The Red Collection

by Portia Da Costa

  I reach out my hands blindly in the dark, but I can find neither anything to sit on nor anything to lean against. And, goddamn him, he offers no assistance.

  With a resigned sigh – and a great deal of difficulty, due to being cuffed – I yank up the hem of my skirt and fish about in my knickers.

  ‘Tuck it up,’ he instructs, ‘and then pull down your pants to your knees.’

  I feel faint again, and it’s not from disorientation. My head goes light and I feel as if I’m floating on a cloud. Scrabbling and fumbling, and trying not to dislocate my shackled wrists in the process, I obey him. And display my crotch to the chilly night and its thousand eyes.

  Remembering certain preferences of his, I spread my legs as much as I can with my knickers at half-mast. I know Mr Stone likes it when I lose my elegance. He likes it a lot. His dark side gets off on seeing me graceless.

  I half crouch, half squat, and reach for my sex. It’s like a swamp down there, and I’m so sensitised that I moan aloud. The erotic tension, the plug, the darkness. It’s all brought me to fever pitch far too quickly. I touch my clit and feel a deep throb that seems to grab at the thing inside my bottom. The temptation to go for orgasm immediately is breathtaking, but I know that Mr Stone wants a performance. So I withdraw from the most critical area and start to wiggle.

  I must look a bit of a sight. Half crouched and waving my bum about. I drift into a strangely detached state, while inwardly watching both myself and the man who’s watching me.

  I suspect that he’ll be masturbating too. That is if we’re not in a public car park or a lay-by or somewhere with dozens of folk around us. Maybe even if we are? I imagine those big hands on that big dick and I wish I knew exactly where he is in relation to my position. The ground beneath my shoes is soft, and, as Mr Stone is light on his feet, it’s impossible to hear his tread. He hasn’t spoken for a few minutes either.

  But I should be able to locate him. After all, he’s six foot four and broad with it, and he displaces a lot of air. Yet I’ve no idea whether he’s close by, or many yards away. If it weren’t for the fact that I would’ve heard the engine start, he could have got back in the car and driven away.

  And then I nearly faint when I feel his warm breath on the back of my neck.

  ‘You’re not trying very hard, are you, Miss Lewis?’ he murmurs, so close he could be touching me. And in fact, a second later, he is touching me.

  I feel his towering form against my back, his erection rampant as his arms come around me. One huge paw cups my breast, and the other swoops low to direct my masturbation.

  His middle finger presses mine against my clit and I come like a runaway train!

  My mind goes blank for a bit, but as I get myself together again, and realise I’m sagging against a still very insistent prick, I struggle with my cuffs and try to twist around to fondle him.

  ‘Tut, tut! That’s enough of that,’ he says sternly, swirling his hips away from me while still holding my body aloft.

  Even though my entire pelvis is still softly glowing with satisfaction, I feel disappointed. I so want to touch him. I so want to see him. I’d love to snatch off this stupid blindfold, reach for his amazing penis, and watch his broad face contort in pleasure as I caress him.

  But it seems I’m not to get my wish, because, almost immediately, I’m being gently but firmly manhandled towards the Toyota with my skirt up and my knickers still at half-mast. I try to right them, but I get that ‘tut, tut’ again so shuffle along the best I can.

  So, I’m to sit here with my bush hanging out, am I?

  It seems that way, as Mr Stone restarts the engine.

  How long have we been going now? How long have I been sitting here with my pants down and my skirt up? How many astonished fellow motorists have glanced idly to one side at the traffic lights – and got an eyeful?

  It seems like an age, and it’s not only my wandering mind that’s telling me that, either. The cups of coffee I drank before we left the house are beginning to make their presence felt.

  God, I need to pee! I really, really, really need to pee!

  And it’s all made worse by the nasty pressure of the butt plug. There just isn’t room in my innards for a full bladder and a great, honking chunk of black rubber, too.

