He was right. By being silent I was doing nothing to excite him. The energy had to work both ways. It was time for a confession. So I found the courage to tell him what I’d done the previous day. About looking on the internet, getting aroused and masturbating. It was all that was needed. Within moments his crotch was swollen and my breath was ragged. I’d never told anyone such things before. Not even boyfriends. It was liberating and exciting.
He flicked the folds of my dress apart to reveal my cute knickers, the heat radiating upwards, the scent of me filling our space.
‘Show me. Show me how you did it, you dirty little girl.’
I couldn’t speak, but it was easy to do as he asked. I slid my right hand down in there and began to make the movements I always used. That never failed me. I closed my eyes and threw my head back as he softly encouraged me, telling me how hard it was making him.
As I gained more confidence and the act didn’t seem quite as forbidden as I’d imagined, he must have sensed I was getting closer as he grabbed both my wrists and suddenly hauled me to my feet.
‘Oh no you don’t. Not that quickly. What do you think this is, a slut’s day out? You’re going to find out what happens to naughty, badly behaved young ladies who think it’s perfectly acceptable to visit a gentleman in the afternoon and start playing with themselves so brazenly.’
My eyes flashed wide open in indignation. ‘But you told me to do it!’
Then I realised how easily he could rile me, and I started laughing.
‘Come along, giggler,’ he said. ‘You’re coming upstairs. We’ll find out who’s got the upper hand here.’
So, tingling with excitement, I climbed his immaculately carpeted stairs with his hand on my bottom, up to what I thought would be his bedroom. It felt so right, yet so wrong at the same time. What would happen to me? I hoped I wouldn’t start yelling, or be flaky. I’d had no experience of pain on my backside before! I didn’t know what to expect. But, anyway, we bypassed the bedroom and he gently pushed me into his study. It was lined with shelves of books about music theory, historical biographies and files probably containing boring papers and sheet music.
I hopped about from foot to foot, finding the cheeky intonation he had been drawn to yesterday.
‘Oh dear. Looks like I’m in sir’s study,’ I said, flicking my hair and affecting the posture of a spoilt teenager.
‘How very observant, my dear. Who said young people weren’t as intelligent as they used to be? It’s their attitude we have to work on – especially that of smarter-than-thou young ladies.’
‘You can’t do anything to me. You’re just jealous.’
‘Let’s see about that, shall we? You just turn around and face the window and do as you’re told. I’ve warned you about your behaviour before, but you wouldn’t listen, would you? You couldn’t help yourself, you depraved little slut.’
‘What?’ I blurted out, feeling the genuine emotions of indignity but quickly realising the role-play aspect to the discourse. For now I would enjoy being that slut. I found my measure and joined in the game. I rammed my fingers once more into my panties and began blatantly masturbating for him. I even soaked my fingers with my juice and then rammed them under his nose. It was the final straw. Suddenly I was spun around, a hand firmly grasped the back of my neck and I was over the desk in a flash.
I felt an assured hand on my rear. If I had been shocked I would have flinched and leapt aside, but it came as no surprise. It came as a longed-for gesture of approval, for the sexual spell I had cast over him, over all of those poor frustrated suburban men. Out of all of them, it was only he who had taken the liberty; only he who was brave enough; only he who was in a position to do so. And I was going to get it.
‘That’s right, don’t move,’ he whispered into my ear. ‘Just stay calm and quiet.’
His hands began to roam all over my arse, my legs. I could feel his hard-on grazing against me as he moved about behind me. He was speaking obscenities quietly into my ear, his lascivious expression sounding all the more potent for its understatedness.
‘You dirty little girls are all the same. Little cock-teasers dying for a superior man to put his hands on you.’
I went to turn around but he held me fast and gently coaxed me to lean forwards.
‘You’re going to stay right there, that’s it, right up against the desk while I take my time with you. You are a silly girl, asking me all those boring questions in your survey about what I do with my old newspapers?’ He laughed. ‘I’ve a good mind to whack your backside with an old copy of the Spectator!’
