Heather was anxious that Lady Alice did not discover this green-eyed young vixen entertaining her young poet after dark. Somehow, she would have to amuse the cruel blonde here and now.
‘Nothing I can do, ma’am? I’m here to serve.’
To serve. Charlotte whispered the words softly. ‘Tidy up my dressing table,’ she commanded.
Heather busied herself at the task, her mind less than half on her duties. Her knuckles swept a glass bottle on to its side. The room was instantly heavy with spilled perfume.
‘Be careful,’ Charlotte rasped, springing up and rushing to the dressing table. ‘Just look what you’ve done. I’ve a good mind –’
‘To punish me, ma’am?’
Silence, as suffocating as the sudden scent, filled the air. Heather bowed her head down and drew her hands together at her apron like a penitent schoolgirl before an angry Dame. Charlotte drew her left hands up to the pearl choker at her throat. Impossible possibilities flashed behind her green eyes. Could she punish this pert little minx? Bare her bottom and spank her hard? The desire to do so fluttered in her tightened throat.
‘Just be careful,’ she snapped, turning on her heel. ‘Get my green gown out for dinner this evening. You can help me dress.’
In the silence of the late afternoon, with two lamps lit against the gathering gloom, the obedient maid knelt and slowly removed the last vestiges of silk and satin. Charlotte, her fluffy blonde bush sparkling in the lamplight, stood naked above her kneeling maid, naked and imperious, with her head tossed back and her hands planted firmly upon her hips.
Heather gazed up, seeking permission from the hard, green eyes. The nude inclined her head and stared dominantly down at the servant shivering at her feet.
‘The perfume you spilt –’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, please –’
‘Be quiet. I am thinking of a fitting punishment.’
Heather closed her eyes and bowed her head. It was brought up instantly by Charlotte’s taloning hand. Heather’s face was drawn closer to the gleaming pubic mound.
‘Kiss me,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘Kiss me for not whipping you as I should.’
The maid’s eager little tongue licked at the curved inner thighs, rapidly working its way towards the golden pubic fern. With a soft crackle and a wet rustle, the tongue lapped the length of the pouting labial fleshfolds, then probed their salty interior. Charlotte snarled her pleasure and, gripping the maid’s hair with both fists, forced the upturned face into her aching heat. Heather whimpered, her protest smothered by the hot pussy filling her mouth, but submitted to the desires of her mistress.
‘Kiss,’ Charlotte commanded. ‘Do not lick or suck.’
Cradling the maid’s head against her flesh, Charlotte spread her legs wide, ready to accept the sweet kisses. Heather defied the stern instructions, and sucked and bit the slippery fleshfolds with savage tenderness. Moments later, Charlotte buckled and collapsed, screaming softly as she rode the upturned face between her quivering thighs.
As she staggered forwards and stumbled, Charlotte forced Heather down on to the carpet beneath her. Her hips jerking now in the sweet frenzy of her gathering climax, the naked mistress straddled then squatted on the maid’s face. Wriggling and burning her bottom on the carpet, Heather twisted her face to avoid the hot juices. The movement ravished the nude above. In her ecstasy, Charlotte squeezed her thighs, punishing the face below. In a spirited rebellion, Heather poked her short, thick tongue up in defiance, piercing the bitter sphincter. Choking on her lust, Charlotte savoured the ultimate submission and rose like a rocketing game bird into an explosion of delight.
‘Impudence. Such wicked impudence. How dare you use me so? I’ll show you who is the mistress –’
‘Oh, no, ma’am, please don’t –’
So far, both had played their parts to perfection: the outraged young aristocrat and the snivelling maid. But there was a touch of raw severity in Charlotte’s tone, and a trace of real fear in Heather’s pleading.
‘How dare you put your tongue there?’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, please don’t –’
‘Silence. You must be taught a lesson, girl. A very painful lesson.’
Across the bed, her bottom bared – it had been soundly spanked – and her hands tied tightly together, the maid shivered beneath the menace of her mistress above.
‘Keep absolutely still or I’ll use the slipper on you.’