  Around a dozen times, I consider surreptitiously clutching myself in a pathetic attempt to control the ache. But, even though he’s driving, I know Mr Stone will be watching my every move. And even if he isn’t actually looking he’ll be monitoring me with his sixth sense. The one that can reach through the walls and corridors of the rambling, shambling Borough Hall building where we both work and tell at any given time whether I’m thinking or doing something naughty.

  ‘Still comfortable?’

  The bastard! He’s read my mind – although it doesn’t really require telepathic powers to deduce what sort of state I’m in. He was the one who offered me a second Americano.

  ‘Fine. Are we there yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Why, are you thirsty? There’s a bottle of water in the glove box. Why not have a drink?’

  Screw you!

  ‘Well if you won’t, I will. Can you get it for me?’ he continues, his voice perfectly normal to the ear, although with my sixth sense I can hear him laughing his head off.

  I refrain from pointing out that I can neither see nor use my hands all that efficiently, and just fumble around until I find the glove box catch.

  The water sloshes as I pull out the plastic bottle and that does terrible things to my beleaguered bladder. This time I can’t stop myself from wriggling, and twisting my thighs around, and Mr Stone notes that with a soft, impatient sigh.

  I uncap the bottle and hand it to him, then have to sit there in a state of delicious agonising discomfort while he drinks deep, audibly relishing the cool water as it slides down his throat. With a grunt of satisfaction he hands me back the bottle.

  ‘Sure you won’t have some?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ My teeth are gritted but I get the word out.

  We drive in silence a little longer, and again he seems to be navigating with the express purpose of seeking out the most dug-up and roughed-up bits of road. With every jounce and bounce of the car, I’m convinced I’m going to either cry out or wet myself or both, and eventually I just can’t take it any more.

  ‘I need to pee. Please stop. We’ve got to find a toilet.’

  ‘But there isn’t one near here,’ he observes blithely. ‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  And really I don’t think I can much longer, either. Things are getting very serious down there and sweat is pouring off me as I fight to control my water.

  He utters another sigh. A big, fake, pantomime sigh this time.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he says, as if I were seriously discommoding him somehow, and it’s all very tedious. Which, again, is total bullshit, because he’s loving every minute of this. He has a special fascination with pissing games, because he knows I once played them with someone else …

  We get out of the car – very gingerly and awkwardly in my case – and there’s the sound of voices somewhere near. And – oh, God! – running water. We must be somewhere near the river, maybe in the vicinity of a country pub or a beauty spot. It’s night but there are strollers out and about. People who might see me with my skirt up and my pants down. People who might see me when he makes me do what I’ve got to do – out here in the open.

  I’ll just have to take a chance. Not that I’ve much option. It’s either go where he instructs me to or wet myself anyway. If we were in the middle of the Borough Hall car park in broad daylight now, I’d probably have to go. He leads me a little way along what feels like a rough path. Tall stalks of grass brush my legs, and with my knickers around my knees every shuffling uneven step makes me gasp.

  ‘Here,’ he says eventually, then, without warning, he swoops down. I feel him pluck at my pants, and I get the message. Feeling as if my eyes are g
oing to pop out beneath my blindfold, I step out of my underwear, moaning with every move or jolt.

  I don’t know what he does with my knickers, but I suspect that I’m not going to get them back. And I don’t care. All I want now is to squat down and let it all go.

  But, of course, once I’m down, legs akimbo, I can’t. And the multicoloured frustration is so keen I want to wail. Even with the rushing river so close by, I’m all locked up.

  ‘I can’t go,’ I snivel.

  ‘Oh, poor baby,’ he murmurs. ‘Poor Miss Lewis. Do you want me to help you?’

  Oh, God, yes!

  I sense his great presence beside me and, if it wouldn’t be so appallingly uncomfortable that I’d probably scream, I’d fall down on my knees and press my lips against his shoes.

  He crouches at my side, and once more he slips his hand between my thighs.

  And when one long, square-tipped finger works its magic, I do scream. But silently, inside, behind my bitten lip as everything cuts loose and I piss and have an orgasm simultaneously.

