“For you, Jenni, anything. Now, is there any more coffee in that pot?”
The park was quiet as Brett and I walked, hand in hand, in the direction of the lake. Most of the families had gone home. On one patch of grass near the ornamental gardens, a muscular personal trainer was putting a sweating, red-faced blonde through her paces, barking encouragement as she worked her way through a set of jumping jacks. In less than an hour, dusk would fall and the park gates would be shut for the night.
We’d left Millie at home, snoozing on her favorite cushion in the conservatory. Dogging might have gained its nickname because those who went out to watch others having sex used the excuse of taking their dog for a walk, but if Millie got as excited as she had the last time, she’d surely have advertised our presence. And despite Brett’s assurances, I still felt anxious about being a female in this male-only space.
My heart beat faster as we approached the clump of ash trees, their foliage forming a thick canopy that provided perfect shelter from the rest of the park. Brett squeezed my hand, as if sensing my nervousness. In response, I felt my nipples tighten into knots that pressed against the cotton of my shirt. I’d dressed in the most masculine clothes I owned, and hadn’t bothered with a bra, but I still felt all too conspicuous as we crept into the undergrowth.
We were in luck. Two men stood in the middle of the clearing, locked in a passionate embrace. Neither of them looked in our direction as we approached. I wasn’t sure whether this meant they hadn’t heard us, or they were aware of our presence but had decided to ignore us. After all, the men who came here on Sundays advertised for an audience; I was certain they’d be disappointed if they didn’t get one.
Brett guided me into a space behind the gnarled trunk of a tree, where we could watch, if not in comfort, at least in a position that offered maximum discretion to the participants—if what they were doing could be called discreet, that was.
Just as on our previous visit, the air was ripe and fuggy, but it wasn’t the smell of stale come that made me hold my breath. The men had stepped apart for a moment, and now I got my first proper look at both of them. Older than I’d expected, maybe in their early forties. The bigger, bulkier one had tattoos running the length of both forearms and a piercing in his right eyebrow, while his colleague had black-rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee. Piercing murmured something to the other man, too low for me to catch, but his command became clear when I saw Goatee reach for the fly of his jeans and undo it.
I had to fight to stifle a gasp when he let his cock flop out into the open. Even half-hard, it was easily the size of Brett’s, stiffening and growing further as he wanked it with slow, steady strokes. Piercing seemed just as impressed with it as I was, and I realized in that moment these two guys didn’t even know each other, except maybe as screen names in the chat room where they’d arranged this meeting. This was the first time for them, just as it was for me, and hot juice seeped into my panties as I watched them display the goods to each other.
Now Piercing had his cock out. It wasn’t long, but it was thick, and like his eyebrow, it had a ring through it. I’d never seen a pierced cock in the flesh before, and I itched to wrap my fingers around it and play with that thick, silver ring, just to see how the guy reacted to the stimulation.
Goatee must have had the same thought, for he stopped playing with his own dick and wrapped his fingers around his friend’s instead. Brett, standing close behind me, hugged me and put his mouth to my ear.
“Is this what you wanted to see?” he asked, so softly I could hardly hear him. My reply was a tiny nod of my head. I was too excited to speak, attention focused solely on Goatee’s fist as he slid it up and down Piercing’s length. His burly companion grunted and returned the favor, closing his thick fingers around his companion’s shaft. My panties were so wet they were sticking to my pussy, and I needed to feel a hand between my legs to ease the itch there—mine or Brett’s, I didn’t really care.
Somehow, I must have communicated my need to him, for he slid a hand down, cupping the denim-covered mound of my pussy with his big palm. Applying a little pressure, he pushed the seam of my jeans against my clit, the friction enough to send delicious tingles of sensation through my cunt. The hard column of his erection pressed against my lower back, but he made no move to free it, or encourage me to do so. He seemed to have decided that this was all about my pleasure, the consummation of a fantasy I’d cherished for so long.