I hadn’t a clue what that was – some boring older man’s periodical, I suppose. I was aching for the treatment he was about to dish out but, of course, I made some protest. ‘No! You wouldn’t dare,’ I countered. ‘You wouldn’t do that to a council official.’
‘I’d especially like to do that to a council official, but I’m not going to waste time. I’m going to give it to you the old-fashioned way – my hand on your backside, you dirty girl.’
And with that he stole a hand under my skirt and agonisingly slowly pulled down my cherubic knickers. Up came the dress, right up over my waist and neatly flattened over my back, to reveal my bare bottom and stocking-clad legs. It was time.
And then the blows came, tingling at first, then in rapid succession so hard it took my breath out of me. I squeaked and squalled but the protests were all in vain. My backside was warming up like a radiator.
‘That’s what you get for being cheeky to your elders and betters,’ he said. ‘And if you think that’s all you’re getting, you’re in for a surprise. Stay right there, facing the window. Don’t move.’
I did as I was told, but I was laughing uncontrollably. The spanking seemed to have unlocked some new gleeful part of me. I felt him busying about behind me, and then a blindfold was tied around my head.
‘I don’t need this,’ I protested. ‘I want to see.’
‘It’s to heighten your sensation. Remember, you are in the hands of an expert.’
I acquiesced. In one way, it actually made me feel even more liberated. He’d put on some concerto or other. It was the first time I’d had my knickers taken off to a classical score. Then I felt his hand on the small of my back and the sense that something else was about to happen. Then it landed. Like molten fire on the cheeks of my arse. I yelled.
‘This is the strop – a nice thick band of leather, especially suited to the meaty buttocks of well-built girls. I could beat a symphony out of you, but you’ll be pleased to know this room is sound-proofed.’
I groaned and cried out and shouted my protest as the hot lashes rained down on my poor virgin arse. It was too much. I was feeling weaker by the minute, all my spirited playfulness being literally beaten out of me. Yet, with this curious weakening feeling came a flush of something else – it must have been the endorphin rush I’d read about on the spanking websites. The heat of my flesh spread around my middle and then further inflamed my sex. I was literally desperate to be touched. It was torture to not have the attention where I needed it most. And he must have wanted to touch me, surely.
At last he put the strop aside and finally, finally, I was rewarded with the sensation of his musician’s fingers against my cunt.
‘It’s what I’ve dreamt of too,’ he said. ‘You do know you are in the hands of a very skilled enthusiast, don’t you?’
‘Yes. But please, please, make me come. Please do it to me,’ I begged.
‘I’m teaching you patience, my dear,’ he said. ‘Something you have been missing, I’ll bet.’
He was right. I’d been so used to getting my own way for so many years. Being pretty and blonde made life so much easier. Now I was being taught a lesson in humility, as I was begging a man old enough to be my father to bring me off with his hand. Oh, the shame!
But he worked me so skilfully. My nails raked along the sides of the desk. I began grinding my hips into the wood, uncaring that I was chafing myself,
that I was displaying everything to him.
His cock rubbed against my legs and I visualised it from the confines of my blindfold. I yearned to touch his velvet hardness. I yearned to have it inside me. All I could do was groan. My stomach ached with the prolonged arousal I’d suffered – yes, suffered – at this man’s behest.
He was truly skilled. He knew exactly when I was about to come because he made me ask him if I could.
‘Please, sir, please may I have my orgasm now?’
It was as much as I could do to hold back those few more seconds. And then, when it hit me, it was so powerful, so extreme that I saw stars. Fireworks went off behind my eyes and I flew to the outer reaches of my universe, crying out my beautiful dirty ecstasy. And, while I was enjoying the waves that juiced my sex even more, I felt the enormity of him. He had finally entered me.
The thrusts came deep and slow. He was huge! I flopped over the desk, wanting to relax completely after my body-wracking orgasm. Surely he wouldn’t take long. I couldn’t believe he was that hard, that big. I laughed uncontrollably, with a sense of fun, disbelief and good humour. His hands gripped onto my sides and he pounded for a few exquisite minutes until he stopped, withdrew and leant up against my ear to say, ‘I think we’ll have you on the floor now.’
