by Penny Birch
Damon was stone cold sober, but seriously randy. He could see how drunk I was, and he knew I’d be grateful, and up for anything. I was too, even though I was wishing my companion had been Percy, or Monty, so that they could give me a bloody good spanking for my behaviour. It was what I needed, and it was at that point, completely drunk, that I realised why I hadn’t been able to get my head around what Monty had done to me. He should have punished me for it, or somebody should have done anyway.
The appearance of the waiter with the bill drove the thought from my head and I sat back, watching Damon’s face and sipping my Armagnac. He took the folder, opened it, scanned down the list of items with a little mean frown, then stopped, his mouth coming slowly open.
‘I think there’s some mistake,’ he said.
‘Sir?’ the waiter enquired.
‘Here,’ he answered, pointing to the bill.
‘No, sir,’ the waiter responded. ‘I believe that to be correct.’
‘Eight thousand, five hundred pounds? For a bottle of wine?’
‘The Chambertin ’forty-nine, sir, yes.’
‘Is that all right?’ I asked sweetly. ‘I’m sorry, Damon, darling. You did say it was OK. It was really special.’
He didn’t answer, just staring at the bill. I bit my lip, trying to look concerned and not to giggle as with leaden motions Damon drew a credit card from his wallet. He was white in the face, and his hand was trembling as he tucked it into the folder. It was time to play my ace.
‘Sorry, darling,’ I whispered as the waiter withdrew. ‘I didn’t realise it was a problem.’
‘Didn’t realise?’ he said weakly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really am. That was so thoughtless of me. Would you like me to get it? I don’t mind. You can treat me another time, to the Borscht maybe, that was nice.’
He shook his head, staring after the waiter like a man watching the bailiffs drive his car away. At that point I actually felt sorry for him, he looked so grief-stricken, and I told myself it would only be fair to give him his blow job, or whatever he wanted.
‘Never mind then,’ I said, reaching out to take his hand and dropping my voice to a whisper. ‘I’ll make up for it in the car, properly.’
‘For nearly ten thousand pounds?’ he said.
‘Aren’t I worth it?’ I asked.
I never discovered if he thought I was, or rather if he was prepared to lie, because at that moment the waiter came back to say that Damon’s card had been rejected. Damon went red, stammering apologies as he leafed frantically through his wallet, taking out a second card, and a third.
‘This might cover it, just about,’ he said. ‘Look, Natasha, you might have to lend me some.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I chided. ‘I don’t expect you to pay if you can’t. Here, take it off my card, and ten per cent, of course. Make it a round eleven thousand.’
‘Thank you, Miss Linnet,’ the waiter answered, taking my card.
He went back to the reception area, where I saw him speak briefly to Charles, whose eyebrows rose a fraction. Louis appeared and took my card, passing from sight as I turned back to Damon, who looked as if he was about to be sick.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I assured him. ‘That was so thoughtless. I’ve had my eye on that Chambertin for ages, and they’ve only got two bottles left from the original case. I had to have it, or some overpaid footballer would have drunk it and not appreciated it at all. I’m sorry, Damon.’
Louis returned my card in person, with Charles too, helping me with my coat and fussing round me as we left. I was fairly sure they wouldn’t have taken the full amount for the wine, and even if they had I knew my card would stand it, even if it was going to mean some serious grovelling to Daddy. Not that it would be the first time, and he always forgave me. Damon never said a word, climbing into the car and starting it as I waved a giggly goodbye.
‘That was glorious,’ I said, stretching to push out my boobs. ‘Now you can drive somewhere quiet and I’m going to give you the longest, nicest suck you’ve ever had, to say sorry. You can do it right down my throat too, so I choke on your lovely big cock. You like that, don’t you?’
He didn’t answer, his face set as the lights from the restaurant swung across it, then in darkness as we moved out into the lane. I reached out to squeeze his cock, nuzzling his arm with my face at the same time.
‘Careful!’ he snapped.
‘Don’t be sulky,’ I wheedled, pulling at his fly. ‘Come on, pull him out. I want to suck him and swallow your spunk.’
