‘Again,’ Angela commanded, tilting the German’s agonised face up by his chin and staring dominantly down into his frightened eyes. ‘Twice more should almost do it,’ she added, glancing into the cup Jane was cradling carefully. ‘Fill the cup, coach, or else you’ll be calling for new balls.’
Babs, at forty-six the oldest of the four vengeful matrons, shook Gunter awake. Those who called Babs Rubenesque were being both tactful and kind. She was a proud owner of 38DD breasts. They slapped the German’s face as she bent over him. He had been dozing fitfully – whimpering in his troubled dreams – upon the polished wooden floor while the four mothers-in-law had showered, sipped Chablis from clear plastic cups and munched potted shrimps.
After her shower, Babs had towelled and talcumed her ample flesh and had smoothed on a pair of pale tan tights with her strong, capable hands. As Gunter slept on, their talk had been that normal to any circle of middle-aged Hampshire ladies: rose catalogues; getting the Aga serviced; the latest Karl Lagerfeld collection and the growing nuisance of New Age travellers toting mongrel dogs on lengths of string. One of the dogs had jumped the privet at the vicarage and ravished the curate’s poodle. All agreed that the potted shrimps were delicious.
As Gunter woke, propping himself up drunkenly on his elbows, the talk returned to punishments and pain. At his feet, the small trophy cup brimmed with his semen.
Babs sat on the chair Angela had used when breastfeeding the German coach. Signalling to Jane and Angela, she squatted her buttocks heavily on to the leather seat, her nylon tights crackling as their sheen grazed the hide. With the silent, stern brunette supervising, Jane and Angela dragged the still-bound Gunter to Babs and hauled him across her knee, leaving him bare-bottomed for her intimate perusal.
‘You propose to merely spank him?’ the brunette asked, failing to conceal a note of disappointment.
Babs nodded, pausing to suck at a piece of shrimp wedged in her tooth. ‘An old-fashioned method of discipline, but one which I have every confidence in. Very effective,’ she murmured, dimpling Gunter’s left buttock with firm fingertips, ‘and so very pleasurable, I must confess. Actually owning a naked man’s bottom. Having it completely in your control. And observing how it grows pink and then crimson under one’s relentlessly spanking hand. Delicious.’ She giggled.
Gunter groaned. He squeezed his thighs together.
‘No, young man. We’ll have none of that nonsense. Relax your cheeks. That’s better. Legs a little wider apart. Now get your bottom up a fraction higher. More. Good. Now a fraction more.’
Gunter strained to obey these pre-punishment instructions, his toes whitening as they dug into the wooden floor. As he did so, Babs thumbed his cleft fleetingly and then, cupping her spanking hand into a slight curve, gently palmed the swell of his buttocks.
‘Are you going to spank him until he comes?’ Jane asked, tilting her strawberry-blonde head inquiringly.
‘Not until he comes,’ Babs replied, nodding as she emphasised the pronoun. She smoothed the crown of the buttocks she proposed to blister. ‘Gunter is to be severely spanked until I come.’
And for the first time since they had intruded into his private work-out over three hours ago, Gunter knew the meaning of fear. He had known – and endured – pain, the dark pleasure of punishment, the bitter-sweetness of surrender and the anguish of humiliation since their visitation. But now it was the raw taste of fear that soured his mouth. Bare-bottomed, and with his hands in tight bondage, he was helpless across the ample lap of this large Englishwoman. This slightly tipsy Englishwoman who was probably just a little bit mad. She proposed to spank him soundly until her pleasure was achieved in orgasm. He shuddered. The others, he remembered painfully, had disciplined him with a ruthless economy. Justice had been dispensed swiftly. But this hugely breasted giantess the others called Babs was approaching his punishment differently. Her shrill giggling haunted Gunter – as did the cupping, squeezing hand at his bare bottom.
‘Wicked, wicked Gunter,’ she wheezed. ‘And who is going to get a thoroughly smacked bottom, hmm?’
For the very first time since the eight white pumps had interrupted his press-ups earlier that fateful evening, Gunter heard himself begging aloud for mercy. As the sound of the severe spanking echoed around the gym after four sustained minutes of her harsh palm across his suffering buttocks, his cries became curses. Gunter, as the brunette had unerringly predicted, howled aloud, blaspheming as his cheeks reddened beneath her cruel spanking hand.
