From a shoe box tucked away at the back of his wardrobe, Douglas produced the pride of his collection – a catalogue featuring tightly pantied bottoms of plump, full-buttocked women. Permed and unsmiling, the arms folded across their bare bosoms, the gallery of mature beauties gazed up from the shining pages. Douglas knelt down on one knee as he surrendered his most prized possession.
‘Follows the fuller figure most faithfully,’ Fierce remarked, placing the open catalogue down on the bed. ‘Most faithfully. Now, my boy. Fetch me all the stolen garments. Get them at once and no shilly-shallying.’
‘Look at his thing. It’s –’ Harriet pointed a quivering finger down at the postman’s straining erection.
‘He’s saluting these.’ Fierce nodded, tapping the pantied bottoms in the catalogue, her fingertip brushing the bulging cheeks. ‘See how his balls swing,’ she continued, her tone crisply clinical.
Douglas, aroused and fully engorged by the images he had been forced to unearth and confront, stumbled awkwardly as he tried in vain to conceal his excitement. His proud shaft nodded, arching up stiffly to tap at his pale belly. He brought his hands together, desperate to cup and cover his hot shame.
‘No, Douglas. Hands down, if you please. I wish to see the items of lingerie you have pinched. Stolen,’ Fierce added, her voice sharpening with anger, ‘at cock crow. We’ll soon see if we can make your cock crow under the lash of my leather belt presently, shan’t we?’
Harriet giggled and drew her knees up to her chin. She hugged herself excitedly, crushing her breasts. ‘May I have a go, please? Oh, Fierce, please say I can punish his bare bottom, please.’
‘I’m not quite sure that you are sufficiently –’
‘Please, Fierce,’ Harriet gushed, ‘I want to whip his bottom with a belt and hear him howl –’
‘Steady on, girl. You most certainly shall have his bottom all to yourself. All in good time. You may punish him as you please.’
They watched as Douglas stretched up on tiptoe against his wardrobe, raking the snout of his straining shaft into the door as he pawed blindly to retrieve his stolen trophies from the upper recess. He staggered, yelped and collapsed into the wardrobe, pressing his sweating face into the dull wood and squashing his fat cock painfully. They saw his cleft tighten into a severe crease as he clenched his buttocks in anguish, his left knee twisting inwards to nuzzle his right leg in an arabesque of agony.
‘Stop horsing around, young man,’ Fierce snapped waspishly. ‘Just get those garments down at once.’
Turning away from the wardrobe, trembling with fear and shame, he presented the stolen underwear to Fierce, surrendering each item up to her outstretched hand.
‘Kneel,’ she thundered.
He obeyed, head bowed, his knees dimpling the carpet in fearful genuflection.
‘Head up, my lad. Look at me.’
Douglas gazed up sorrowfully to the stern woman on the bed.
‘I want you to show Harriet here what you steal these garments for, Douglas. Show her how you use them for your private, wicked pleasure.’
‘No, ma’am, please, ma’am – not that –’
‘We’re waiting,’ Fierce murmured, tossing him a pair of light tan nylon stockings. ‘Commence.’
Closing his eyes, Douglas held both stockings aloft, dangling them down from his fingertips so that they teasingly brushed his face, belly and the tip of his twitching cock. With his right hand, he slowly wound one of the stockings around his thick shaft. With his left hand, he drew the matching stocking to smother his upturned face. Drowning slowly in the shining material, he sniffed deeply and sucked hard. The skein of glossy nylon stretched at his nostrils and lips. His wet tongue probed the taut sheen, darkening the tan as he lapped furiously. Down below his belly, his gripping fist pumped the nyloned cock, slowly but firmly.
‘Open your eyes, Douglas. Look at me.’
He blinked, gazed up at her drunkenly and squeezed his eyes shut tightly once more.
‘No, Douglas. Open your eyes and look at me.’
Through the veil of the flimsy stocking’s tan gauze, his frightened eyes met her stern gaze.
‘And you’re not doing this properly, are you?’ Fierce demanded accusingly. ‘You usually say things, don’t you, Douglas, when you are at your beastliness? Come along, boy; we want to hear you.’
Broken under her dominant spell, the naked, kneeling postman could not but obey.
‘Her name? What is her name?’ Fierce prompted.