Goatee’s fingers were moving in a shuttling rhythm on Piercing’s cock, but the stimulation clearly wasn’t enough, for he pulled free of the caress and ordered the other man to his knees. I couldn’t believe he was going to get down in that mess of wet earth and tissue and god knew what else, but he did. Now his head was on a level with Piercing’s crotch, and he didn’t need any further instructions. Opening his mouth, he took that thick chunk of meat as far into his throat as he could.
I’d watched this act of oral worship so many times on the DVDs Brett had bought for me, but nothing could compare to seeing it from only a matter of feet away, and hearing the soft gobbling noises Goatee made as he sucked on Piercing’s dick. Piercing had his eyes closed and was grunting in satisfaction, occasionally ordering the other man to suck harder, or use his teeth more.
Brett nuzzled at my neck and pressed his hand a little harder into my crotch. I ground myself against his fingers, not caring if a twig snapped beneath my feet or I let out a moan of need. The men in the clearing were too far gone in their own pleasure to hear any noise we made, and I needed to come, desperately.
I couldn’t tear my gaze from the erotic tableau they made. Incredibly, Piercing had pushed his cock into Goatee’s mouth all the way down to the base. He’d let his jeans fall to just below the hard moons of his buttocks, and Goatee’s face was flush against his dark, wiry bush.
“Oh god, yes,” he was moaning, repeating the words like a mantra. His hands made tight fists in Goatee’s hair, and I reckoned he had to be causing the man some pain as he gripped and tugged. But Goatee just kept on sucking obediently, submissively.
My nipples ached for attention, and I rolled one between my finger and thumb. Brett had undone my jeans, and now his hand slipped below the waistband so he could caress my cunt through my panties. Even though he wasn’t touching my clit directly, I felt that extra stimulation in just the right place, keenly, and mewled so loudly I was sure someone would hear me.
I pulled my focus back to the two men in front of me, as Goatee gave a few last, gulping swallows and Piercing came with a roar. Letting his cock slip from Goatee’s mouth, the last drops of come falling from its tip to spatter the ground at his feet, he took a step backward. Satisfaction was etched on his craggy features, and I wondered whether he’d just walk away and leave his companion in need of relief. After all, Goatee’s cock still stuck out of his fly, red and angry.
But Piercing hadn’t quite finished with the humiliation Goatee obviously relished so keenly. A few curt words, and Goatee was back on his feet, cock clenched in his fist once more as he obeyed the order to bring himself to orgasm. From the flush that stained his cheeks, he appeared to be embarrassed that it only took a few strokes to have his come spurting out to join the mess already littering the ground.
Gyrating against Brett’s fingers, I felt my own orgasm hit, rolling over me like breakers on a beach. Brett held me until my spasms subsided, murmuring how much he loved me. I couldn’t answer him, too overwhelmed by finally having my fantasy brought to life by these two strangers. By the time I opened my eyes again, they’d left the clearing. Probably they’d never meet again, but even if they forgot each other, I knew I would always remember what they’d done together, here in this disreputable corner of an otherwise respectable city park.
“So, did you enjoy that?” Brett asked as I tidied my clothing.
“You bet,” I told him. Glancing down, I saw the bulge pressing at the fly of his jeans, and realized he was the only one who hadn’t come yet. “Why don�
��t we go home, and I can show you just how much?”
He led me out of the clearing, back into the sweet, clean air of early evening. As we passed the lake, heading back in the direction of the main gates, we passed Goatee, sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette. He looked up, and his eyes met mine. For a moment, I wondered whether he knew we were the ones who’d been watching him. But I saw no sign of recognition in his gaze. Silently, I thanked him for the delicious, sleazy pleasure he’d never know he’d given me, and walked on, my hand clasped tight in Brett’s.