‘Faster,’ Angela urged, thumbing her pussy fiercely.
‘Harder,’ encouraged Jane, busy at her nipples.
‘Excellent,’ cried the brunette, rubbing the tennis ball trapped by her right hand against her clitoris.
Babs ignored her appreciative audience. Concentrating on the bottom before her, she continued to spank it harshly, raining down a storm of hot pain across the blazing cheeks. In a desperate bid to escape, Gunter lunged across her thighs – but merely succeeded in gouging his glans into the rasping sheen of her tights. Screaming as he came, he splashed and soaked her. Vaguely aware of his hot seed seeping into her nylon-sheathed thighs, Babs continued her furious onslaught upon his bare buttocks, noting with satisfaction that the spanked cheeks were now deeply crimsoned.
Suddenly, the crisp echoes of the spanking hand ceased. The three watching women blinked as if emerging from a trance, their wet fingertips fixed at their pouting labia as if frozen in the very act of masturbation. Gunter, sobbing gently, collapsed down across the semen-smeared thighs of his punisher.
Babs broke the spellbound silence, asking Jane to bring her a bottle of Pilsner from the little white fridge. Gunter yelled out in protest, bucking and jerking violently, as the chilled bottle was positioned along his cleft between his reddened cheeks.
‘There,’ the spanker whispered, her tone soothing and gentle as she knuckled the ice-cold bottle deep into his cleft.
Flattening her palm down, Babs began to roll the Pilsner bottle up across the outer buttock then back, across the red and ravished cheek just below her bosom. Gunter inched his cheeks up, eager for the cold glass upon his hot torment. Deftly grasping the bottle, Babs inverted it, probing his puckering anal crater with the top. Gunter came immediately, his audible squirt splashing her stockinged feet. Babs giggled as she scrunched her toes and paddled in his slippery puddle.
‘Mad woman,’ the German cursed harshly. ‘Crazy Englander. Damn bitch.’ Normally so exquisitely polite, his outburst – and subsequent stream of oaths – thrilled the naked women encircling him in his shame and pain.
Placing the bottle down once more along the length of his sticky cleft, Babs applied the cold surface across the contours of her chastised victim’s blistering cheeks for several minutes – then, having tossed him unceremoniously down on to the wooden floor, used the green bottle at her slit. Trapping it between her heavy thighs, she pumped hard. The glass rasped her wet tights’ mesh. Above her panting gasps, the crackle of her punished pubic fuzz was distinct. Rising in a sudden surge of frustration, Babs bestraddled the German who lay prostrate at her feet. Treading down triumphantly upon his reddened buttocks, she resumed pleasuring herself with the bottle, bruising her erect love-thorn with the glass. Gunter, pinioned beneath the semen-soaked stockinged foot, cringed in an anguish of shame as Babs finally exploded aloud in a shriek of orgasmic pleasure. Tossing the bottle aside – it splintered on the floor, the shaken lager seething curdled spume – she sank down upon the tennis coach. Capturing his red bottom between a pincer of powerful thighs, she rode him, jerking up her broad buttocks and raking her pantihosed pubis down across his punished rump: her final flourish of supreme dominance.
It was dusk. A light breeze shivered the leaves of the beeches outside. Inside, four electric light bulbs blazed. In their harsh glare, Jane and Angela were struggling to dress Gunter in the soaking pair of tan tights Babs had discarded. As they snapped the darker-hued waistband around his hips, his trapped shaft strained agai
nst the wet sheen stretched across his groin. Naked still, apart from the grotesque tights, and still helplessly bound at the wrists, he knelt before his tormentors. They were dressed and ready to depart. The gym stank of spilled lager, sweat and semen.
The stern brunette assumed her role as leader of the perfumed, predatory pack. ‘I am not completely unfamiliar with your tongue, Gunter.’
Angela, who had become intimate with the German’s hot mouth, giggled as she stroked her pussy beneath the tiny, pleated white tennis skirt.
‘I refer to the German language. More specifically, the writings of Grimm.’
Gunter, swaying slightly on his knees in a lust-exhausted stupor, blinked stupidly.