‘Angela,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘And where is Angela? What is she doing, Douglas?’
He answered in a thrilling whisper, spellbinding his listeners as he took them – with his fevered imagination – into the bedroom of Angela. He described her as being naked and glowing after a bath. Softly towelled dry and gently dusted with talc, she stood before her mirror preparing to dress.
First, he whispered, her bra. He described her soft breasts bulging as they filled the snow-white cups. Panties next. Panties stretched tightly across her bottom and biting up into her deep cleft. The waspie suspender-belt being wound around her slender waist.
Angela, he muttered, Angela. Now she was searching for her nylons. Her pair of light tan, sheer, seamless stockings. Angela’s nylons.
‘We’ve pretty much got the picture. That’s enough of that.’
The kneeling postman came out of his trance, slumped forwards and moaned. The nylon in his curled fist darkened suddenly with the wet stain of his spurting seed.
After forcing him to dry himself with the pair of stolen black lace panties, Fierce arranged herself on the bed and, splaying her thighs, dragged her protesting victim down across her lap. Pinning him firmly at the nape of his neck with her controlling left hand, she smoothed his upturned buttocks with her dominant right palm.
‘I propose to spank you, Douglas. Spank your bare bottom until it is hot – and sore. Hot, sore and very, very painful. I’m afraid you’ve been very wicked, haven’t you?’ she continued, dimpling her fingertips into the curves of his helpless cheeks, ‘and you must be severely punished, mustn’t you?’ She swept her thumbtip down between his buttocks, raking his cleft. He jerked in response, squeezing his cheeks and trapping her thumb in his warmth.
‘No,’ she murmured, extracting her thumb. She drew her hand away abruptly, then let it hover above the anxiously clenched cheeks below.
‘Go on,’ Harriet urged excitedly. ‘Spank his bottom.’
Fierce shook her head. ‘No need to hurry. No need for unseemly haste, my dear,’ she murmured, lowering her palm down until it fleetingly skimmed the upturned cheeks. ‘Like good wine, or a haunting piece of Mozart, punishment must be a pleasure slowly savoured.’
Douglas squirmed across her knee, drawing his thighs tightly together.
‘See?’ Fierce whispered, gazing down. ‘He shivers with dread, knowing that soon the hot pain begins.’ She finger-stroked his cleft. He bucked and moaned. ‘Making him wait adds to his anguish, my dear.’
‘Oh, please, Fierce, I can’t bear it. Spank him.’
‘Be patient, my dear. My,’ she remarked, tracing her finger up his quivering thighs and drumming his left buttock dominantly, ‘all that cycling has certainly left our young postman very fit and trim. Capital muscle tone, don’t you think? That leather saddle has worked wonders for his bottom.’
For several more spellbinding minutes, the punisher continued to inspect and intimately examine the bare buttocks she was about to chastise.
‘Wicked boy,’ she snarled softly, suddenly sweeping her broad palm down harshly.
Douglas jerked across her lap, gasping aloud as his punished cheeks flattened then wobbled under the impact of the spanking hand. They reddened immediately the moment Fierce dropped her palm down against the tops of his thighs to steady his wriggling.
Harriet squealed her delight, drawing her hands to her breasts to squeeze their soft warmth as she stared intently at the pink cheeks.
A
second – and then a third – harsh spank exploded across the postman’s naked buttocks. Fierce grunted her satisfaction and quickened the tempo of her searing onslaught.
Harriet, almost swooning with delight, squeezed her breasts each time the spanking hand ravished the buttocks below. ‘Harder,’ she urged, ‘faster.’
The spanking was a blistering instance of flesh punishing flesh. For a full seventeen minutes, Fierce brought her merciless hand down, eliciting howls from the writhing postman. His ravished cheeks blazed from pink-blotched crimson to a painful shade of scarlet. When her hand had grown numb from her efforts, Fierce planted it down across his burning cheeks.
Douglas blubbered noisily, choking on his deep sobs.
‘Stop that silly nonsense at once, young man, or I’ll really give you something to cry about.’
He sniffled and writhed across her lap, anxious to rid his hot bottom from the controlling presence of her dominant hand. Despite her aching arms, Fierce pinned him down ruthlessly, quelling his rebellion.