THE INSTRUCTOR
Rose de Fer
I’m weightless. Drifting but not falling. Whispers swim around me, but I can’t make out the words. Fading. A soft clink. Silverware? Am I in the dining car? There’s a faint medicinal smell and I want to leave, but my carriage door won’t open. I tug at the handle, irritated. My bracelet is caught. I murmur and twist to pull away, but the delicate chain swells, becoming a manacle around my right wrist. As my eyes flutter open, the dream dissolves around me and I sit up with a gasp.
I’m handcuffed to a bed.
I yank frantically, but the cuffs hold tight—one on my wrist and one on the iron headboard. Wild-eyed, I glance around the room. It’s simple, nondescript. Not a hotel. Where the hell am I? I’m no stranger to waking up naked in unfamiliar rooms, but I can usually recall the excesses that led me there. And I’m always free to leave.
I try in vain to pry myself loose, but the unyielding steel ring is too tight even for my tiny wrist to slip out. A cloying unease settles over me and I huddle down under the blanket like a child afraid of the dark. I peer out at my surroundings again, gradually becoming aware of the tall shadow at the foot of the bed. A man is sitting there.
With a cry I clutch the blanket tightly to hide my nakedness. “Who are you?” I demand, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.
He smiles and rises slowly from his chair, making his way over to me. I’m disturbed by the idea that he might have been sitting there for hours while I slept, watching me as I woke up and strained against the cuffs, waiting like a spider for me to struggle in his web.
Casting my mind back, I can just remember the girl at the bar. The one who gave me that drink. Had I trusted her simply because she was female? More fool me. Reckless, headstrong me.
But something else is fluttering in my memory like a moth against a windowpane. I knew her. Know her. But from where? And where is she now?
“It won’t do any good to fight,” my captor says calmly. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”
“Where am I?” He ignores my question and I cower as he stands over me, his nearness a threat. “Have I been arrested?”
He seems amused by my question. “In a manner of speaking.”
Kidnapped, then. “Look, my family doesn’t have any money.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
Instantly I fear the worst. “Are you going to kill me?” I whisper hoarsely.
“No.”
I look into his eyes. They’re piercing, glacial. I sense the cruelty he’s capable of, but I don’t think he’s lying.
He watches me watching him, reading my thoughts. I’m a creature of pure fear and helplessness and he knows exactly what to expect from me. I’m not the first he’s done this to. The thought makes me shudder.
I don’t want to hear the answer, but I can’t stop myself asking. “What do you want with me?”
His demeanor changes suddenly. “That is your last question. From now on you will not speak unless you are spoken to. And when you speak, you will address me as ‘Sir.’ Do you understand?”
My eyes widen, but I don’t answer.
Without warning, his hand flashes across my cheek. It’s not a hard slap—just hard enough to get my attention.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper, cringing. “Sir.”
“I’m going to release you now,” he says, withdrawing a key from his pocket. “And you’re not going to try anything foolish.” His cold eyes impart a colder warning.
No, I’m not stupid. My head is still reeling from the madness of the situation. I’ll have to play along for now. Bide my time and wait for my moment.
He twists the key in the lock and the cuff springs open, releasing me. I instantly clasp my wrist, rubbing it and glaring reproachfully at him.
“Now I want you to get up and stand in front of the bed, facing me, with your hands on your head. Do it now.”
I’m frightened, but I do as he says, covering myself.
“Hands,” he instructs firmly.
I summon my boldness, the reckless part of me that’s responsible for this situation. I meet his eyes brazenly as I push my breasts together and squeeze them, gyrating like a stripper. “Is this what you wanna see?” I ask, trying to act unfazed, as though I do this all the time. Lord knows I’ve bared myself before enough casual partners.
But the icy look he gives me makes me regret the stunt. My bravado evaporates and my hands shake as I lace my fingers and adopt the position he told me to, placing my hands on my head and staring mournfully at the floor.
“I won’t see another display of insolence like that,” he says coldly. “Will I?”
“No,” I whisper.
“No what?”
