‘Oh, shit!’ she said audibly, ‘Shit!’ and, refusing to give in to a nagging feeling that she was pathetic, she defiantly clutched her bag, turned and headed straight back to the city centre for the solace of Protheringay's, or rather, the ladies' room, then a reviving pot of tea for one and a serving of their chocolate ganache cake.
That evening, after some wine, a healing soak in a warm bath, some more wine and a microwave meal, she was feeling much better and more determined than ever to wipe the smile off Anne’s face. She nestled down on the sofa and began to systematically flick though her pile of women's magazines. Thank heavens I haven't flung them out yet, she thought, as she pored over the small ads at the back of each one in the pile. There it is! She knew she had seen something like it months ago. Secret Desire - the company that puts you in touch with your real self. She pondered the display and the pictured model and let it seep slowly into her mind. The phrase ‘mail order’ made her smile. ‘Yes!’ she said to herself, and again, only this time louder, to the whole world – ‘Yes!’ She would phone the company tomorrow. Michael wouldn't know what had hit him, and Plan B was underway.
The large plain envelope was waiting for her on the table in the entrance hallway a few days later when she came home. She knew what it was as soon as she saw it. Her heart quickening, she grabbed it and rushed up the stairs to her flat, where, once inside, she ripped it open and pulled out the contents. A stunning, shapely blonde in shining, tight black dress beamed at her from the front of a very glossy catalogue.
‘Dear Ms Day...’ began the covering letter, but she at once opened the catalogue and flicked through page after page of the most astonishing creations. ‘God! ...’ came the word from under her breath as she took in the most exquisite display of erotic femininity she had ever seen in her life. ‘God...’ yet again, as she marvelled at the blend of lace trim and shiny PVC that graced these women and made them breathtakingly beautiful, gorgeously feminine, sexy and sassy, dark and dangerous. She was getting turned on as her eyes roamed more and more over the unending catalogue of seduction, arousal and pure lust all wrapped up in elegance, style, taste and feminine appeal.
‘Yes!’ came the sound from under her breath, and she suddenly remembered to close the front door behind her.
The evening meal was rushed as her thoughts could not leave the catalogue and its contents lying on the coffee table. Washing up could wait till tomorrow and she was soon settling down on the sofa with the big, gorgeous, glossy wonder world of kinky sex for her very own personal delectation. She fondled the smooth, sensual document and something purred within her. ‘Secret Desire’, she repeated. Michael had seduced her. Now it was her turn to seduce him, and she turned the first page.
The next few days passed quickly and there was a feeling of lightness about her she had not known for ages. The work in the library almost did itself. There was no sign of Anne, as usual, though her heels could be heard occasionally clacking about the place. Of Michael there was no sign and Catherine could not say she minded. As long as he shows up on the day, and she shivered slightly at the thought with a deep thrill.
A package was on the table, in the hallway in front of the mirror.
‘It’s come!’
She scooped it up immediately without reading the label for the addressee and scurried up the stairs to her flat. She closed the front door behind her and read the label. ‘Ms. Catherine Day …blah … blah …’ then, ‘P.O. Box 46, Great Marston Links... Secret Desire!’
The padded bag was bendy and squidgy and contained, she imagined, exactly what any postman would instinctively know was something downright kinky. A sense of guilt shot through her but excitement took over, soon to be frustrated, as she tried, in vain, to open the bag.
‘Shit!’ she cried, nearly breaking a fingernail.
Exasperated, she hunted for the scissors and then, carefully, thinking a careless snip could ruin the garment too, she at last opened the bag and reached in. Something cold and alien met her touch. She pulled it out. The packing note wafted to the floor as she gazed at the solid lump of glossy black plastic in her hand.
‘Yuck!’ was her reaction and she tentatively unfolded it, as it crackled and gleamed in the light.
‘Mmm...’ she murmured, holding the item up to her gaze and turning it round, taking in fully the two-way zip down the back.
‘Woohoo!’ she giggled, and at once kicked off her shoes, unzipped her skirt, stepped out of it and, savouring the moment, took in the fantastic shine of the vinyl, before taking a deep breath and stepping into her new skirt. Pulling it up, she felt for an instant, she had ordered a size too small and groaned but a smooth tug on the zip and she was fully in.
