by Penny Birch
My hand went back into my panties as I began to take turns with them, sucking one and tugging the other. Blake began to grope my tits and his breathing had started to get hoarse, but I was still taken by surprise when his cock erupted in my face while I still had his friend in my mouth. It went all over me, down my cheek and over my nose, on my tits too, and my dress. I got him back in my mouth before he’d finished, to swallow what I could before popping Lucas in again. My fingers were busy as my own climax began an instant later.
It was long and sweet and tight, my whole body locked in ecstasy as I sucked on the plump white cock in my mouth. I was still coming as Blake wiped his cock in my face, leaving me with a beautiful picture in my mind as I rode my orgasm, of myself kneeling near-nude on the dirty ground, my panties half down and my bare tits swinging in the cool autumn air, my mouth full of cock and my face smeared with streamers of spunk, used and degraded but still masturbating. Only at the very end did I let Lucas slip from my mouth and squat down, sore but satisfied, my head still hung in submission as he grabbed his cock, tugging furiously until he came all over my head.
Blake was laughing and clicking his fingers in delight to see what they’d done to me, and even the shy Lucas looked well pleased with himself. They still had their cocks out, and I thought they might be going to piss on me as a final horrid insult, but they simply climbed back into the van, still laughing. Only then did Lydia step forward, her voice shocked as she helped me to my feet and tugged my dress down to cover me.
‘You filthy, filthy little bitch, Natasha! Come on, we’d better get you cleaned up.’
I nodded weakly, but instead of getting a tissue out she took my arm and led me quickly out of the mews. My door was only a few yards away and I kept my head down, but Lucas had spunked in my hair so I was sure somebody would realise what had been done to me. I was near to panic as I fumbled my key into the lock and I ran upstairs as fast as I could, Lydia following me and laughing. She was such a bitch, leaving me to cope with both boys and not even thanking me, but at least she was going to help me clean up.
So I thought, but when she led me into the bathroom, where I slipped my dress off, she began to tug at the loo roll, not to tear some off but to feed the paper into the bowl.
‘What are you doing?’ I demanded. ‘You’ll block the loo, Lydia.’
‘I’m helping you clean up, silly. Now get on your knees.’
‘Lydia! No! Come on, that’s not fair!’
She flushed the loo, making the water rise and filling the pan with a deep pool of water, clean except little bits of pink loo paper.
‘On your knees, Tasha,’ she repeated.
I swallowed hard, near to tears as I looked down into the lavatory pan in which I was about to have my face washed, but too high on submission to resist. She gave a cruel, knowing chuckle as I knelt in front of the pan, my body shaking so hard that my tits were jiggling, while just the thought of having my head pushed down the lavatory was making me feel sick.
Lydia took me firmly by the hair and straddled my body, her weight pressing on my back as she pushed my head down. My face was just inches from the water and I could see my reflection, my cheeks stained with tear tracks where my make-up had run, my lipstick smeared, my skin soiled, blobs of spunk hanging from my nose and chin. I began to sob, bitterly sorry for myself but unable to fight back as Lydia tightened her grip in my hair.
‘In you go, Tasha,’ she said with a laugh. ‘One . . . two . . . three!’
‘No, Lydia, I—’
My voice turned into a pathetic bubbling noise as my face broke the surface of the water. She pushed my head well down, laughing as she rubbed my face in the soggy mess of loo paper at the bottom. I struggled to pull back, came up gasping and spitting bits of loo paper and spunk, only to have my head thrust back under water, filling my mouth and nose.
‘You’re not clean yet,’ Lydia crowed, ‘not by a long way.’
She’d got my head right down, jammed against the hard porcelain, and I was choking on a mouthful of half-dissolved loo paper, forcing me to fight back once more. This time she let me, holding me by the hair with my face an inch above the water as I coughed up what had gone in my mouth.
‘Enough, please,’ I begged. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘Don’t be such a selfish bitch, Natasha,’ she chided. ‘You got yours, didn’t you, rubbing yourself off like that? What about mine?’