  This time I don’t blank, but seem to experience a moment of total clarity. The sounds around me come into sharp focus. The running water. The echo of my own torrent. The bashing and pounding of my heart. The heavy, broken breathing of the man at my side, who’s unable to mask his physical excitement in the execution of one of his own particular perversions. He’s wanted to do this ever since I described once being brought off this way by a girlfriend in a transport café.

  Silently, as I come down, he hands me tissues to clean myself with, then disposes of them I know not where. I don’t feel as if I can speak as we track backwards back to the Toyota. I want to touch him again. Or, more properly, touch him for the first time in the course of this escapade. But somehow I know it’s not the time yet.

  How long is this bloody road trip going to last?

  ‘Are we there yet?’

  We seem to have been driving for hours. Certainly long enough for my inner tension, and my libido, to crank right back up to screaming point again. I clench myself hard around the intrusion in my bottom, imagining that it’s Mr Stone’s magnificent dick.

  ‘I asked you not to ask that again,’ he states, mock coolly.

  I pout, hoping the mutinous thrust of my lip will goad him. I know I’m acting bratty, but I also know that’s what he wants. This magical mystery tour is turning out to be a pick-and-mix of all his favourite kinks, and there’s one more I’d like to add to the selection.

  I wait two minutes, then I ask again.

  ‘No. But we soon will be. And you’ll regret it, young lady.’

  Bingo! He’s taken the bait.

  Or have I taken his?

  The car speeds up, and we twist and turn through the unseen roads and streets. There’s passing traffic, so we’re probably not in the country or by the river, I guess. I can’t see him, and he doesn’t speak, but there’s a quality to the air that seems to press on my skin. He’s as impatient as I am, and, even though he’s a past master at disguising his emotions, I know him. And I can read him in the silence and the dark.

  We stop, he wrenches on the handbrake, and says, ‘We’re here. Are you satisfied?’

  ‘No,’ I say pertly.

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that, then, shall we?’

  In far less time than it takes me to grapple clumsily with my seatbelt, he’s out of the car, round to the passenger side, and hauling me out on to the pavement, or path, or whatever. He’s so much less measured now, so much less in control of himself, and that sense of the balance of power tipping makes my innards flutter dangerously. There’s just one more component in our three-for-one special, and, in that, the one who seems to have the least say in the matter is always the one who’s really in control.

  Together we almost run along a hard surface. I hear the rustle of trees, and sense a boundary of some kind on either side of us. It’s a narrow alley. There might be hedges or walls flanking us. There’s the snick of a gate, and Mr Stone urges me ahead of him through the opening.

  I smile. But I don’t let him see it.

  ‘You’re an impatient travelling companion, Miss Lewis,’ he murmurs, bringing us to a halt. A tree, above and to the side, sighs in agreement. ‘Not very restful. Not very soothing.’ He pauses, grasps my linked hands, and then presses them against the front of his jeans. ‘In fact you could say that your presence on this journey has really wound me up.’

  I’ll say! He’s even more gargantuan than usual.

  ‘What do you think we should do about it?’ He does his tango hip swivel when I try to get creative and grope him.

  ‘Discipline me?’ I suggest, all innocence, while contemplating another lunge for his equipment.

  ‘Really?’ He’s holding me at arm’s length now. Effortlessly. A man of his size has rather long arms. ‘And would you like that?’

  Trick question.

  ‘Oh, no … Please, no …’ I try for piteous and just get pitiful. No need to worry about my Oscar acceptance speech just yet.

  ‘Actually, I think “yes”.’

  And with that he manhandles me into position over the back of what feels like a conveniently placed wooden chair or seat of some kind. How handy that something just like that should be there.

  I dangle, face down – head resting against my shackled arms, thighs taut, bum in the air. Perfectly positioned. And, when he carefully adjusts my skirt, a perfect target. The black flange of the butt plug will make it easier to gauge the distance, no doubt …

  I hear a slow, sliding, insidious sound. And then the snick, snick of a heavy leather belt leaving the loops of his jeans.

  Uh-oh! He means business.

