Tie Me Up

by Cathryn Cooper

‘Can I go now?’

  The bronco and the saddle shook as he moved nearer. I turned, caught a glimpse of an arm in a shirt lifting, sleeve rolled up, and then there was a second slap, harder, on the same spot. The stinging went deeper this time, radiated further, on the already tender spot. I twitched and groaned again, unable to control my own reflexes. This was like being another person, in another body. A new body thrilling to the sexy raw pain slicing through me.

  ‘You can go when the jerk has finished with you.’

  He stroked my buttock again, harder this time, his fingers digging into the plump flesh, making me arch my back again as he slid the crop between my legs and up my crotch, hooking my knickers away so that they unpeeled and released the sharp tang of my excitement.

  ‘Fuck,’ he muttered. ‘Any idea how horny a tied woman with a red, sore bottom and a wet pussy is? How about we go back to Whispers Nightclub, where they all know you, and show everyone what a dirty slapper you really are?’

  ‘Let’s do it. I don’t care who sees.’ I wriggled with pleasure at the thought of everyone watching me tied up like this. My wriggling earned me another sharp slap and as I jerked backwards I bumped into his warm, hard body. His strong arm snaked round my middle, squeezed the breath out of me, and slapped my other buttock, the one that wasn’t sore. The shock was brief and breathtaking, the pain sharp, before the pleasure prodded once again at my ready cunt. I could feel it opening, twitching. I lowered my stomach, stuck my rump right up in the air and opened my legs. He smacked me again before the pain had the chance to fade. I strained back for more, really desperate to be smacked again, but now he was clambering up onto the saddle behind me. He knocked my feet out of the stirrups so he could put his own feet in, to get his balance, but that meant I had to use all the strength in my thighs to keep myself hovering above the saddle. I writhed against the hot, slippery leather, my wrists tugging uselessly at the rope, my knickers scraping at my clit.

  I’d heard of people who liked to be smacked and always thought how daft. Men, mostly. Judges, politicians. I couldn’t think what pleasure there could possibly be in prostrating oneself and begging to be punished, begging to say sorry, for some made-up crime, just to feed a fantasy?

  And I’d never dreamed the pleasure, in being hurt and humiliated, could actually make you come.

  Well, now I knew. How dark it was. And I wanted everyone to see me like this. Straining on the rope bound so tight round my wrists. Being helpless, out of control like this was liberating. Being a little scared, enduring a particular kind of stinging pain, was exhilarating. Being ordered about and struck and told what to do and what to say and what to be, was a cheap, nasty thrill. And all the excitement wasn’t even in my mind, not really, the excitement was all right here, throbbing between my legs, opening wider, getting wetter, wanting my invisible master to take me.

  He was behind me, parting my legs now with his hands. I rocked against him, the rope biting at my wrists, and there was no tenderness, no foreplay, just his smooth round knob, jabbing at me as I rocked back, hard and ready.

  ‘The jerk wants to fuck you, Angela.’

  The voice cut through my thoughts. ‘Sending messages to the stable boy now is he?’ I could hardly speak, I was so breathless, tilting, rocking, my wet knickers snagging against my clit, the rest of me rubbing and grinding against the leather saddle.

  ‘There’s no stable boy here, Angela.’

  His cock was nudging into my bottom, through my cheeks. He took my hips and tilted me, tearing my knickers sideways, easing it into me, into my sex. My cunt felt like a little mouth, nibbling, eager to suck him in.

  ‘So where is he?’ I let him manhandle me, push his cock into me, helpless and tied up as I was.

  ‘Oh, he’s right here.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ I gasped. The moan of desire was already gathering in my throat, but still I wanted to taunt him. ‘Man like that wouldn’t be hung like –’

  ‘A stallion? Oh, you better believe it.’ The cock pushed at me, opening me more. The earth was shaking now, but it was the drumming of approaching hooves. I smiled to myself. Hallucinating in this cold, dusty stable. My whole body vibrated as I edged myself backwards onto the waiting cock. We both heard the soft wet pop as it penetrated. ‘Ask any of the grateful wenches around here.’

