Amanda. After six minutes, Gunter would rise up from his knees and stand, straddling her hot buttocks. By placing his rubber-soled pump neatly along the cleft between her cheeks, and treading firmly, he could coax another paroxysm from her tightly squeezed thighs. Then he would command her to slew around and kneel up before him – and accept his stiff length into her mouth.
Suck. His German accent was harsh. Almost as harsh as the imperious command. Still molten at her slit, Amanda worked her mouth busily to please her cruel chastiser. Suck. Wide-eyed and fearful of the raised cane – dreading the swipe across her outer thigh – the kneeling nude pleasured her punisher.
Gunter’s throat tightened as he remembered – and anticipated – his sessions with Amanda. The young Englishwoman with the desire to be disciplined. The superbly buttocked, neglected hausfrau who bared her cheeks like a naughty schoolgirl for his cane. The naughty Amanda. The ice-cold lager from the Challenge Cup loosened his muscles as he swallowed. Gunter closed his eyes – just as Amanda closed hers when she swallowed.
His forefinger delicately flipped over the page of his diary. Then another page. Saturday. He traced the name of his next appointment. Susie. Ja. Susie at noon.
On Saturday morning he would rise, eat cold smoked meats with rye bread and then read the poet Pushkin until noon. Susie was so proud of her volley shots. And her breasts. They were so ripe, so pliant. She wore a sensible sports bra to control them in the stern embrace of strengthened cotton cups when leaping around out on the grass court. Inside, after her gruelling game, she would surrender her bare bosom to Gunter, her bra abandoned on the floor. He would crush her heavy breasts with his racket, bunching up the glistening orbs with the netted strings. They would bounce enticingly. Swinging the racket around to spank her, Gunter would propel her into the shower.
Emerging, pink and eager, Susie would skip across to him, her arms behind her back, her breasts proud and thrusting. Though naked, they did not remain unadorned. Gunter saw to that. He liked to take a pair of blue-and-white sweat bands and force them on to her breasts, fitting the soft, stretchy fabric to each swollen mound of warmth, leaving them bulging painfully and quite helpless before his gaze. He always forced Susie into wearing dark bronze tights. Through the dark sheen at her pubic mound, he would thumb her matted coils. The poet Pushkin left Gunter slightly melancholy. He thumbed the pubic hair tenderly, as a vixen licks her blind cub.
Whimpering softly, Susie would become impatient. Gunter would order her to kneel, joining her down on the polished wooden floor and quickly guiding his fierce erection up between her gently bobbling breasts. Cupping and squeezing them dominantly, he would use the deep cleavage to cushion and comfort the length of his hot shaft. Rocking gently, Gunter would then pleasure himself at leisure within the warmth of her satin-soft flesh – coming violently, his spurting release splattering her neck, chin and left shoulder. Up on his feet almost instantly, Gunter would dry the wet snout of his cock in her hair. Susie would palm her breasts, working his semen into their shining, rubbery flesh.
A curt nod from the tennis coach would have Susie on her back, thighs wide, waiting for him. Crushing his chest into her wet, bulging breasts, and pinning her outstretched hands down into the floor, he would enter her. Wriggling beneath him, her slippery breasts maddening him, Susie would pantomime a pretence of coquettish defiance. Gunter mastered her easily, every Saturday, a little after noon, punishing her with brutally deep thrusts for her brief show of rebellion. Later, he would bury his mouth between her thighs, replacing the memory of his cold meat breakfast with the sweet salt of her juicy flesh. Ja. Susie. Slippery-breasted Susie. Every Saturday. At noon.
He was on his twelfth press-up and the trickle of stinging sweat forced him to close his eyes. Utterly naked, in the seclusion of his training gym, Gunter eased himself down, elbows angled. He pressed his sac gently on to the polished wooden floor, dragging his balls deliciously across its sheen. Straightening his arms abruptly, he powered his nakedness up. His thickening shaft nodded as it rose.
A soft sound broke the spell of the surrounding silence. Gunter opened his eyes and blinked away the stinging sweat that blinded him. Head bowed, he was amazed to see eight white toe-caps of four pairs of pumps breaking into the periphery of his circle of vision. Soft perfumes suffused the air – violets and damask roses, their understated elegance redolent of money, manners and middle age. His wilder, younger women sweetened their nakedness with more strident scents. Gunter’s sixth sense signalled danger.