I swallow. “No, Sir.”
The air is heavy with the implicit threat and he lets the silence hang for agonizing seconds while I tremble and wait. At last he speaks again.
“I am the instructor,” he says simply. “And you are here to be instructed. Specifically, you are here to be trained to be a slave.”
I blink at this bizarre pronouncement.
“Now, then—who am I?” he asks me.
For several moments I’m too bewildered to reply. I keep my eyes on the floor, as though it contains the key to unlocking this mystery. There is something familiar about his voice, his face, but I can’t place it. Have I been here before?
“I’ll ask you again,” he says. His voice is soft, as though this is the most reasonable conversation in the world. “Who am I?”
When I still don’t reply he steps nearer and I flinch, fearful of another slap. “The instructor,” I say quickly.
“And what is your name, slave?”
“Christine.”
Before I can register the movement, he brings his hand down sharply across my bottom. I yelp, flinging my hands behind me to shield myself. He seizes my arm and holds me firmly, gathering my wrists together in the small of my back. Then, without a word, he spanks me. His hand connects with my tender bottom again and again, making me whimper and struggle. But he holds me fast. I can do nothing but cry out as he rains down a volley of stinging slaps across my cheeks. The punishment lasts a long time, and I am crying long before he is satisfied.
When he releases my wrists I rub the burning flesh of my bottom, then wipe my tear-streaked face, sniffling piteously. In the silence that follows I find myself daring to hope that he will feel bad about how he has treated me, that he will realize I’m not the one he wants for this purpose, that he will let me go.
At the same time I am aware of a strange response within myself. The pain is fading to a tingle that isn’t at all unpleasant. In fact, I can feel the warm wetness between my legs as I stand trembling before him, gingerly touching my sore bottom with cool fingertips. If I’m honest with myself, there’s something thrilling about actions that have consequences. It’s not something I’m used to.
“What is your name?” he asks again.
I open my mouth to speak my name again, but then I shut it just as quickly. That isn’t what he wants to hear. I turn my tearful face to look at him and shake my head slightly in confusion, not daring to speak.
Something like a smile softens his features and in a lower voice he asks, “What is your name—slave?”
This time he emphasises the last word and I understand what he wants me to say. He’s training me. Conditioning me. I should be outraged but instead I find myself pressin
g my legs together and after a moment’s hesitation I answer, “Slave.” Then I add, “Sir.”
“Very good,” he says, and I feel oddly uplifted by the pride in his voice. He paces slowly to the center of the room and turns back to face me. “Now, why are you here?”
I force the words out, bewildered by my compliance and yet perversely compelled by his easy control of me. Rebellion simmers just below the surface but his methods are too effective for me to risk defying him. It won’t hurt me to say the words if I don’t mean them. “To be a slave, Sir.”
He praises me like an obedient pupil. “Good girl. Now I want you to put your hands behind your back, wrists crossed. This is First Position.”
I do as he says and he continues.
“Turn to face the center of the room, walk five paces, then turn and come back to this spot. Keep your hands in First Position. Now.”
The pain is beginning to fade and I am feeling a little bolder but I’m still not brave enough to rebel. I obey the strange command, self-consciously parading myself past him and returning to stand beside the bed.
“Again,” he says. “And this time keep your feet along a single line. This will make your hips sway attractively. A good slave must always present herself in a pleasing way for her masters. Hold your head high, but keep your eyes down,” he says. “You will not look anyone in the eye unless instructed to. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Blushing, I cross the room again as though walking a tightrope, painfully aware of my nakedness and my vulnerability.
“Very good,” he says when I return.
My spirit is returning with every second that the stinging in my bottom fades. I’m burning inside to resist, rebel, but I just don’t dare. I’m completely powerless. Could it be there’s a part of me that’s actually enjoying this?
The instructor stands before me again, and I tremble in anticipation of the next command. So far he’s been easy enough to satisfy, but I imagine things can get much worse.
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