  I almost shoot out of my skin when he trails it lightly over my naked bottom as if he’s allowing me to try the leather on for size. I almost wet myself – again – with longing, when he drapes it in the length of my crease, nudging the plug, the smooth leather dangling against the stickiness of my sex.

  ‘Just three, I think,’ he purrs, still teasing me with the object of my correction. ‘And I think it would be a good idea if you tried not to cry out.’

  Fat chance of that, although I know why he suggests it.

  With that he whirls away and I hear his firm tread as he moves into position. I like his purposefulness in these matters. He doesn’t waste time with unnecessary taunts and overdramatic Grand Guignol threats. He just gets on with it.

  The first blow feels as if I’d been whaled on the right bum cheek by a two-by-four, and my attempt not to make a sound comes out like the squeal of the proverbial stuck pig.

  The second feels as if the left side of my arse had been struck by lightning and I make a sound that I don’t recognise as human.

  The third blow is much lighter, but it catches me right in the crease and knocks the evil-demon butt plug right against the nerves that connect to my clitoris.

  I climax violently, shout ‘Oh, Bobby!’ and pee myself a little.

  Afterwards, I turn into a sobbing, blubbering, shuddering, glowing, thankful, soppy mess, and he takes me onto his lap – heedless of my soggy state. I come again, lightly, when he whips out the plug and flings it away into the bushes, and, like a little kitten-girl, I try to kiss his beloved hands, and his dear face, while he unclicks the handcuffs and hurls them away too, after the plug.

  Which leaves only the blindfold.

  ‘Are we there yet?’ I whisper, managing to get my lips against his as he reaches for the ribbon that holds the mask in place.

  ‘I think so, baby,’ he whispers, returning my kiss as he gives me my sight back.

  My lips cling to his for a moment, then I ease away, almost blinded by the nearness of his broad, beloved face.

  Then I blink like a baby owl and glance around.

  At the chestnut tree. The toolshed. The ironic garden gnomes. Then up towards the bedroom window where there’s a soft glow from the bedside lamp he turned on before we set out.

  We’re here. We’re back home ag
ain, just where we started from. And I’m so happy because this is where the bed is.

  And this time, Clever Bobby, I’ll do the driving!

  Fireworks Inside

  FIREWORKS! BLOODY FIREWORKS. I hate fireworks.

  I throw myself into the walk-in coat cupboard and slam the door behind me. I can’t take much more of this! They’re supposed to be celebrating Cecilia’s lavish society wedding, not blowing up a medium-sized city. What the hell are they using out there? TNT? Surface to air missiles? Semtex?

  ‘They’re too close to the house, you silly mare! They’ll burn the place down, and fry all your guests, and then where will you be?’

  Slithering down, I cower in the corner, in the darkness. It’s as pitch black as a witch’s coal scuttle in here, and there are layers of old coats hanging on pegs above me, and some rather dubious-feeling carpet beneath my thighs as I tuck my legs beneath me. I can hardly breathe, but it’s still better than enduring the noise outside. The dust makes me cough, and something smells distinctly mildewed with a side of mothball, but I’ll take this over my pathological fear of fireworks any time. I’ve been petrified of the things since I was a kid, and someone set a giant firecracker off right next to me. I usually spend Guy Fawkes Night tucked up with a couple of sleeping pills, but I can’t really get out of attending one of my best friends’ wedding, can I?

  If only the bloody things weren’t quite so loud.

  Bang! Boom! Boom! God, I swear they’re nearer and/or even bigger now.

  ‘Please stop. Please stop. Please stop.’

  But no amount of hands over ears and cringing in a tiny bolt hole of utter blackness seems to be helping. So much for enjoying a glorious knees-up with champagne and a groaning buffet and dancing and a selection of the groom’s tasty friends to cop off with. Even on a good day I couldn’t pull a tasty bloke in a coat cupboard.

  I’m bordering on snivelling and feeling very sorry for myself, when, during a lull in the shelling, the cupboard door flies open, and a large, generally man-sized shape hurls itself inside with me and slams the door shut again.