His sixth sense had not deceived him.
As if in response to a silent command, the right pump of each encircling pair rose up from the polished wood and swept towards his naked body, instantly prostrating him beneath their collective, pinioning tread. One at each trapped hand, one planted at the nape of his neck, the fourth crushing down the swell of his subjugated rump.
Gunter tried to twist his face to glimpse his tormentors, but each white pump was planted very firmly – the one at his neck the firmest of all.
‘So,’ the plummy tones of suburbia purred, ‘we have heard that you fancy yourself as number one seed hereabouts, Gunter.’
The German relaxed. Nothing to fear, his arrogance assured him. Just a few more neglected wives seeking his special tuition. He grinned. Soon his little black appointment book would be full.
The voice spoke again. Gunter froze as he caught the darker note of menace. ‘Number one seed. Or so our daughters-in-law have confessed.’
Gunter’s mind raced, calculating his situation. These matrons had somehow discovered the truth of his special coaching sessions with their sons’ wives. Suddenly, his heart weighed as heavy as a stone. Were they merely the advance guard? Would the door burst open, filling the gym with vengeful husbands? Angry Englishmen swinging baseball bats? No, Gunter thought. Not baseball bats. That would not be cricket. But he shrank at the thought of a cricket stump being rammed up his anus.
No. That was not how things were done in Hampshire. Gunter relaxed, letting his arrogance sweep away his fears. A quick grin revealed his white teeth. These women were here to demand more of the same. Straining, he was just able to glimpse into the mirror. Reflected in the glass, he saw his captors: four stern beauties immaculately attired for tennis. Voluptuous and powerfully thighed women. Like Jaguar Mark II saloons. Sleek and in mint condition. Beautifully upholstered. Ja. And plenty under the bonnet when the right pair of hands nursed them into top and opened them up. Gunter felt a surge of anticipation, certain in the knowledge that soon he would be going to relish taking them for a spin.
The rich, plummy voice broke into his reverie. ‘Get him up against that mirror. I gather that he has become accustomed to using it in his sessions.’
Strong, capable hands clutched his hair, wrists – one slipped in between his thighs and captured his balls cruelly – and dragged him towards the full-length mirror. Kneeling before it, he squirmed as his erection was trapped against the cold surface of the glass. Glancing into his own reflection, Gunter saw his mouth pursed in its usual sardonic smile. Then he studied his captors more closely. Four cock-thickening specimens in the full flowering of their early forties. English roses in the high summer of their splendour, aching to be plucked. The pride of the Shires, ripely bosomed, heavily buttocked and superbly thighed. He half recognised them – not as grass court players but as club members who frequented the bar. Ja. He knew the type. Turning up for gin and tonics in trim vests, spotless pumps, and teasingly short pleated skirts: perched on the red velvet bar stools, their tanned thighs openly displayed. ‘Welcome, ladies –’ he started to announce.
‘Silence,’ a luscious-limbed brunette barked. ‘Gag him, Jane. We don’t want the other members to hear our Hun howl.’
Jane, a strawberry-blonde with eyes of wild honey, bent down over his kneeling figure to apply an efficient gag of sweat bands to his protesting mouth. Gunter caught the intoxicating perfume of her body lotion as her deft hands silenced him. He felt the full weigh
t of her breasts against his nakedness as she checked – then further tightened – the gag. At the glass, his trapped shaft throbbed.
‘Thank you, Jane. As I said, we don’t want to disturb the other members when our Hun here starts to howl. Howl,’ the stern brunette continued, answering the mute question framed by Gunter’s widening eyes, ‘during his punishment.’
They were here for punishment. His punishment, not their pleasure. Gunter swallowed and struggled to rise up on one knee. The brunette’s pump shot out, the ribbed sole flattening his buttocks and splaying them painfully apart, pinning him into the glass.
‘We don’t play lawn tennis, Gunter. Not our game at all. All that grunting and sweating. Younger women seem to like it. We prefer to play hard court.’
An image of red clay flashed before Gunter’s eyes. The court was in session. His punishers were encircling him. Would his bare bottom be as red after they had administered justice? As red, and as hot, as the sun-baked clay?