‘Not Hans von Grimmelhausen, whose torrid work, “Simplicissimus”, I find somewhat too picaresque,’ the brunette continued suavely. ‘I mean the brothers Grimm. You are no doubt hoping for a fairy-tale ending, Gunter. I am afraid you are to be disappointed.’ She brandished his black diary and flipped through the pages. ‘You are hoping that each mother will replace her daughter-in-law for your special coaching sessions.’
Gunter denied the charge – but the jerking cock probing the tan tights both betrayed and confirmed his secret desire. To silence his loud protestations, they gagged him once more, using a pair of cotton panties.
The stern brunette tore the diary into a thousand tiny pieces. ‘No, Gunter. There is to be no fairy-tale ending. We are going now. In a little while, the Club Secretary will receive an anonymous phone call. Attracted by the lights here in the gym at a late hour, he will lead the investigation and they will find you. I am sure they will come to some satisfactory arrangement – but your expulsion from the club will be automatic. A grim ending, I am afraid, to your little fairy-tale, Gunter.’
Scooping up the brimming Challenge Cup, she trickled the silvery semen over the bound, kneeling German – taking care to soak the tights where they strained at his shaft. Dropping the golden cup to the floor, she stamped on it, crushing it completely beneath her dominant pump.
2
Sticky Fingers
The April sunshine blanked the screen of her monitor with a blaze of gold. Yvonne stretched her hand out and, fingers fumbling for the cord, found it and snapped down the blinds. London’s West End traffic became a dull roar. Glancing back into her monitor, she smiled.
‘Come and take a peek at Trap 2.’
Bostick, her partner on the afternoon security shift – so called because she stuck to suspects like glue – joined her at the screen. Their hands collided as they both made a grab for the joystick. Yvonne withdrew, allowing Bostick to take control.
‘I’ll zoom in,’ she grunted urgently, teasing the stubby joystick.
The surveillance camera, cunningly mounted above the unsuspecting customers, angled and dipped in response to Bostick’s command. Trap 2, a changing cubicle in the lingerie section, filled their screen in big close-up. In it, a Greek beauty in her late thirties was struggling into a black satin basque. As the nude battled with the basque, she tossed her long, black hair tempestuously. Her bouncing breasts seemed to fill the entire screen.
‘A bit to the left. No, your left,’ Yvonne whispered excitedly.
Bostick’s thumbtip stroked the joystick. They watched in silence as the superbly buttocked Greek finally squeezed her heavy breasts into the underwired cups of the stretchy black satin.
‘She needs a bigger size,’ Yvonne remarked. ‘Vain cow.’
Bostick nodded. ‘Yep. Look. She’s going to try that red one now.’
They continued to watch in silence as the voluptuous Greek unzipped and wriggled out of the black basque, her breasts bulging as she peeled away the tight cups. As she bent to scoop up the red basque, the Greek’s naked buttocks pressed against the mirrored wall. All four walls of the changing cubicle were lined with glass, allowing the dry-mouthed voyeurs a deliciously frank appreciation of their unsuspecting prey. The Greek, her breasts and belly moulded within the second skin of the red basque’s fierce embrace, examined herself critically. In the glass, her eyes spotted a stray wisp of pubic hair. Yvonne and her dominant partner craned eagerly as the Greek guided her fingertips down to her pussy to tidy away the wanton coils.
Bostick twiddled the joystick. She was rewarded with a captivating shot of the breasts, thrusting out proudly in the supporting cups. Bostick’s grey eyes narrowed as she trained the prying lens down on the swollen bottom. Watching intently, the grey eyes feasted on the naked buttocks bulging against a glass panel, the dark cleft wide between the splayed cheeks.
‘I’d love to cane that,’ she grunted. ‘Imagine having those cheeks to lash and stripe.’
Yvonne, her throat tightening, swallowed noisily.
‘Still,’ her partner whispered, patting Yvonne’s bottom proprietorially, ‘I’ve always got yours.’
‘You’ve lost her,’ Yvonne murmured, wriggling away from the dominant hand across her cheeks.