‘Look, stop it, you’ll cause an accident!’ he said urgently. ‘Look, I’m not sure I feel like sex. Let’s just drive back.’
‘Oh come on!’ I pleaded. ‘I won’t touch, I promise, not until you can pull over. The old A40’s the place. Hardly anyone uses it, and there are lay-bys where you can get right off the road.’
‘You know a lot about it.’
‘Well, yeah. You’re not the first, you know.’
‘I thought you said your uncle took you there?’
‘Oh no, not uncle James! I don’t go down on him! What a thought! That is so funny! I bet he’d let me if I offered though, eh, Damon? No, not uncle James, silly, but I did do his son, not Anthony, the younger one, Richard. Wasn’t that naughty of me, sucking my own cousin’s cock? Or was it, I can’t remember if you’re supposed to or not. Then there was Eustace what’s-hisname, you know, his father’s an Earl or something, and that black guy, the rapper, you know, with the funny hats. Actually, that was a bit of a let-down, because his cock wasn’t all that big, not as big as I expected anyway, from what he said. He was good though, he really knew how to handle me. He made me suck him for just ages, and when he came he did it all over my face and made me lick it up off his fingers. Would you like to do that, Damon, darling? Would you like to spunk in my face and watch me lick up your lovely thick come?’
‘Right!’ he shouted and jammed on the brakes.
I jerked forwards against my safety belt, crying out in shock, even as his hand locked in my hair. My head was wrenched down, into his crotch, as he struggled to get his fly down. It came, and my mouth was filled with soft, salty flesh, his cock and balls jammed in, hard. He was cursing, calling me a slut and a bitch as I mouthed at his cock, trying to suck properly. His hand was twisted hard in my hair, really rough, which was just what I needed – to be forced to suck cock until he spunked in my mouth, then made to swallow.
Only I didn’t get it, because for all his urgency and all my efforts I couldn’t get him hard. I tried, nibbling on him, licking the underside, rolling his foreskin back to suckle on the head. Nothing worked, while he was getting more and more angry, until the grip in my hair had become more painful than sexy. He turned the interior light on so that he could watch me suck, and popped my boobs out of my dress, groping them really hard, but it made no difference.
Finally he pulled me off, and that was when he saw my whipped breasts. The expression on his face immediately set hard, scaring me into babbling a string of apologies and accusations. He put his cock away, his jaw set and his eyes tight. I really thought he was going to hit me, and put my hands up to protect my face, but his hand went to my safety belt catch.
‘Out,’ he said.
‘Out? Here?’ I demanded.
‘Out,’ he repeated, ‘before I really lose my temper with you, and believe me, you wouldn’t like that.’
‘But . . .’
‘Just . . . just get out!’ he yelled, jerking at my door handle. ‘Fuck off out of my life you drunken slut!’
‘Jesus, Damon!’ I managed, but the door was opening and he was shoving at my shoulder, really hard.
I went, tumbling out of the door, just managing to get one foot on the ground, only to stumble and sit down hard. Something hit my legs, the door slammed and I was left sprawled on the ground, staring after the departing tail lights of his car. I hadn’t expected him to react so badly, and for a moment I was too shocked to do any
thing but lie there with the stars spinning slowly around my head, and then I started to laugh.
It had worked beautifully – the one thing that I had been certain his ego would be unable to tolerate. I’d made him feel inferior, in a way that no amount of tantrums and long letters of rejection could ever have done. He knew he was good looking, and clever, and more together than any silly little girl. Nothing I did would ever disabuse him of his arrogant self-confidence. He also knew he couldn’t afford ten thousand pounds for dinner, and he hadn’t imagined I could either. Then I’d paid, casually, easily, with a thousand-pound tip for good measure. It wouldn’t have worked with Monty. He’d have probably spanked me in front of everybody and made me pay the bill as well. Percy would never even have let me. With Damon it had worked, perfectly. In fact it had worked too well. I’d expected him to have his fun with me, even spank me, or at least fuck me really hard. After all, I deserved a spanking, surely?