‘We have already found you guilty. Our daughters-in-law confessed all – eventually. No,’ the grim tones of the brunette continued, ‘I’m afraid we are not here today to play. Our purpose is your punishment. Jane. He is all yours.’
The strawberry-blonde returned from Gunter’s locker brandishing the bamboo cane reserved for Amanda’s bare bottom. He shivered at the squeak of her approaching pumpsteps, and shivered again as, in the glass, he saw her swish the whippy wood.
‘We have discovered all your little secrets, Gunter. Every last one,’ the strawberry-blonde whispered, tapping his buttocks with her bamboo. ‘How else would I know of the existence of this cane, hmm? Amanda is my son’s wife. It was a painful interview, but she answered all my questions.’
Sensing his absolute doom, Gunter closed his eyes.
‘Hold his arms out. Up above his head. Just like he holds Emily against the glass.’
Gunter remembered the ponytailed nude splayed against the mirror. Now, he realised, it was to be his turn. He struggled, but was overpowered; the hands that had dragged him to the glass moments before now stretched his arms up against it.
‘Hold him,’ the strawberry-blonde commanded.
The controlling grip at his wrists tightened. Kneeling, his face pressed into its own frightened reflection, he waited bare-buttocked for the burning bamboo.
Like a July thunderstorm cloudbursting from the sky, the rain of pain lashed down, searing his defenceless cheeks with vicious strokes. Jane, biting her soft lower lip in an effort of concentration, plied the thin cane with cunning cruelty, frequently flexing her supple wrist to sweep the whippy wood upwards and inwards to stripe the lower curves of his rounded cheeks. Cursing into his gag, Gunter swallowed his screams.
The strawberry-blonde paused briefly. Once to pluck her damp vest from her breasts. Again, after seven more cutting strokes, to finger her panties from her hot cleft. The cane left his whipped cheeks ablaze and seething. The original pale ivory of his buttocks had now completely disappeared beneath an irregular pattern of red and purpling cane stripes.
Swiftly dropping down on to one knee directly behind her victim, Jane brought her face close to Gunter’s bottom; he flinched as he felt her wet tongue flicker across the buttocks she had severely beaten. The gag at his mouth did not quite smother his scream as she sank her teeth into him as if he were an apple. She bit softly but painfully, tugging away a fleshfold between her white teeth. Then, without warning, she inserted the tip of the cane into his sticky sphincter. Clapping her palms around the bamboo, she rubbed her hands slowly, rolling it and inching it a heartbeat at a time into his tight warmth. Gunter squeezed his thighs together and came, spurting spasmodically into the glass, spurting and splashing his painful release up high so that it clouded the reflection of his contorted features.
As the others gazed down upon Gunter in his abject humiliation and smiled, Jane prised him away from the mirror and, slowly lowering her face down to the glass, licked his wet smear. Gunter closed his eyes, his face ablaze with both suffering and shame.
‘Excellent,’ the dominant brunette pronounced. ‘Thank you, Jane. A good opener. And now, Angela, it shall be your round. Your turn to punish our cocksure coach. How do you want him?’
‘At my mercy,’ the statuesque matron whispered excitedly, peeling off her tennis outfit until she stood proudly naked. ‘Bind his hands behind his back, would you? I won’t be long.’
Ignoring Gunter’s semen-soaked belly – and his imploring eyes – the three women fulfilled Angela’s instructions, presenting their victim kneeling, bound and gagged to her when she returned, dragging a chair with one hand and bearing the Challenge Cup aloft in the other.
‘Undo his gag, please,’ Angela requested, deftly positioning the chair before settling her heavy buttocks down on to its leather seat. ‘I’ll have him seated on my lap.’
His thigh grazed her flourishing, dark pubic bush as Gunter was guided down. He flinched as his whipped cheeks sank on to her supporting thighs. Behind his back, his bound hands writhed as Angela nudged the golden cup towards his cock. Jane yanked the gag away. Gunter gasped aloud.
‘A Challenge Cup,’ Angela murmured, forcing it over the end of his shaft. ‘You didn’t win it, of course. We’ve checked. Silly Gunter,’ she admonished, as if impatient with a squirming schoolboy. ‘You can’t hide anything from us. We know all your little secrets. Understand?’
Leaving the golden cup covering his shining glans, she insinuated her hand between his thighs and toyed with his balls, palming them as she weighed his sac with brutal tenderness. Gunter wriggled. Her palm closed into a fist; Gunter whimpered, becoming passive and submissive in her thrall.