Her skirt had ridden up, and I could feel the warm wetness of her pussy against my skin through her panties. She began to rub on me, using the bumps of my spine to get friction to her sex.
‘I’m going to ride you until I come,’ she told me, ‘and while I do it I want to see you drinking out of that lavatory bowl.’
‘No, please, Lydia,’ I whined. ‘I’ll lick, and you . . . you can sit on my face if you like . . . I’ll lick your bum too . . . I promise, Lydia, I’ll be ever such a good girl, but please, not this.’
‘Stop whining!’ she snapped. ‘Now do it, and I want to see you swallow. Come on, get your head in there!’
I began to protest again, but she was right. She deserved her turn, and what she wanted me to do was so, so dirty. I told myself I’d do it quickly, get it over with and let her come, but as my tongue pushed out to lap at the water in the lavatory bowl there was no denying the sudden tightening in my pussy.
‘That’s it, Tasha,’ she breathed. ‘Drink it up. More, Tasha, a good, big mouthful, and swallow.’
As she spoke she was rubbing her body back and forth on my spine, her pussy wet on my back through her knickers, her little soft bottom squashed against my skin. I tried to stop myself, knowing she was going to come anyway, but I couldn’t. My face went down into the lavatory and I sucked up the water, filling my mouth until I could take no more. I turned my head to look up into Lydia’s face and slowly, deliberately swallowed.
‘Oh you filthy, filthy bitch!’ she cried and she was there.
She screamed as she started to come. My head was jammed down the toilet one more time, sloshing water out over the rim, and kept there, my face pressed in to the mass of soggy loo roll as she brought herself off on my back. It seemed to last for ever, so long I thought she was going to drown me and began to panic, only for her grip to relax.
I came up gasping, loo water streaming from my mouth and nose, running down my breasts and on to the floor as she dismounted and I was finally allowed to kneel up. My head was spinning, dizzy with reaction and dirty thoughts, my craving too strong to be denied. I stuck a hand down my panties, pulling them out of my slit, and began to masturbate.
Lydia gave a soft, amused chuckle as she saw what I was doing. Her skirt was rucked up around her hips, showing off a pair of lacy black panties, the crotch slippery with her cream. She came close, pushing out her hips and tugging her panties aside to show off her bare pussy. I stuck out my tongue, eager to lick while I came, and got a faceful of piss for my trouble. As she urinated over me she began to laugh again, high and wild, thoroughly enjoying herself as she directed her stream first into my open mouth, then down over my breasts and belly, moving round to do my back and bottom, finishing off in my hair.
‘There,’ she told me, ‘how’s that?’
‘Lovely,’ I breathed. ‘Thank you . . . thank you, Lydia . . .’
I trailed off, rubbing hard at my eager cunt as I teased myself towards orgasm, kneeling in a puddle of lavatory water and Lydia’s piss, my body wet and slippery, my hair caked with bits of loo roll, my wet panties still tight up between my smacked bottom cheeks. Lydia could see my cane welts and I thought of her contempt for the way I’d allowed the old men to use me, contempt she’d expressed by washing my face in my lavatory bowl and pissing all over me.
The thought was too much. I came, screaming out her name as the orgasm hit me, my bottom splashing in the pee puddle as I bounced up and down in wild ecstasy, one fat wet breast clawed in my hand, my head thrown back and my mouth wide. Lydia laughed at me, setting off anot
her peak, but I still wasn’t finished. A moment to collect myself and I was rubbing again. Lydia walked away and I was left there, bog-washed, pissed on and masturbating furiously over my own degradation, to bring myself to orgasm after orgasm until at last my muscles failed me and I slumped down on the filthy floor.
Lydia had come back and was standing in the doorway, her contract in one hand and a pen in the other.
‘If you’ve quite finished,’ she said, ‘perhaps you’d like to clean up a bit and then sign this?’
I nodded.
Eight
FOR THE REST of the week I worked quite hard, talking to all the people I needed for my scheme to work, trying to convince Gilbert and Otto that it was the best way to go, ensuring that everybody involved received the information I wanted them to have but not the information I didn’t want them to have. Oh, and sucking cocks.