Harriet’s hands fell away from her bosom. ‘I’m wet. You know, down there,’ she confessed in a tone of amazement and alarm. ‘Soaking wet.’
‘So am I,’ Fierce grunted. ‘Look.’
She pushed the naked postman down on to the carpet, then planted a well-aimed brogue down, trapping his spanked buttocks. Treading him firmly into submission beneath her pinioning foot, she indicated the glistening smear where the punished man had orgasmed into her tweed skirt. ‘I’d best take it off. It’ll sponge out later.’
‘I’ll join you,’ Harriet’s indistinct voice replied through the jumper being dragged over her head.
They stood over him, Fierce actually astride his naked body.
‘You may have him for a spell,’ Fierce declared, taloning the postman’s wiry hair so that his sweating face was forced up into her pubis. ‘First taste of dispensing discipline to a naked man, eh?’
Virginally, Harriet accepted the hairbrush, thumbing its stiff bristles. ‘Those horrid pictures he keeps, Fierce. Oughtn’t I punish him for that?’
‘Most certainly. Get him bending across the bed.’
Fierce withdrew, watching Harriet – almost clumsy in her excitement – order and arrange the postman to bend over the bed.
‘No, not like that,’ Harriet rasped impatiently, swiping her victim’s bottom savagely with the hairbrush. ‘Up on your arms.’
Douglas, red-bottomed and eager to please, planted his hands down into the eiderdown. Bending, he gazed down at the array of pictures and cuttings spread out before him.
Crack. The hairbrush swept down. The postman smothered a soft scream. He sagged at the knees, burying his face in the lingerie illustrations scattered on the eiderdown.
Harriet inverted the hairbrush, bristled face upwards, and tapped his balls. ‘Up,’ she ordered, ‘and keep still.’
Douglas shuffled painfully back into the prescribed punishment position.
‘Take a long, last look at your collection, Douglas,’ Harriet warned, raising the hairbrush up above his bottom. ‘A long, last look.’
Twenty-three measured, deliberate strokes later, his knees betrayed him once more. Steadying himself on veined arms, the postman battled to remain upright. He sobbed brokenly.
‘No, you don’t,’ Harriet hissed, glimpsing the pulsing erection. ‘None of that beastliness.’ Innocently unaware of the outcome of her action, she swept the bristled surface of the hairbrush along his shaft, burying the shining glans under the dark stubble.
‘Don’t do that –’ Fierce shouted.
Douglas screamed softly as his hips pumped violently. He squirted his jet of liquid release noisily, splashing the cuttings and pictures of brassiered and pantied women below.
‘Wicked, wicked man,’ Harriet snarled, lashing his buttocks viciously as he orgasmed.
The remaining thick gobbets dripped down, splattering the semen-stained collection.
‘Panties,’ Harriet said primly, holding a pair aloft.
‘Panties,’ Douglas whispered thickly.
He was kneeling, head erect, his legs sheathed in the semen-drenched tan stockings in which he had worshipped the image of Angela, two hours ago. Above the darker bands stretched at his thighs, his twice-punished bottom tensed.
Fierce, aiming the lash of her leather belt low, drew a thin bluish line of fresh torment across the punished cheeks.
‘Basque,’ Harriet announced, dangling the delicious confection before his eyes.
‘Basque,’ he echoed, gazing up in both desire and dread.
The leather belt whistled and snapped, biting into the swell of his proffered buttocks.
‘Suspender belt,’ Harriet teased, skimming his lips with the wisp of stretchy fabric.
‘Suspender belt,’ he groaned.
Once more, Fierce Bierce plied her length of cruel leather down across her helpless victim’s striped buttocks.
‘Careful, old girl.’ Harriet giggled, plucking up a pair of black lace panties. ‘Postman’s about to make another delivery.’
6
Sachertorte
Otto Kitzler was proudly showing off his cellars to a circle of envious friends. The celebrated patissier paused before addressing them solemnly.
‘It is all in the timing, the art of creating a magnificent success. A recipe must include a schedule,’ he emphasised, betraying his Teutonic obsession with order and discipline. ‘One must bring the necessary ingredients together with planning, method and perfect timing,’ he concluded sententiously.