Bostick recaptured the Greek. In her red basque, tossing her dark hair back, she was admiring the cleavage the underwired cups had brought to her proud breasts. In another big close-up, the two watchers admired the cleavage as well. From its steep angle, the lens lingered over the swell of the shining breasts. The Greek used body lotion, giving her ripe flesh a satin sheen. Yvonne bent closer to the screen. Reaching out her straightened index finger, she traced the outline of the breasts nestling in their cupped bondage.
‘Cut that out,’ Bostick snapped, her jealous tone unmistakable – a sharp tone Yvonne thrilled to hear.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered penitently.
‘You will be, when I get you home.’
‘Please, I didn’t mean –’
‘Let’s take a look in Trap 3,’ Bostick said suavely, dismissing her partner’s anxious whimper.
Two young blondes, stripped down to their white cotton panties, were helping each other into bras. This time – to Yvonne’s silent resentment – it was Bostick who responded. Twiddling the joystick, she probed the mirrored cubicle, lingering over the thighs and pubic mounds of the pantied young lovelies below.
Yvonne grew jealous. ‘Try Trap 1,’ she suggested, attempting a casual voice.
‘Be quiet,’ Bostick hissed, ‘I like what I’m seeing.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Shut it.’
Yvonne lapsed into sullen silence.
‘And don’t sulk,’ Bostick continued, savouring the peach-cheeks within their stretched white cotton panties, ‘or I’ll give you something to sulk about right here and now.’
Yvonne shivered with pleasure at the delicious threat. Bending so close to the screen that her breath misted the glass, Bostick ogled the nubile blondes. In the confines of Trap 3, they jostled for space. Colliding, thigh to thigh, pubis to rump, they finally managed to face a mirror and, between them, fit on a cotton sports bra. Bostick growled as the girl behind adjusted the cups for her partner in front. Pressing her face into the screen, she licked then kissed the big close up of the apple breasts being sheathed and squeezed in the crisp, virginal cups.
Sulking over by the wall, Yvonne stood with her arms folded, her face a mask of misery. Bostick’s head of cropped hair spoiled her view of the screen, but she briefly glimpsed the playful, fluttering hands of one blonde nymph capturing and pleasuring the braless breasts of the other.
The phone buzzed. A long, continuous snarl.
‘Internal. I’ll get it,’ Yvonne volunteered.
Engrossed at her screen – the blondes in Trap 3 were now cuddling and tongue-tip teasing each other – Bostick ignored both the phone and her partner.
Yvonne murmured into the phone, then hung up. ‘Jewellery. They’ve just had a punter.’
Bostick swivelled round, her alert face raised. Over her shoulder, on the neglected screen, one young blonde was kneeling before the parting thighs of the other.
‘Was there a lift?’ Bostick demanded.
Yvonne nodded. ‘It was a lift. Punter in a yellow Chanel s
uit. Black gloves. Asked to see eternity rings. Diamond solitaire’s gone.’
‘She’s palmed it. Neat. How much?’
‘Eleven thou.’
‘Greedy. Has there been a door alert yet?’
Yvonne shook her head. ‘She’s still inside.’
‘Cool,’ Bostick purred. ‘Better do a sweep.’ Back at her screen, operating the joystick deftly, she soon spotted – and tracked – their target. They held her in a long shot as she dallied on the edge of the lingerie section toying with a leather bustier. Yvonne joined her dominant partner at the screen.
‘She’ll go into Trap 1 with that. That’s where she’ll do the business.’
They tracked the slender, elegantly dressed brunette’s progress between the displays of bras and panties, switching to a big close-up as their quarry sidled into the seclusion of Trap 1. They watched as she tugged off her black gloves with her teeth, tossing them down on to the floor, then wriggled out of her chic Chanel jacket and skirt.
‘Think I know her,’ Bostick murmured. ‘Sure of it.’
Yvonne turned, her eyebrows raised inquiringly. ‘Have you pulled her before? Is she on file?’
‘No, not that. But I’m sure I know her.’
In her cubicle, their target was palming down sheer, black tights. Braless, she stood before the mirror, a silk thong moulded her pubic mound. Her breasts bunched as she struggled with a ring, prising the stone from its setting.
‘Cool little cat. Just look at her.’ Bostick nodded. ‘She’ll plug the stone and waltz out of there bold as brass.’
Brought to Heel Page 3