‘God! The feel of it!’ she exclaimed, her face lighting up. Tight, wrapped tight, good and proper, and she instinctively moved over towards the long mirror. She looked stunning. The sheer gloss of her covered tummy and thighs was a magnet to her eyes. She turned to look at her backside. ‘Bloody hell!’ She whooped at the sight of herself. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ she murmured. She suddenly fancied herself and the look in her eyes slowly turned dirty as she focused on the zip all the way down the curve of her shapely bottom. She loved it.
‘My!’ How she adored what she now saw, and she playfully slapped her bum with a delighted cry of ‘Bitch beware!’ She could already see Anne running for cover as the wide-eyed face of Michael came into view, gasping at the sight of herself.
She ran her hands all over the skirt and crouched down low, feeling the plastic grip tight like a soft vice round her loins. Just like with a plastic raincoat, a thousand caresses simultaneously tingled her senses, and she felt switched on and really horny. Her body buzzed, wanted to be felt all over. She wanted to be fondled and kissed and caressed and smacked, and punished as the slut she was, and began to feel herself aroused in the tight PVC and pressed her thighs tighter together. Instinctively, she slowly undid the zip at the bottom, parted her legs, and touched the damp patch in her knickers. So. Michael liked PVC. He was not the only one.
Chapter 14. Rebound
The sunlight filtered through the nearly-closed blinds giving the library the look of a scene in a black and white movie, as the half-light reduced all to near shades of grey. The afternoon wore on, almost asleep, as Catherine virtually tiptoed around, half afraid of making the slightest noise, half afraid of missing the slightest sound in the house which signalled Michael's movements. It was Anne's day off, and, at last, Michael was back from business in Belgium. Since first thing that morning, she had heard him arrive, his Jaguar crunching the gravel outside, the slam of the front door behind him, the sound of his firm tread on the wide staircase.
All day she had waited to see him, expecting him to finally present himself in the library to see her. All day she had waited, tense with nervousness and excitement over what she was about, and, as the day wore on with only the occasional door slamming and muffled footsteps down distant corridors, she had grown increasingly unnerved as he stayed away.
The blinds were drawn to create a subdued atmosphere; that, and to keep the room cool as she was very warm in the white lacy blouse deliberately prim with long sleeves and high-neck, and in the tight glossy-black PVC skirt. And the black stockings, suspender belt, knickers and matching high heels - all the paraphernalia of seduction - were hardly comfortable on yet another hot day.
She willed him to appear. She begged him to come. Longed for him there and then to step in through the open doorway. Thoughts which drained her courage crowded her mind as it clung on to a resolve that was steadily deserting her as each hour passed, as each minute ebbed away towards the close of a day she now felt was becoming a disaster.
Tart! She could no longer suppress the voice from within. You absolute slut. Serves you right, you scheming little whore. She turned from the shelf and sat down at her desk, suddenly hot and uncomfortable. You little tart, you're pathetic, you know that? She looked at the computer screen and saw her reflection gaze back at her, framed
in the monitor, a stilted image, like a police identity photo taken after arrest. The skirt clung to her like a sheet of shackles that bound her to the spot, to the chair, the cell of the room and the sentence that condemned her to a life of unfulfilled misery that only she, in her sexual yearning, seemed suitably destined for. And with that thought, she felt a warm thrill down below and instinctively pressed her knees together very tightly. Filthy little tart! snapped the voice.
‘Good afternoon, Catherine.’
She jumped, and cast an ashamed glance up at the doorway, averting her eyes from the warm gaze that looked down upon her. She went red at once. She had not heard him coming. She was not prepared, and instinctively patted her hair and straightened her blouse.
‘Oh, Michael,’ she replied, clearing her throat. ‘You're back.’
‘I believe I am,’ was the smooth, confident response of someone obviously enjoying her discomfort. ‘How are you?’ he asked.
Her mind went blank. She dropped her arms and suddenly her fingers contacted the plastic of her skirt. Plan B suddenly came back to her and, taking a deep breath inwardly, she looked him squarely in the face.