Still blindfolded I sank to my knees, grateful to have a new position to stretch my back and arms. Once more he pushed that amazing cock into me and I settled into the rhythm of it, egging him on with praise and thanks and dirty encouragement, completely happy now in my role as a dirty girl. Except I wasn’t play-acting; I was wholeheartedly engaged in the activity.
But I slowly became aware of something near my face. Something musky and familiar – the movement of a man masturbating.
‘Oh God, you dirty little girl, you know what you’re going to make me do, don’t you?’
It was his voice, but it was coming from in front of me. In my woozy state from the intensity of my orgasm I was disoriented. And then, before I could work out what was going on, the blindfold was whipped from my head and my friendly stranger was in front of me, pumping his huge cock in the final strokes.
‘Oh yes, yes, you’re going to get it all over you, sweetheart,’ he said. And as a fountain of come erupted from his cock I swivelled my head around to see exactly what or who was still filling me so handsomely from behind.
She was beautiful. Mid forties, blonde hair falling around her shoulders, a strap-on harness around her hips. She said nothing but smiled sweetly and stroked my back.
I flung my head back to him as he was just coming out of his own moment of ultimate pleasure.
‘Sorry, darling,’ he said, somewhat breathless. ‘I didn’t get the time to introduce you to the wife.’
Reflections Maddie Mackeown
WATER SLIDES PAST as she slices through the blue-white underworld, hair streaming out behind, waving like fronds of seaweed. Following the lines that run along the bottom of the pool, her body is sinuous with minimal movement that nevertheless propels her forwards. Legs and bodies hover out of reach in the disturbed depths, wavering strangely as if in a hall of mirrors. She’s nearly made it to the wall and begins to let out bubbles of captured breath. Jack-knifing, she pushes strongly against the floor, shoots upwards and breaks through the surface in a froth of agitated bubbles.
She treads water, which is good for the thighs, and takes greedy gulps of humid air, then lies on her back to enjoy the floaty sensation of weightlessness. Sunlight streams down through glass panels in the ceiling and she drifts gently out of its touch and into a pool of shadow. With thirty lengths behind her, only the final bit submerged, it’s time to get out and get on with the day.
The dressing rooms are warm, too warm for such a hot day. She allows cool water to flow freely in the shower, closing her eyes and giving in to the luxury, a moment of calm to set her up for what promises to be an exhausting day. Mmm. Maybe she should have left it at twenty lengths today. Oh well. Too late now. She’s allotted this single slot of time to sort the double problem of a tired wardrobe combined with an imminent wedding – not hers, not yet – and there’s the library to visit and an appointment with the dental hygienist.
It’s quite an empty changing room because she came at an hour late enough to avoid the early-bird brigade but early enough to beat the organised classes. She isn’t kindly disposed towards frenetic female chatter and prefers a people-free zone as often as possible. Especially on a rare day off.
Water trickles across her skin for longer than is necessary, an act of pure indulgence to set her up for the tasks ahead. At last she emerges, loosely wrapped in a draping towel. She sits on the bench and rummages in her bag for a pen and piece of paper.
OK. Let’s be organised about this. Plan of action: 1. Library 2. Post Office 3. Dentist 4. Dress 5. Underwear (be prepared for any eventuality. You never know what might happen when romance is let loose. If it hits you smack in the face, something may have to be done about it right there and then) 6. Card (must remember to look at the wedding present list).
She reads through the list, crosses out number 2 and adds 7. Candles – scented. Jasmine. (For me.)
A drop drips onto the paper, causing ‘Candles’ to melt into an artistic blob. She lifts the corner of the towel to pat her hair, turning the paper this way and that, tilting her head this way and that, wondering what the smudge could be – a Christmas tree? a teddy? – when she is checked by soft sounds. She looks up, listening. Yes, there it is again: some sort of rustling, almost squeaky, and muffled voices. Not the usual noise of a changing room. It’s coming from the locker area.