  I laughed sardonically, but it came out as a growl. ‘Like those sulky wenches riding out earlier?’

  I pushed myself hard against him so that the cock slipped easily inside. It was rigid, hard, and hot. My body gripped it greedily.

  ‘Especially them. And here they come now.’

  Christ. Here they came, indeed. The drumming hooves across the distant parkland slowed, became a brisk clopping echoing under the archway, slowing across the cobbles. The sulky girls were talking loudly now, turned on by their ride. I struggled hard, with the ropes, but each yank and pull only shoved him tighter inside me.

  ‘They’ll be livid to see me fucking a fresh guest after the night we had,’ the guy said, thrusting so hard that I fell forwards, the pommel knocking the breath out of my chest and making me wheeze. ‘They thought this was an exclusive country weekend. Admit it. So did you!’

  The crop was back, tickling against my face, running down my stomach, down to where my sex gaped to hold him as we fucked. ‘You thought the jerk was desperate for a girl, didn’t you?’

  I nodded, remembering how he looked in the bar, through my drunken haze. Smart enough in his suit, but a little sad.

  The horses were snorting, right outside the tack room. I could hear leather creaking, buckles jangling as they were loosened, the girls joking about being starving and needing a stiff drink. They were a few feet away.

  ‘They’ll be in to polish the tack and put it away. Well trained, you see.’

  I could only grunt like an animal, his cock filling me, thrusting me across the saddle, my buttocks wobbling against his taut thighs. I watched the shapes of the girls and the horses moving about in the dark, the horses being led across the yard to their stables. Then the scuffing of riding boots, kicking through the straw, picking up the tack, coming nearer.

  ‘Let’s give them a show, Angela,’ he whispered, fucking me harder and faster now, banging me across the saddle. ‘My latest filthy mare!’

  ‘Hey, Angus, when’s dinner?’ Their boots stopped dead. The saddles creaked in their arms. A low curse shot from one of them. I couldn’t see them, but they were staring at me on the Wild West saddle, being fucked senseless.

  His dirty words drove me on, gasping and grunting, my thighs locked tight around the saddle, every nerve screaming to keep me upright as he fucked me, rode me like a filthy mare, grinding up me and up me, until I felt his cock contract and with a final violent thrust he spurted his hot liquid into me.

  ‘Don’t you dare come! I’m not done!’ I ground myself frantically down, tighter onto him.

  ‘Ride him, girl!’ one of the girls shouted, stepping closer. ‘Go, girl!’

  So I rode him, bucking like the bronco under me, hair flying, thighs burning with the strain, his cock pumping inside me, until I came, the girls circling round to urge me on, just like I was in a show.

  They were twins. Blonde and blue-eyed, and not remotely livid. Grinning. Jodhpurs tight across their crotches, drawing my eyes to their straining seams. One of them winked, ran her tongue across her mouth, raised her own whip, and disappeared to crack it onto my lover’s arse so he swore and cried out and jerked hard, right up me, and I came, shuddering and bucking over the saddle, pulling him down with me.

  After the gasping there was dusty silence. One of the girls untied my wrists. The guy buttoned up his flies and tossed me my tight skirt. The girls watched intently as I drew it over my soaking knickers, picked up my broken shoes.

  ‘Welcome to my stable, Angela!’ the scruffy bloke said.

  Under The Oak

  by Penelope Friday

  She is leaning against the thick trunk of the tree, her hair brilliantly red agai
nst its deep oak brown. The morning sun is shining, and a light breeze rustles the leaves above her. It smells of spring, of new life, of warmth.

  Her eyes are on the gaps between the line of bushes, straining to catch the first glimpse of him. When she sees him, he is strolling casually – apparently aimlessly – towards her, hands thrust deep in his pockets, an arrogant tilt to his head.

  ‘Well, James, what a coincidence meeting you here,’ she throws at him, the slightest smile passing across her face as if blown by the wind.

  ‘Oh yes?’ His hands are either side of her head, and he is bending over her. ‘You didn’t expect to see me, of course…’

  She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Why, no, sir.’

  He grins, and shakes his head.