He waved his fat hands, gesturing to the lantern-lit, brick-walled cellarage crowded with boxes, jars, sacks and barrels. ‘The finest flour from the Tsar’s wheat fields in the Crimea,’ he boasted. ‘Choice cherries from Italy, butter from the flowered meadows on the lower slopes of the Swiss Alps, the smoothest chocolate from – ah, but that must remain one of my little secrets.’ He clapped his hands and grinned. ‘Bring these things together in the right order, at the right time, and the result is –’
‘Another prize-winning sachertorte, mein Herr?’ fawned one of his admiring circle.
‘Exactly so. But if the timing is wrong – What do you want, girl?’ Otto snapped, angry that his small moment of glory had been interrupted.
Gretchen paused at the bottom of the stone steps, her dark eyes shining in the lamp light. Within the tight stretch of her white blouse, her breasts rose and fell as she panted, blinking in the light. She smoothed her skirts at her hips and, drawing a deep breath after running down the stone steps, licked her dry lips. ‘Mistress sent me down, sir. Ingredients for the special cake.’
‘Special cake?’ the medal-winning patissier echoed. ‘Frau Kitzler told me nothing of this.’
‘The footman came, master. From the Belvedere Palace. The princess herself has ordered a sachertorte for tonight. There is to be a party given in honour of the Crown Prince of Sweden.’
A murmur of delight rippled through the cellar from the suitably impressed visitors. When the Belvedere Palace set the pace, they consented, all of Vienna kept pace. Basking in his celebrity, Herr Kitzler beckoned Gretchen to approach. The girl obeyed, taking shy, uncertain steps across the stone flags. He grabbed her roughly, snatching at the long white tapes of her apron and plucking them loose. Gretchen squealed and wriggled but his fat hands held her fast.
‘For the Crown Prince of Sweden, we will need flour as white and smooth as these thighs,’ he laughed, dragging her skirts up to her buttocks.
His guests, brimming with schnapps and boorish bonhomie, clapped their loud applause.
‘And butter as soft as these,’ Otto grinned, his greasy lips splitting wide apart to reveal stained, yellow teeth, as his fingers cupped and squeezed Gretchen’s exposed buttocks fiercely.
‘And cream. As white as her breasts,’ a cruel voice taunted. ‘Eh, Otto? Cream as white as her breasts?’
Herr Kitzler’s large hands snatched at the crisp lace sheathing Gretchen’s taut bosom. A searing rip
tore the blouse from her breasts, exposing their ripe swell to the greedy gaze of her tormentors.
‘No, master, please don’t –’
‘And cherries, as red and ripe as –’ another voice cried excitedly. ‘Show us her cherries, Otto.’
The others brayed loudly. Gretchen squirmed in her shame but the master patissier’s grip was tight and his fingers were nimble, despite his fat hands. Scooping out the soft warmth of her left breast, he palmed it, offering it up for their perusal. Pincering his finger and thumbtips, he teased up and pinched the dark, berry-bright nipple.
‘And the exotic spice from Zanzibar,’ they yelled, pointing down with quivering fingers at the girl’s gently swelling pubic mound.
‘Gretchen,’ a harsh voice rang out from the shadows of the stone steps. ‘Where is that wretched girl?’
Scuttling footsteps sounded the approach of Frau Kitzler. Her husband released his captive instantly as the yellow light of a bobbing lantern announced her arrival.
‘Gretchen,’ she snapped, holding her lantern aloft and playing its glare on the dishevelled girl. ‘Wretched little slut. Get back up to the kitchens at once.’
Sobbing loudly, the girl scampered up the stone steps, scrabbling to hurriedly cover her naked bosom.
Up in the noise and heat of the kitchens, Gretchen dried her eyes and dutifully started to toast the shelled almonds in preparation for the delicious apricot paste that would coat the moist chocolate sachertorte. Herr Kitzler kept the recipe a closely guarded secret, allowing his workers to prepare only a small part of each cake – so that none knew the full secret. Gretchen, tossing the aromatic almonds, shivered as she heard the stern voice of Frau Kitzler ring out harshly above the clatter and the din.
‘Where is that slut? Come here, girl.’
The master patissier’s wife, her blonde hair gleaming in severely curled braids, her black bombazine skirts swishing the stone flags of the kitchen floor, grabbed the protesting girl from her place near the fiery oven into the white-tiled pantry where all was cool, calm and ominously silent.
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