Heather whimpered. The wooden finger, smooth, straight and polished, approached her bottom an inch at a time. It grazed the curve of her left buttock. Heather spasmed, flinching as the finger briefly dimpled the soft swell.
‘Be still.’ Charlotte steadied the pearwood glove-stretcher then guided it directly into the shadowed cleft. Heather swayed her hips and, moaning softly, wriggled evasively.
‘If you struggle you will suffer.’
‘No, ma’am, don’t. I didn’t mean to –’
‘I told you to kiss me, not feed upon my flesh as if it were a breast of boiled fowl.’
‘But I thought –’
‘Thought?’ Charlotte echoed sardonically. ‘Don’t trouble your pretty little head with thoughts, girl. Just listen and obey.’
Heather squealed as the smooth finger nuzzled her wet anus. Her bound hands writhed helplessly as the glove-stretcher slid in between the soft mounds of her spanked cheeks.
Relishing her absolute dominance, Charlotte pinched her nipples and let her fingertips fall down to her prickling pussy. Stepping back from the bed, she grasped Heather’s small, naked foot and brought the soft instep up against the wet flesh between her thighs. The maid cried out in shame and outrage at this usage, sensing where her tiny foot had been placed and hating the notion. Staring down at the tightened cheeks clenching the wooden finger between them, Charlotte ground the soft instep into her pussy, and came loudly. On the bed, helpless and humiliated, Heather sobbed.
Thrilling to the maid’s sorrow-sobs – and the writhing bare bottom – Charlotte picked up the second glove-stretcher. Leaving the ivory kid leather glove impaled on the wooden finger, she knelt once more upon the bed and rested the tip in the hollow of the maid’s knee.
‘No –’ begged the sobbing maid. ‘Please. Not there –’
‘The greatest impudence of all,’ Charlotte purred, her green eyes dilated then sharply narrowed with lust, ‘was your attempt to humour me. Don’t deny it, girl. You dared to come to me and indulge my little whims.’
‘I only meant –’
‘You know what happens to a clever little maid who gets too big for her boots? Hm?’
On her bed, Heather sobbed brokenly.
‘She’s brought to heel, girl. Brought to heel.’
The little wet foot, sticky with Charlotte’s wet heat, curled up in a reflex of fear.
Charlotte stroked the stretched finger of the glove down along the naked leg. At the wet ankle, she tapped the straightened finger upon the shining flesh. ‘Brought to heel.’
‘Please, ma’am, I’ve learned my lesson –’
‘Not quite, girl,’ Charlotte whispered, inching the tip of the erect finger up the leg towards the maid’s wet pussy.
A week after the guests had departed from the rough shoot, Lady Alice sat at her desk in the estate office. The accounts books and green ledgers lay closed and set aside. She had more pressing business to attend to. Her right hand fiddled with a length of bamboo cane. It rattled on the polished surface of the desk.
‘A very gushing letter from Lady Edwina, with no less than five pounds sterling enclosed. A similar note from her sister, with a curious gift. A tiny pair of gloves fashioned in beaten gold. Explain this largesse to me girl, if you will.’
Standing before the desk, Heather blushed but sought refuge in silence.
‘Speak up, girl, or my cane will soon quicken your tongue.’
‘I can’t say, ma’am, I’m sure.’
‘Cannot, or dare not? Don’t be pert with me, girl.’
Heather remained silent.
‘I can only conclude that you conspired with the wretched girls and procured for them forbidden assignations. What Lady Godolphin will say upon the matter of her daughters’ violation, I shudder to think. I’ll need the names of the men, of course.’
‘But it isn’t so, ma’am.’
‘These letters and generous gifts tell me otherwise. Across that chair. Bare-bottomed.’
‘But ma’am –’
‘This instant.’ Lady Alice rose from behind her desk, cane in hand. Striding across to the chair, she tap-tapped the seat impatiently with the tip of her quivering bamboo. ‘I am going to whip you until you confess all.’
Across the chair, her bare buttocks trembling beneath the hovering cane, the maid softly cursed her own willingness to serve.
4
Stocking Filler
‘Come.’
The door to his office opened timidly. Mr Faulkner drummed his fingers impatiently. ‘Close the door, girl.’