  ‘You lie, Stevens, you lie. There is no truth in you.’

  He kisses her hard and she responds; her arms encircling him, her body relaxing into his. She laughs at his evident hunger for her.

  ‘Is my surname such a turn on for you? Perhaps I should use yours, Hellier. Who knows where it might lead?’

  ‘Stevens, I do believe you’re trying to seduce me.’

  ‘Not much effort needed,’ she retorts, standing on tiptoe to reach his mouth with her own.

  Abruptly, he pushes her back against the tree, his hands closing on her neck. She can feel his strength, though he has only a light hold on her; knows that he is by far the more physically powerful. Suddenly the breeze has stopped and there is a stillness in the air, as if the world close around them has held its breath; yet not so far away, she can still hear the bustle of the everyday world, all-unknowing of what is taking place here. Her heart beats a little faster.

  ‘Say that again?’

  ‘Ooh, threats of violence, Jamie boy? I’m so scared,’ she teases.

  ‘You should be.’

  He smiles the lopsided smile that had won her heart despite the warnings of her classmates and her own mind. Her school tie has somehow come loose in his hands, and he is stroking it through his palms with a soft, suggestive motion. Her eyes are shining with anticipation of what’s to come, but she’s still playing the game.

  ‘That’s my property, James. I’d like it back, please.’

  He grabs her wrists in one hand, and his eyes glint in return.

  ‘I’m going to give it back to you, Ella. Don’t you worry.’

  And he is tying her wrists together; and she is making motions of protest, but never enough that he could seriously believe that she wants to escape.

  ‘I’ll have you recall,’ she says, as haughtily as a lady can when her hands are tied together with her own school tie, ‘that I have a position to uphold in this school.’

  ‘Oh, lots of positions,’ agrees James suggestively.

  She gives a soft sharp breath of outrage, and pushes him with her bound hands.

  ‘I am head girl, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘Mm-hm.’ A sparkle of mischief lights his eyes. ‘What do you think the headmaster would say if he could see you now?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ she grins. ‘Hellier, stop assaulting the young lady or you’ll be expelled from this school as quickly as you can say your own name.’

  ‘And am I?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Assaulting you.’

  ‘Oh, I hope so,’ she breathes. ‘I hope so, Jamie.’

  ‘Now that,’ he murmurs, ‘that sounds like a come-on, Stevens.’

  ‘My surname again. For someone who’s about to get as close to me as one person can get to another, you’re very formal today.’

  ‘Then take this as a formal warning, Stevens,’ he returns. ‘Any more of your insolence, and I’m going to show you exactly how I treat girls like you.’

  ‘Threat or a promise?’

  And he is kissing her again, kissing her not simply with a passion but also a fierceness that she is not used to in him. A fierceness that she likes. Oh yes, she likes. He has pushed her hands – still tied – above her head, and she is arching back against the tree, her body moulding itself to his. She is hot, and wet, and wanting; but he… he has not finished teasing her yet.

  ‘Threat and a promise,’ he corrects her. ‘If you’re so worried about your reputation, however, I could just… leave?’

  And he moves back, just slightly out of her reach, and looks at her quizzically. She does not have red hair for nothing. She tosses it, and shrugs, raising her chin to look him in the eye.

  ‘If you want.’

  He shakes his head slowly.

  ‘Oh no, Ella, that won’t do. Are you trying to say that you’d be quite happy for me to walk away right now?’

  No , her throbbing body says. No.

  ‘Believe me, James, I could find another guy if I wanted.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you could,’ he agrees. ‘But would they do this? Would they make you feel like this?’

  He has taken her back into his arms, one leg thrust between hers. He is rocking her gently, and then less gently, on his leg, his muscular thigh sending tremors through her body. His mouth is on her neck, on her lips; his hands trailing through her hair. She is making small plaintive cries of need, of wanting; pressing closer, closer, as close as she can get. He draws back.

  ‘Would they?’ he demands.

  ‘Yes, oh yes,’ she whispers, but she is not thinking about his question; has not even heard it.

