegantly out of the rear door and swore as she snagged a stocking on it. 'Fuck it!' she growled, her voice dropping an octave. 'These were new on this morning. And why do I always have to sit in the backseat anyway?'
'It's just a sort of sense,' I added vaguely, ignoring her outburst as I walked a few yards along what remained of an old hedgerow and found a place where I could climb up to look across to where the woods began. It was a poor sort of coppice, nothing like the grand acreage I had been walked around at Great Marlins, but it was one of the few growths of trees that went on for as far as the eye could see in every direction. 'It's definitely the place,' I said firmly. 'But why doesn't it show up on any of the maps we looked at?'
'People made mistakes years ago same as they do now,' Anne-Marie said, 'and if it was bombed out during the war, the mistake wouldn't have been worth correcting, would it?'
'That must be Meg's Mount over there,' I said, pointing away to the east to where a hill rose up, its crest gleaming white in the late afternoon sun at one end of the ridge. 'It's close enough to have been part of the old estate, though I never saw it when I was back here.'
'The place was all woods then,' Anne-Marie reminded me, 'so you wouldn't have been able to see very far. Which way do you want to go first? I don't fancy trying the car up this track. The mud's as hard as iron and I can't afford to lose my suspension.'
'Let's walk,' I decided. 'I need to see what's left of the old house. Maybe I'll recognise something.'
'And maybe you won't,' Andrea snapped, 'or did you write your name on a special brick?'
We both pointedly ignored her and set off, carefully picking our way over the hard mud ridges. Progress was slow but at least it was progress, which is more than would have been possible had it rained in the past few days. And as we gradually approached the trees, I felt a curious tingling in my spine that told me we were on the right track, though to what, where, and for why, I still had no real idea.
In many ways, the site of the old house was a complete disappointment, for whatever the repair men from the RAF base had left behind during nineteen forty-four had long since become overgrown. Yet with every step we had taken towards the woods, that feeling of mine had become stronger and stronger, so that when I finally stood where the house had once been, an area where the trees had not yet encroached, I knew this was indeed the place.
'There's a funny smell everywhere,' Andrea said, sniffing.
'That's mint, I think,' Anne-Marie hazarded a guess. 'It grows wild near nettles and dock leaves and there's plenty of both of those around here, so watch your legs and fingers if you don't want to get stung. This is a right wilderness.'
'It is,' I agreed, 'but you can see from the different growth where the foundations must be. See that line of scrubby little stuff along there, that must have been... the front wall, I reckon, because it's facing south and most houses were built facing south in the old days.' I walked across to the line I had spotted and stooped down, making sure there were no nettles before I started tugging at the straggly growth. 'Yes, here you are!' I cried. 'Look, bricks just at ground level, or where ground level would have been. This is the old foundation, all right.'
'Terrific.' Andrea folded her arms across her chest. 'We've come all this way to see a line of buried bricks. If I'd known that, I could have buried a few new ones in our garden for you.'
I looked up at her, frowning. 'What's the matter with you today?' I demanded. 'The
re's no talking to you, is there?'
She made a face, and turned away.
'She's having a mood on because I'm punishing her for being a right selfish little bitch,' Anne-Marie informed me. 'But if she thinks acting like this is going to do her any good, then she's got another thing coming.'
'Punishing her?' I echoed. 'How?'
'Show her, you sulky little tart,' Anne-Marie ordered.
Andrea hesitated, but then turned back towards us. We were all wearing jackets even though the weather was mild enough for us to keep them open, and Andrea reached down and grasped the hem of her skirt, raising it with a defiant pout.
'Ah, I see,' I said, and I certainly did, for beneath the slightly flared skirt she was wearing the white leather restraint that strapped her male organ tightly against her lower belly. 'Oh, poor you.'
'Yes, poor me,' she retorted, letting the skirt fall again. 'This thing is bloody uncomfortable and I can't even wear any knickers with it.'
'Then you should learn to act in a more considerate fashion.' Anne-Marie sounded less than sympathetic. 'All you've done these past few days is complain, other than when you've been getting what you want, so I've put you in that nice cock harness to remind you just who, and what, you are.'
'Well, I'm hardly likely to forget that now, but it's not fair. This thing makes me feel randy as hell, you know, and there's not much chance of me getting any relief just now, is there?'
'Well then, why don't you do it yourself while we watch,' Anne-Marie suggested. 'That'll make for a pleasant diversion, won't it, Teenie?'
'Um, yes, I suppose so,' I agreed.
Andrea looked downcast. 'I can't,' she said. 'You know I can't. I've never been able to, have I?'
'Then maybe now's the time to start learning,' Anne-Marie said firmly. 'Poor little Andrea has never been able to wank herself off, you see,' she said to me by way of explanation. 'She either needs someone else to do it for her, or else she needs to fuck properly. She's been spoiled, if you ask me.'
Thyme II Thyme Page 12