‘Oh, very well actually. Good news,’ her voice more confident.
‘Oh, really?’ His face brightened at once.
‘Yes, while you were away, that book you wanted on Chausson came from Mr Saunders. I've got it here,’ and with that, she got up from behind the desk and went over to the shelf. Her heart beating fast, she consciously tried to slow down and casually, oh so casually, walk those few steps with an elegance she had practised in those heels last night in front of the mirror at home. And just enough movement of the hips to accentuate tastefully her shapely rear and stretch it in that exquisite skirt that she now at this very moment was certain his eyes were feasting on.
‘Oh!’ she said, in mock surprise, lightly rummaging through the books on the shelf. ‘It's not here! Now where did I put it?’ and almost at once, with a sound approximating relief in her voice, said ‘Ah! Here it is!’
She reached over a stack of books on the floor, bending down, not too far, just enough to stretch the skirt over her rump and show off the long metal zip that ran from her trim waist all the way down to the hem, with the silver tab glittering, and inviting. She could tell from the stark silence, it was working, and her confidence grew.
‘There we are!’ she said, turning round to him with a triumphant beam on her face and holding out the book. He stood there, stock-still, rooted to the spot, looking straight at her, seriously. For a split second, she detected discomfort in his bearing, something she had never seen before. At once, it was gone and his face broke into a smile.
‘My goodness! This is a change of image, isn't it?’ and he gazed down approvingly at her get-up.
‘Could be!’ she retorted, rather perkily and felt her smile brighten up the whole room.
‘Well, I think so,’ he said, ‘It suits you, Catherine. You’ve got such a good figure.’
His self-assurance was tangibly returning and she felt so good in her heels and her magic skirt.
‘Oh, have I?’ came her response.
‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes darkening suddenly with a piercing look, ‘You know you have.’ She looked down, automatically. The next move in the game was his. ‘I want you upstairs. Now!’
Only the clacking of her high heels on the tiled floor, like the beating of a ritual drum, breached the innate stillness of the house as she made her way down the corridor towards the foyer, with Michael walking silently behind her. She walked slowly, but not obviously so, to give him all the time in the world to ogle her from behind. She could feel the skirt grow tighter round her bottom under the intensity of his gaze and pinch her thighs so deliciously she wanted to scream in delight with each step. Its tight contours had a hobbling effect and she tried hard to concentrate on not rushing the short steps she was obliged to take – that, and not letting herself become too self-conscious with the way she was forced to wiggle her bum and manage her clattering heels. On through the deserted foyer, she moved with the silent presence in tow, leading him on, pulled on an invisible lead, past the reception area and straight for the staircase.
Oh God! The stairs!
A wave of horror surged through her as, panic-stricken, she approached the grand staircase. How on earth would she manage, elegantly, negotiating those steps in those heels and tight skirt? Where now the foxy lady? She slowed down and Michael nearly walked into her.
‘Oops!’ she said, half looking behind and smiled nervously, and suddenly hesitated.
‘Get up the stairs, you little tart. Come on!’ he snapped, and grabbed her right arm and pushed her toward the staircase.
‘Michael! Please!’ she cried, shocked by his rough response.
‘Shut up, you filthy whore!‘ and he slapped her hard on the bottom, ‘Get up those stairs!’ and thrust her forward so forcefully, that she almost tripped over on her heels.
She turned to face him with a cry of ‘Please!’ but he spun her round, slapped her again on her buttocks, and pushed her onto the staircase.
‘Come on! Get up the stairs or I'll drag you up them!’ and he at once pushed her hard in the back. Gone now were the exquisite elegance and cool femininity. The new reality was a blur of squeals, pants, gasps, blurted cries of ‘Michael!’ and ‘Please!’ merging into frantic appeals laced with burgeoning tears, a cacophony centred on a wretched figure frantically scrambling up the stairs nearly on her hands and knees with her glossy-wrapped posterior provoking a pitiless barrage of slaps and a torrent of verbal abuse.