  She raises bound hands to him and strokes the sides of his face with delicate fingers, and…

  ‘Oh, Ella, you kill me,’ he groans, kissing her again as his fingers undo the top button of her blouse, uncovering the smallest area of bare skin.

  She is looking up at him with desire in her eyes, but a smile ghosts across her face.

  ‘Then die…’

  He has caught at the tie between her wrists, and is swinging her round, turning her so that she faces the tree, and the oak-smell of the tree is suddenly strong in her nostrils. With his other hand, he is undoing the belt at his waist; and she can hear the sound of the leather slipping from its moorings.

  ‘You do know,’ he says conversationally, ‘that you will need to be punished for suggestions like that.’

  He has pushed her so that she is leaning in against the tree, her cheek against its rough bark, her breasts pressing against the firm trunk, her hands above her head. His hand is now exploring her leg, his fingers running up her thigh beneath the short skirt that holds so much promise. A quiver runs through her as his hand strays further. What will he say when he finds…

  ‘Miss Stevens!’ He sounds amused. ‘Nothing? Nothing underneath such a short skirt? And you seemed such a respectable girl!’

  ‘I am,’ she murmurs against the oak trunk. ‘I am respectable.’

  ‘Then explain this.’ She feels his hands lifting her skirt so that it gathers up around her slim hips, leaving her palely exposed to the elements – and to James. ‘I don’t believe that you’re respectable at all, Ella. Not at all. In fact, I believe that punishment is in order, don’t you?’

  He is running the leather belt gently across her rear, the smooth soft feel of it setting every nerve ending tingling.

  ‘Punish me,’ she begs, rubbing her face against the tree, arching her back.

  ‘Or would it be more punishment not to?’ he asks gently. The belt is removed from her skin, and she feels his hands reach up above her head, to where her own bound arms rest. He makes a movement with the belt. ‘I could just… tie you up here, leave you for one of the other students – or teachers – to find. How would you explain that, Ella?’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ she whispers, turning her head to fix opaque green eyes on him.

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’

  Her teeth nibble at her bottom lip.

  ‘Please?’

  He smiles slightly.

  ‘Since you ask so nicely, Ella, how could I refuse? And you deserve it, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes…’

  He strokes his palm across her naked bottom, savouring the p
leasures of its rounded shape. And then, without warning, the leather belt slaps against her flesh, making her gasp.

  ‘More,’ she pants desperately.

  ‘I make the rules, Ella, not you. You are not the head girl taking a prefects’ meeting. You are mine here. You will get what I think you deserve.’ Though the words sound cruel, James’s voice holds promise and laughter. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ agrees Ella.

  She would agree to anything. They both know it. They both love it.

  And the belt is whipping through the air again, slapping her skin, leaving soft red marks that burn with a heat that melts Ella from the outside all the way in. And she is groaning and gasping and ‘Oh, oh, James, oh!’ until her cries are lost in incoherence, and he can tell just from the jerky, desperate movements that she wants him.

  Then the whipping stops, and he kneels behind her, soothing her soreness with a soft, gentle tongue that wets and calms – and yet excites. His hands are on her hips, turning her so that his tongue can reach inside her, flicking to and fro until she squirms and squeals with pleasure, pressing herself against his mouth. He twists her back round to face him, and her hands are in his hair, her nails scratching across his scalp as she encourages him with every movement of her body, every sound that sighs through parted lips. His tongue presses harder, firmer, until she cannot help but pulse around him, her hands tightening their grip on his head as she comes shamelessly, with desperate, helpless abandon.

  And he is on his feet again and holding her, whispering in her ear as the world settles around her. Once more she is aware of the sound of conversation in the distance, the quiet murmur of traffic as it passes on the road.

  ‘Ah, Ella, what would the teachers think of you now? Do you think they’d believe you if you said you hadn’t wanted it, seeing you now with the glow of satisfaction on your face? No, sweetheart, they would know you for the liar you are. They would know that all your ‘good girl’ appearance is just a façade. They would see, as I see, the wanton that lies beneath that cool exterior.’

  She sighs, resting her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Only for you, James,’ she murmurs. ‘Just for you.’