Helen, a single parent with an eleven-year-old girl of her own, scuttled in, shutting the door behind her with a jerk of her buttocks. Stepping up to the desk, she hovered at the empty chair. Mr Faulkner did not invite her to sit.
‘Just had region on the phone. Disappointing figures, I’m afraid. Very disappointing.’
He was lying. Returns at the call centre were soaring. Region had promised him a fat bonus. With Christmas coming, everyone was up for phone-a-loan easy credit.
‘But the section is working flat out –’
‘A section is only as good as its leader. Your section is well below performance targets, girl.’
‘But I can’t –’
He raised his hand to silence her protest, then eased himself back in his chair, staring directly at her breasts.
‘There must be some mistake. Couldn’t you recheck these figures?’ Helen pleaded, squirming under his penetrating gaze.
‘Only one figure I need to check. And –’ he chuckled, ‘– you know which one that is, don’t you, girl?’
Helen, a slender brunette with superb breasts, hung her head down. She blushed. Her fingers twiddled nervously. The spreadsheet she was clutching fluttered to her feet. She stooped to retrieve it, her bosom bulging at the stretch of her silk blouse.
‘Leave it,’ he barked. His tone softened. ‘Half cups?’
Flushing deeply, Helen nodded.
‘Underwired? Like I told you?’
‘Underwired, like you told me,’ she whispered.
‘Show.’ He snapped his fingers.
Mr Faulkner employed thirty-three females at the instant loan call centre. Ten to each section. Each section had a leader. All the girls busy at their terminals, sticking carefully to their scripts, had no problems with their manager. Mr Faulkner was very careful. But they hated their section leaders who drove them so hard. This isolated the section leaders. Outside the group safety of the flock, they were easy meat for the hungry office wolf.
‘Show,’ he snarled.
Helen, unable to share her dark secret with her colleagues, and struggling to bring up her daughter, was vulnerable. When the boss said strip, she stripped.
‘Hurry up.’
Helen’s fingers fumbled with the pearl button at her throat. She closed her eyes. She was already well overdrawn; Christmas without a wage would be grim. Her fingers quickened at the buttons of her blouse, leaving the flapping silk open to reveal her brassiered bosom exposed to his hungry gaze.
‘Good girl,’ he grunted, his greedy eyes blinking. He edged his chair back to the desk. His clenched right hand, knuckles whitening, slowly fisted his thickening erection, nursing it up into a fierce shaft.
‘Shall I take my blouse off now?’ Helen murmured, her voice husky with shame.
‘Not yet. You know the routine.’
She did. Mr Faulkner liked her to finger each thin, white bra-strap, plucking them in turn from her warm flesh and snapping them, making the soft fleshmounds captured in their cups wobble deliciously. Helen gave him what he wanted, wincing slightly as the straps bit into her shoulders and her breasts bounced in their brassiered bondage.
‘Stop teasing,’ he growled impatiently.
Closing her eyes, she performed the weekly routine with sullen reluctance. Slowly wriggling out of her silk blouse, she peeled the straps down over her shoulders and bunched her breasts together. Thumbing the half cups down, she exposed each swollen breast for his perusal and pleasure.
He knuckled himself for a full two minutes. ‘Now,’ he barked.
She shrugged off the scanty confection of white lace, instantly palming up her gently bobbing breasts and offering them to him in utter submission. His fist worked furiously at the bulge in his straining trousers.
‘Nipples,’ he choked, his voice curdling with arousal.
Her thumbtips dragged down across each dark nipple, crushing the tiny flesh peaks, then flicked upwards immediately to coax them into erect little stubs.
‘Faster.’
Her thumbtips became a blur at her painful, darkening nipples.
‘Down,’ he hissed, slapping the leather desk top with his left palm.
Massaging her breasts fiercely, her face contorted by both disgust and delight, Helen lowered herself down, half kneeling, and settled her naked, swollen breasts upon the leather. They shivered as they nestled into their own reflections. The cleavage between the trembling satin orbs was deep and inviting. The pert nipples strained in their painful arousal.
‘Beautiful,’ he whispered thickly.