Cocksucking seemed to be playing an increasingly important part in my scheme. I’d done Gilbert, Otto, Vernon and the entire kinky element of the Aviators club, Stubbs the commissionaire, Earle Hayes and Anton Yoshida, the black cabbie whose name I didn’t even know, Blake and Lucas. In fact, by the end of the week I’d done many of them twice or even three times, most of them either making me swallow or doing it in my face. The sensation of having to suck a man’s penis in order to try and influence a business deal was every bit as exciting as I’d anticipated, with all the delicious feelings of shame and obligation, but by Friday my jaw ached so badly I could hardly talk, and I was sure I had started to put on weight because of all the spunk I’d eaten.
I spent Friday night at home, eating Chinese food in the bath and drinking a bottle of Riesling while watching an old film. By morning I felt more or less ready for the world, and for Earle Hayes, although my cane welts still showed, as a set of lines just fractionally pinker than the rest of my bottom. That was enough to give me a frisson of embarrassment as I made my way to London City Airport and waited for the Bordeaux flight.
Earle had agreed to meet me at the airport, and turned up in a white suit, a hat and a bright-red shirt, with a thong tie fastened with an ostentatiously large malachite clasp. He caught the surprise in my face, despite my attempt to smile brightly, but simply laughed.
‘I like to play up the American angle while I’m in France,’ he explained. ‘It keeps the growers off guard and it goes down well with the boys at home.’
He was in good humour, explaining how he adjusted his image to suit the circumstances, as he found me a trolley and wheeled it out to his hire car. That made it easy to relax, and as I settled back into the seat I was thoroughly looking forward to the weekend. I’d expected to be staying at a hotel in the city, and was surprised when he turned on to the ring road instead of following the Centre Ville signs.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Pomerol,’ he told me. ‘We’re guests at Château La-Croix-de-Pignon.’
I nodded, impressed. La-Croix-de-Pignon was one of those few châteaux whose reputation had risen to the point at which only the super-rich could afford to drink the wine regularly, in no small part thanks to Earle.
‘The new owners are determined to make a splash,’ he explained, ‘so they’ve invited a group of us to celebrate the release of their ’05.’
‘New owners?’
‘Sure, didn’t you know? When old man Saint-Cibard died his heirs couldn’t agree on how to run things, nor on very much else by the sound of things. They ended up selling to the Blanquefort family, which really means Southern and Allied.’
‘Oh. That’s another fine estate down the pan, then.’
‘Let’s try it first, shall we?’
‘You’re right, of course, but their new Kavanagh Cordon Noir Cognac is a complete rip-off.’
He answered with a non-committal shrug and went quiet as he concentrated on passing a brace of lorries. When he spoke again it was to discuss the vintage. Apparently the dry start to autumn had allowed them to pick at least some grapes in reasonable condition, so it wasn’t going to be the complete disaster I’d been expecting. Inevitably a lot of the growers were claiming a last-minute miracle and asking prices higher than the year before, among them several of the big names, but Earle was intending to be cautious and advise against rushing out to buy stock, an attitude that struck me as refreshingly honest in comparison to Anton Yoshida’s.
Anton, I realised, was very likely to be there, which brought back the mixed feelings he’d inspired in me; anger, of course, but also a completely involuntary arousal. I told myself I’d keep my feelings carefully hidden and stick close to Earle, making it very clear that I wasn’t interested, though I knew Yoshida was more likely to be amused than jealous.
We’d crossed the river before Earle finished his explanation, and as we climbed into the low hills of the Entre-Deux-Mers he fell silent for a while. When he did speak again there was a new tone to his voice, a hint of tension as he cautiously sounded me out.
‘We have one of the best suites,’ he said, ‘the Louis Treize. They’re all named after French kings, because they had enough called Louis to go around eighteen rooms. Ours is mighty fine, with a four-poster bed, nearly three hundred years old, apparently.’
‘You’d better have me on a chair, then,’ I joked. ‘We wouldn’t want to break the bed.’
He laughed, relaxed again, then went on.