‘I have a challenge for you, coach. I want you to fill this cup.’ She shook it, bullying his shaft within the golden shell. ‘Fill it, or suffer.’ She whispered the punishment for failure into his ear. Gunter paled. His ice-blue eyes now dimmed as fear flooded their former contemptuous stare.
Angela cradled him – carefully keeping the Challenge Cup positioned to catch and capture his ejaculations – and began to dominantly breastfeed him. After burying his upturned face beneath both of her heavy breasts for a full six minutes, she forced the swollen warmth of her right bosom into his mouth, smothering him ruthlessly. His eyes bulged as she filled his mouth, widening his accepting lips painfully apart. Easing the breast out, she adjusted it so that his lips formed a sucking circle at her engorged nipple. He struggled, rallying to escape. Angela tweaked his balls, breaking his resistance. Gunter sucked obediently, now utterly helpless at her breast. He sucked hard, guzzling at the dominant flesh. His shaft, the veins now visible, throbbed and jerked in response, the heat of his angry glans dimming the encircling gold. Angela cupped her breast and squeezed it, commanding her captive to suckle harder. Glancing down at his twitching length, she sensed that his climax was imminent.
She gave the golden trophy a cruel half-twist. Gunter cried out into her breast as the cold gold raked his glistening snout. As his buttocks clenched at her supporting thighs and his hips jerked – signalling his imminent orgasm – Angela steadied the Challenge Cup and buried his upturned face in her bosom. Spluttering, Gunter groaned and came; the squirt was long and loud, the thin jet splashing noisily against the gleaming gold.
‘Good little boy,’ Angela enthused, hug-shaking his helpless nakedness. With her left hand, she caught the last few sticky semen beads with the rim of the trophy. ‘Well done, Gunter. I knew you had it in you. After all –’ her tone darkened ‘– I’ve seen it when examining Penelope’s soiled knickers.’
Bound and helpless, Gunter sank his face down into her deep cleavage. Her breasts cushioned his perspiring features with their swollen, satin warmth. Angela had broken him. Broken his Teutonic pride and arrogance. Like a cruel Prussian princess in a dark, medieval castle, she enjoyed supreme sovereignty over his submissive serfdom.
‘Kneel,’ came her curt command.
Slumping to his knees, head bowed abjectly, he obeyed
. Peeling her heavy buttocks away from the chair’s leather seat, Angela rose. She passed the small, golden cup to Jane.
‘Be careful not to spill a drop. I want a full cup out of him.’
Jane took the cup and nodded. Kneeling down behind Gunter, she nestled her breasts and pubis into him. Snaking her hand around his left thigh, she positioned the Challenge Cup at his penis.
Angela moved slowly and gracefully. As she stood, naked, before the kneeling German, she planted her feet apart. Her ripe bosom wobbled as she brought her large, dark bush into his face. Gripping his bowed head and taloning the golden hair dominantly, she crushed his mouth to her labia. Up on tiptoe – causing her buttocks to joggle – she drew his lips to hers. Gunter gasped as his mouth tasted her wet slit.
‘Your serve,’ she snarled.
Gunter closed his eyes and worked his lips and tongue busily. Soon, his face was shining with both his exertion and her wet pleasure. As his length thickened and engorged, Jane deftly angled the golden cup to catch his shooting seed. Angela remained passive as the tennis coach lapped frantically at her wet heat. Gazing down sternly at her kneeling slave, she murmured the occasional threat of encouragement – detailing explicitly the impending punishment if he failed to meet her challenge. His tongue drove deeper into her, the thick, wet muscle arching and curving to lick and lap her sensitive flesh.
A ripple – a frisson of arousal – across her proudly nippled bosom acknowledged Angela’s rapidly approaching climax. The other women watched, their eyes wide with expectant excitement. Angela’s buttocks tightened, her deep cleft becoming a fierce crease as the heavy cheeks clenched. Arching her head back, and tumbling her hair down in a wanton cascade, she ground her pubis into his face with increasing urgency. Then she hammered her hips and, clutching his trapped head tightly, she orgasmed aloud. Seconds later, the thin hiss and liquid splatter in the cup betrayed Gunter’s ejaculation.
Brought to Heel Page 2