Wondering what’s going on but not wanting to be caught spying, she steps quietly, which is easy in bare feet, and is about to peep around the corner when her eye is drawn to a mirror in the opposite direction. A shock streaks through her and she grasps the towel close to her body. A slight sweat has sprung up all over her skin. There’s no need to look around the corner for she can see what it is in the alternative world of reflection.
There are two women together. One leans back on the bench, knees raised, while the other kneels between her legs. One is naked and the other is not and still in wet bathing costume. Both women are totally involved with each other and oblivious to her surreptitious approach.
Fascinated, she continues to watch but after a few moments realises that she’s been seen by the woman on the bench. Their eyes lock briefly. She immediately jumps back into hiding out of mirror range, frozen into stillness while warm air presses against her. The sounds carry on around the corner.
She is shocked not simply by what is happening but by her own sudden arousal. She’s aware of a pressure between her legs and a dampness that wasn’t there before. She closes her eyes and, like a screen capture, sees a female hand caressing a breast and fingers buried in damp curls. Opening her eyes, she blinks at the empty air, seeing a head move between open thighs; blinks again and sees a wet costume clinging to bottom cheeks with drops of water trickling down the backs of legs. Blink, and there’s a face contorted in the pleasure of these grabbed moments.
She presses her back against the wall, feeling its coldness. In her imagination she can smell the musky scent of female fluid mingled with chlorine. Her nipples are tingling as they harden against the towel. She touches where she has secured it, for some reason now doubting its effectiveness. She’s tempted to peep again but resists this urge to spy on a private act. Then she thinks, hold on, this is a very public place. Discovery is their risk. Her head tilts back against the wall. Maybe that’s it, the risk of being seen. Maybe the thrill of being watched is an objective.
She’s intrigued. Blink. She sees a hand reaching high to the hooks above, fingers gripping. Her own fingers grasp the knotted towel. A blink, and she sees the erect nipple on a beautifully formed breast. Should she make her presence more obvious and see what transpires? No. She decides to pull away from this. Other women are not her style.
Annoyed that she’s been faced by th
is without seeking it out, she goes to the hairdrier and flicks it on to high speed, effectively drowning out any pleasure sounds. How dare they!
A little while later the two women emerge and head for the showers. She notices through a veil of blown hair but ignores them. They notice her and blatantly look as they pass. She resolutely concentrates on drying her hair, refusing eye contact. Only when they’ve gone does she lift her head, glancing after them but they’ve disappeared round another corner into a nebulous, steamy world. She switches off the drier. This is ridiculous. Why should I feel embarrassed? Yet she can’t let it go and imagines them now soaping each other.
She takes a deep breath and begins to dress, wondering why the scene has aroused her so. Surprise obviously has played its part as has the fleeting role of secret voyeur. A yearning to be involved in such a pursuit is also possible, well, probable. Although not with another woman. Not her thing.
She glances at the soggy list – could be India – then crumples the paper into her bag and continues to dress, putting on sensible cotton knickers and bra in deference to the hot weather. The linen of the blouse is cool, albeit now as crumpled as the discarded list. She slips on the skirt which neatly outlines her natural shape and slips feet into comfortable shoes for walking.
The place is now abuzz with the hyped-up chatter of children. They only just got away with it in time, she thinks. The audacity of it!
On the way out she pauses at the mirror for a final check. A movement behind catches her eye, coming into view at a distance. The two women hurry past, hair still wet, grinning at her, drawing her into a conspiracy. Her eyes slide from theirs and she pretends not to have spotted them. After a few moments to allow for them to be gone, she makes her way down to the exit.
Outside, it doesn’t take long to wipe out what little coolness remains from the swim. Getting into the car, trapped heat hits like a mini sauna. What a day to traipse around town! Maybe she could put it off until another time? Maybe just go home and sit in the garden with a magazine, cold fruit juice and sunblock? Tempting, but she’s left it too late. She’s already missed one dental appointment and the wedding is looming. It’ll have to be today. ‘Library’ also gets mentally crossed off the ‘To Do’ list. At least most places now have air conditioning. And with that comforting thought she leaves the car park and heads for the mall, driving slowly to conserve some aspect of composure.
Sex with Strangers Page 16