It was just so funny. It was pitch black and my head was reeling with drink, but I didn’t care. I was in the best possible mood, drunk, horny and seriously pleased with myself. I could not stop smiling, or giggling, and it wasn’t until a car passed that I realised my boobs were still out of my dress. The car stopped, not surprisingly, and a head appeared at a window, looking back at me.
‘Are you all right?’ a male voice asked.
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I’m not. Help.’
After that it was a blur. Eager hands helped me into the back of the car as I babbled thanks, and I think I offered to suck all their cocks for them. I certainly asked for a spanking, because I remember their delighted laughter at the idea and pats on my bottom. They were well-off students, some dining society, who’d been at the restaurant, and seen what had happened, which they thought really funny. They were drunk too, except the driver, who I only had a vague impression of, and who may even have been a cabbie.
They were pretty sneaky about it at first, but the two in the back with me had a good feel of my boobs in the darkness. They were shy too, or at least reluctant, but I wasn’t going to let them get away with it, and I soon had their cocks out, one in each hand, wanking them. I remember the guy in the front looking back, his bow-tie undone and his mouth open, demanding his turn. I remember the driver grumbling about them taking advantage of me and me telling him not to be a prat. I remember my boobs being pulled out again, and the flash of a camera. I remember the first one coming, and I think I sucked his spunk up as he told me I was a good girl. If the other man came, I don’t remember.
Suddenly we were among houses, then stopping, and I was vaguely aware of stumbling from the car, being helped through a wicket gate, up a stone staircase, into a big room panelled in oak, pulling off my clothes, sitting giggling on the floor. There was a man in a dinner jacket and shirt-tails, no trousers, watching me and tugging at his cock. It was the guy who’d been in the front, I think. Whoever he was, he thoroughly took advantage of me: malt whisky and sex, for hours.
I got spanked across his knee, in just my suspenders and stockings, kicking a bit but giggling like anything. I vaguely think that went on for ages, but then it was cock-sucking, and having my cleavage fucked, before it went up my pussy, and finally my bumhole, at my own request, I think. I know I got made to suck it afterwards, because I came like that, frigging off with his dirty cock in my mouth, which was just the perfect end to the evening. After that came oblivion.
Eleven
When I woke up I didn’t even know where I was. It was doubly weird, because in my dreams I’d been back on Beachy Head again, so that one moment I seemed to be on grass with the sky over my head, and the next in a bed with an ornate plaster ceiling above me.
It turned out to be Oxford, a room in one of the old colleges, and my companion was an eighteen-year-old. He was in a fine state, desperately eager to please, almost worshipful, which was odd considering he had enjoyed me so comprehensively the night before. Not that I cared, letting him make coffee and fetch hot croissants from the town while I nursed my head and a sick feeling in my stomach.
Fortunately they’d had the sense to rescue my bag, which was what Damon had thrown out of the car after me. So when my knight errant finally said he had to go to lectures I was able to take a fast bus back to London, falling asleep again before reaching the edge of the city.
I awoke in Victoria Coach Station, feeling worse than I had the first time. The place was crowded, with lights and bustle and noise, bus brakes and the hum of traffic, all of which seemed to go straight through my head. I’d cleaned up well enough, but I was still in an expensive evening gown, which was now drawing some amused looks from people, even though in Oxford nobody had seemed to notice.
What I wanted was a bath, clean fresh sheets and sleep, preferably for about a week. What I got was Gabrielle Salinger, emerging from a newsagent with a copy of the New Scientist in her hand and an infuriating air of brisk efficiency about her.
‘Natasha? You look dreadful!’ were her opening words.
‘I know,’ I answered. ‘I . . .’
‘Come up to my flat,’ she continued. ‘Lie down for a while. Sleep if you like.’
Once again she was making me an offer too good to refuse. The prospect of a cab journey back to Primrose Hill, undoubtedly with some greasy cabbie drivelling at me, was suddenly unbearable. I accepted her offer, returning to her flat, where she helped me undress, made me drink a pint of water and put me to bed.