Helen gasped aloud, jerking her head back sharply, her shoulders suddenly hunched, as he stretched his left hand out to tweak then pinch each dark nipple in turn. Blinking through her tear-filled eyes, she glimpsed his right fist knuckling the bulge in his trousers. She squeezed out her tears and closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of her total humiliation.
His excited, sweating left hand pawed her curves, squashing them, then – tightly fisted – kneading her warm flesh intimately. His knuckles dimpled her exposed curves, dominating their helplessness. Four and a half minutes later, he grunted and spasmed, eyes screwed up, face perspiring. His right knee shot up and cracked the desk above. Squirming in his chair, he cursed aloud, then moaned as he sagged in orgasm. Opening her eyes fearfully, Helen shuddered as her boss came, knuckling her nipples and his wet trousers in unison.
Tossing her head to one side, Helen gulped and blinked fresh salt tears from her eyes. Braless, she snatched up her abandoned blouse and struggled into it. Her breasts bounced as her arms filled the silk sleeves. Seconds later, her trembling fingers buttoned down and trapped the rebellious bosom, leaving the nipples prinking the tight stretch of concealing silk. She scooped up the white bra and scrunched it up in her right hand. She would take it home and wash it before wearing it again.
‘Good girl,’ Mr Faulkner grunted softly. ‘Good girl. I’m sure those figures will be OK. No need for you to worry your pretty little head. Your job’s not on the line. This month.’
‘Thank you, Mr Faulkner.’
Susie, a lithe and leggy blonde, unzipped her black pencil skirt. It slithered from her hips, down her thighs to her feet. Arching each foot in turn, the blonde stepped out of its puddle daintily.
‘Tights?’ Mr Faulkner snapped. ‘I said stockings.’
‘But it’s freezing at the bus stop, so I wore –’
‘Tights,’ he repeated angrily. ‘Make you look like a bloody maths teacher. Here, get these on.’ He pulled open a desk drawer, snatched out a packet of nylons and tossed them down at her feet.
Susie, with two of her section’s ten terminals down, was eager to please. With no qualifications other than her leggy looks and no hope of a reference, her job as section leader was a priority. Her impatient landlord pressing her for rent arrears made her job at the call centre a priority over her principles. She picked up the packet of nylons and slit the cellophane open with her silvered thumbnail. The wrapping crackled
loudly in the heavy silence.
‘Self support, 15 denier and fully seamed. Autumn beige,’ Mr Faulkner intoned like a priest at prayer. ‘Autumn beige.’ The office wolf licked his dry lips. Between his legs, his tail flickered with interest.
Keeping her chunky red sweater on, Susie dragged the vacant chair before the desk towards her. Planting her raised left foot upon the leather seat, she plucked at the dark blue above her swollen buttocks and yanked the waistband down over her bunched cheeks. As her silvered thumbnail grazed the shadow of her deep cleft, the office wolf growled his approval. Susie palmed the dark tights down over her thighs then, sweeping her foot down from the chair and positioning it alongside her other, wriggled and squatted slightly as she thumbed the tights down to her ankles in one swift movement.
Mr Faulkner, scrutinising every gesture, nodded appreciatively. As she struggled to remove the tights, he dragged his moistening palms across his leather desk top.
‘Slowly. You’re two terminals down, girl. No need to hurry.’
Susie crimsoned. Two terminals down gave him even more power over her. Tossing her blonde mane, she twisted around and guided her bare bottom down on to the leather seat. Her buttocks dimpled the polished hide, the heat of her cleft clouding its sheen. Jerking her knees up, she snapped the tights from her toes.
‘When will I ever know?’ the watcher purred, peering between her parted thighs at her shaven pubic mound.
It was a ritual. Susie dreaded the question – but with two terminals down she was ready to play the game.
‘Know, sir?’ she replied, licking her lips before answering.
Mr Faulkner’s cock rose up and raked his Y-fronts in an instant salute to the authority conferred upon him. He thrilled to her ‘sir’. The wolf insisted upon total respect from the sheep he preyed on.
‘If you shave your pussy, girl, how do I know you’re a natural blonde?’
Brought to Heel Page 8