‘Say, it was good that first time, after the Corkscrew tasting, wasn’t it? Took me right back that did, right back to my high-school days, parking up with some sweet little popsy . . .’
He trailed off with a sigh, but I could easily image the memories he’d be dwelling on. I wasn’t sure how old he was, but he had to have been a teenager during the late 50s and early 60s, which meant he’d have been in some big, old-fashioned American car, beside a girl with a high pony-tail and her tight jumper pulled up over her tits while she tugged at his cock or, if he was very lucky or very pushy, sucked it.
I never cease to be amazed at my sexuality. In the previous month I’d taken so many cocks in my mouth I’d lost count, and yet the thought of being made to suck Earle off in his car still gave me a deliciously naughty thrill. We could recreate his memory, or my version of it, with my breasts out and the radio playing as I brought him to orgasm in my mouth and forced myself to swallow. Suddenly I needed it, badly, but my jaw muscles gave a twinge of protest and I decided to make my offer a little less generous.
‘I suppose I’d better toss you off,’ I told him, ‘otherwise you might lose control and fuck me. Park up then, you dirty bastard.’
He understood immediately, grinning as he put his foot down. I didn’t know the area, despite having driven up and down this motorway several times before, but he obviously did. Turning off at the top of the hill, he quickly found a track running between vineyards on one side and a thick wood on the other. The vines were shorn of their grapes and the yellow-brown leaves hung limply or were scattered on the ground. The growers were presumably all busy indoors working with barrels and vats. Nobody was about.
Earle parked at the very end of the track, where a circle of open ground, half-hidden in the trees, allowed tractors to turn. He backed in, positioning the car so that we’d get ample warning if anybody came our way, and turned the engine off, leaving us in silence.
‘Get your dirty cock out then,’ I told him and began to tug my top out from my jeans.
He didn’t need telling, unzipping his fly as I pulled up my top and bra to bare my breasts. They felt lovely naked, very sensitive, with my nipples already stiff, but when he reached out for them I wagged a finger at him.
‘Oh, no, you don’t, mister. You can look, but you can’t touch.’
He grinned, understanding. His cock was out, his balls too, bulging from the fly of his smart white trousers. There’s something deliciously obscene about a man’s genitals sticking out of his fly when he’s otherwise fully dressed, even when he’s limp. It’s better still when he’s hard, a nice stiff cock shaft rearing up above the sack of
his balls: arousing, even a little bit frightening. I lost no time in taking him in hand, wanking slowly up and down, imagining what I was doing as a disagreeable but necessary task, disagreeable because no gentleman would ever make a girl play with his prick, necessary because if I didn’t wank him off I’d get fucked.
I knew it was all nonsense, but it made a lovely fantasy as he slowly grew stiff in my hand, and as I grew more excited I let my mind wander to different and ruder permutations. Simply wanking off my boyfriend to avoid a rough fucking was nice, but it was better still to imagine myself a virgin, with the prospect of getting my hymen popped if I didn’t manage to bring him off in my hand. He was a lot older than me too, allowing me to think of him not as my boyfriend but as my boss, some philandering bastard who’d lured me out in his car and given me a straight choice, get him off in my hand or have my virgin cunt fucked.
He was rock-hard, his eyes flicking lazily over my bare boobs as I wanked him. He was thoroughly in control, and I was just his dirty girl. I began to stroke and squeeze his balls, teasing him in the rising hope that he would lose control and fuck me. It was what I needed, but I had to be taken. When he let his seat down I thought he was going to do it, but he stayed as he was, lying back in comfort while I was forced to adjust my position, kneeling on the seat with my boobs jiggling as I went back to tossing his cock.
I popped the top button of my jeans, just to give him the idea of pulling them down, panties and all, and sticking his lovely cock right up me. Still he didn’t respond, his face now slack with ecstasy and his breathing hard and deep. He was going to spunk in my hand, leaving me to frig off over my fantasy, which was nice but not as nice as a good rough fucking. I pulled down my zip, allowing him to see the little ribbon bow at the top of my panties, and went back to stroking his balls.