My third awakening that day was the least painful, but by far the strangest. The first thing I focused on was a huge pink rabbit, as big as me, with long fluffy ears and an expression of sentimental stupidity on its face. I lay staring at it, probably looking just as vacant, wondering where I was and how it fitted in with being made to drink water, in the nude, by Gabrielle Salinger, which was my last memory.
When she’d put me to bed it had been dim and I’d been too sleepy really to take in my surroundings. Gabrielle’s clinic was all black leather and chrome, with white walls, and so was her flat, along with stark black-and-white art photographs in plain frames. The giant pink rabbit couldn’t have been more out of place, but in what I assumed to be her bedroom it fitted perfectly. Except for the odd touch of white or lemon yellow, everything was pink – the walls, the carpet, the furniture, the curtains, the bedclothes, everything. There were mirrors too, large ones on three of the walls and several smaller ones, all framed in pink.
My first thought was that Gabrielle had a daughter, but she had never mentioned one, and the room was far too neat to be a child’s room, too perfect. Everything was just so, set exactly in its place, from the family-sized container of baby powder on the shelf to the huge collection of cuddly toys. They were particularly disturbing, because all of them were staring at the bed, hundreds of coloured glass eyes, fixed on me where I lay. There was a phone too, in pink, and a clock radio, also pink.
I still hadn’t managed to get my head around it when I heard the click of a door catch. A moment later Gabrielle came in, in a grey wool two piece and a silk blouse as smart and severe as ever, except for the expression on her face. She looked shy, timid, biting her lip as she pulled at a finger.
‘Hi,’ she said, sitting down on the side of the bed with an embarrassed smile, then spreading her hands. ‘So now you know.’
‘I do?’ I asked.
‘About me,’ she said. ‘You will play, will you not? Please. Maybe not now, but soon, please?’
There was real entreaty in her voice, almost desperation, and as it began to sink in I found myself gaping at her. She gave me her embarrassed smile again, her big pale eyes wide and hopeful behind her glasses, uncertain too.
‘You want me to be a baby for you?’ I asked. ‘A grown-up baby?’
She shook her head, shyer than ever, as if she was about to burst into tears.
‘You want to be a grown-up baby, for me?’
She nodded, twisting her fingers together in nervous embarrassment.
I could have been nasty, I coul
d have laughed, but I knew how it felt to want something really badly when it’s just not acceptable to society. It had been so hard to find someone to give me the discipline I needed, and I could guess that if Gabrielle was into infantilism it would be harder still. I smiled and took her hand, squeezing it as her uncertain expression faded to the most beautiful smile.
‘I will make coffee then,’ she said, bouncing up from the bed, ‘and we will talk. Black isn’t it?’
‘With honey,’ I answered, and was left to contemplate the sea of pink around me.
The contrast could not have been more absolute, and I was still struggling to take it in. Her true personality was the exact opposite of the impression I’d formed of her, yet with hindsight I felt I could understand. For all her severity she had always been gentle, very caring, prepared to go to enormous lengths to help. It was a good disguise as well, which she used in the same way I feign distaste for older men when in fact I find them best suited to my sexuality.
It wasn’t that far away from my own fantasies either. Certainly not too far to understand. Helplessness appeals, and being cared for, and I could well see the appeal of old-fashioned nursery discipline. It was a good fantasy, and one I’d happily have indulged in, although preferably as the grown-up baby myself. What I wouldn’t have done was go to the obsessive lengths Gabrielle’s taste in decoration suggested.
I also understood why she’d been so determined to get in with me. She knew I was into spanking, and enemas. I’d thought her curiosity was professional. Obviously I’d been wrong. It didn’t take a genius to work out that I’d at the very least be understanding about playing at grown-up babies. She’d been right.
Somehow it didn’t seem right to drink coffee in her playroom, so I got out of bed, still naked, and walked into the main body of the flat, seeking the bathroom. The first door I opened led into another bedroom, and a very different one: neat, feminine yet cold, the sort of room one of Monty’s fantasy girl robots might have lived in. Evidently it was the official bedroom. The remaining door had to be the bathroom, as neat and cold as the rest of the flat, bar that one special room.