She did not know how she got to the top of the stairs, all she could feel was stunning shock and the searing distress she was now floundering in, and a hot, tingling rump that mocked her in the imprisonment of that dreadful skirt. Her stockings were laddered, her right shoe somewhere at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Leave it!’ he barked, and grabbed her arm and dragged her along as the other shoe came off, she hobbling frantically to keep up with him as the unyielding PVC dragged her back from the quickening pace down the corridor.
Slut! Tart! Bitch! Whore! The sounds drummed on in her head and echoed down the corridor till, suddenly, he reached a door and dragged her in.
Straight ahead was a king-size bed covered with a dark purple bedspread with gold fleur-de-lys. It was flanked by bedside mahogany cabinets each bearing a golden lamp. Her stockinged feet were sunk in a luxurious dark purple carpet. Her next impression was of Michael's hand suddenly clasped tight over her mouth and his other arm wrapped round her. Shocked, alarmed, she spluttered a muffled ‘Umph!’ as he tightened his grip over her, yanked her up off her feet and, at once, carried her over towards the bed. Panic seized her. She struggled in his grip, her mouth completely sealed with his big strong hand. For an instant, in her futile but desperate struggling, something else kicked in, a shaft of strong, horribly strong, excitement that grabbed her cunt hard. Huge gilt-framed mirrors flashed past her eyes, then, suddenly she was free. Hand gone, arm gone from around her. She was free, hurtling though the air as he threw her on the bed, face down, towards the purple and gold blur shooting up to meet her face.
She hit the bed hard, the air knocked out of her despite the soft mattress, and bounced, feeling her thighs nearly bursting the skirt. Almost at once, he was down on her, grabbing her wrists and yanking them behind her. Still winded and shaken, she said nothing; did nothing. All she could feel was the tightness of the skirt round her bottom, belly, and thighs. He bound her wrists quickly with his tie, then, in one deft movement, unzipped her skirt nearly all the way up and parted the two halves to expose her still tingling backside. Immediately came a slap across her buttocks and she gasped.
‘Shut up!’ he snapped. He was roughly groping for the top of her knickers. With a tug, he started to pull them down off her, but with her weight on the elastic round her stomach, the tugging could not budge them. She raised her hips to free them and away they came. They were pulled straight down,
round her knees and ankles, and yanked off.
‘Damp, and sweaty!’ he commented, with what sounded like a note of approval. ‘You dirty little slut!’ and immediately stuffed them in her mouth. ‘Shut up!’ he ordered and zipped her skirt back up.
‘Stay there!’ he commanded, got off the bed and disappeared over to the right into the dressing room.
She tugged at her wrists and tried to speak. The word ‘Please!’ came out, audible, slightly muffled yet recognizable, followed by a pang of disappointment that she was not effectively gagged. The thought was immediately replaced by something else as she involuntarily sucked her knickers and tasted a mixture of sweat and her own secretions. She sucked again, and groaned softly.
‘Don't move!’ He was suddenly back and she froze. She made an exaggerated ‘Umph!’ noise but he ignored it as he fastened a dressing-gown cord round her ankles and, just as roughly, pulled her bound feet up and secured them behind her as he tied the other end of the cord to her wrists.
‘That’s better. Much better. It suits you!’ and he looked down at her triumphantly.
What came next was a slap on her bottom and she was then unceremoniously pushed over onto her left side. She was very hot, horribly helpless, and suddenly uncomfortable. He grinned down at her like an overgrown schoolboy, and she felt like she was some kind of pin-up in some pornographic magazine. She mewed through her stuffed mouth, and sucked hard, suddenly appreciating the sadistic strictures she was under, held rigid and taut by her cruel bonds. He was gazing at her hips, her lustrous, tight-skirted hips, leering, and she felt the warm surge down below and, instinctively, struggled wildly. His eyes lit up. She wanted his cock out, stiff and hard, in front of her. She had never seen his cock. She increased her exertions and he promptly grabbed her by the blouse and violently ripped it open, the buttons scattering in the air, and yanked her bra down so that her breasts flopped out, all in an instant. She squealed in her gag, mortified by her predicament, and now totally consumed in a welter of feelings, distressed yet electrified. He was dropping his trousers and she was fixed to the sight, and became still at once.
Hard Rain Page 13
