Heart in a Box

by Syra Bond

  ‘Sometime after that I had a note from him saying that he believed I would now carry out any instruction he gave me perfectly. I lay back on my bed, pulled my panties down and plunged my fingers into my naked wet cunt. I pinched my clitoris and pulled it until I could hardly stand the pain. When finally I thought I could stand it no longer I lifted my hips up in a massive burst of howling joy. It was incredible - like winning a great prize or receiving an award. I picked the note up in my mouth and sucked at it. I dropped it then licked at it. I got onto all fours and lifted my bottom up as high as I could as I imagined him whipping me, bringing me to perfection, punishing my errors and shaping me into his faultless servant.’

  I realised I had dropped my knees wide apart. Miranda was staring at my exposed cunt. My mouth was dry. I was overwhelmed by her story. My hands were shaking. I started to say something but I couldn’t form my words properly.

  ‘Drinks?’

  It was Mandy.

  Miranda asked for red wine. I nodded for the same - I didn’t really know what I’d asked for.

  Mandy opened my seat back table and placed the drinks onto it. Miranda reached over, and I took hold of her glass to pass it to her. I knocked it over. It broke and the shattered stem cut into the palm of her hand. The red wine spilled onto her wrist and knees. I grabbed her hand fussing and apologising profusely. I felt terrible! I drew her hand close to my face. I didn’t know what I was doing. The blood was oozing from the wound - mixing with the dark red wine, dripping off the edge of her hand, dropping onto her wine soaked knees.

  ‘I’m so sorry! So sorry! Here let me help! I’m so sorry.’

  I pulled her hand closer to my face. I was staring at it. I couldn’t take my eyes from it. The sight of the blood was captivating me - fixating me, drawing me to it.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, her calm bearing obviously shaken.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry! Here, let me kiss it. I can make it better.’

  I don’t know what I was thinking. It was the sight of the blood - her blood - and the flowing red wine, and her knees, wet and stained and apart, and the confusion, and the apology, and her graciousness, and her story still filling my head, and my trembling hands. It was everything! Everything drew me in, pulled me to the wound in her flesh, the seeping blood, the redness, the warmness of it. I cradled her hand - cupping it as if to drink. She didn’t resist. I pulled it against my mouth, opened my lips and placed them against the cut. I tasted her blood - thick, luscious, velvety, profound. I sucked eagerly. I felt it flowing from the wound - being released by her body, allowing me to draw it up, to take it into myself. It was like breathing, like inhaling her very essence. I sucked harder. Yes, it was flowing freely; I was drinking from her, nourishing myself with her. Oh, the taste!

  I looked up into her eyes. She was calm. She knew what I was doing. I sucked a little harder - increasing the flow, increasing the nourishment, increasing the pleasure, increasing my commitment.

  ‘Oh dear! What has happened here?’

  It was Mandy.

  She fussed around attentively - offering tissues and busily trying to pick up the shattered pieces of glass. I wanted to tell her it was alright, that there was no need to bother, that we didn’t need any help - to just go away! But, at the same time, I knew it was not appropriate to resist her help. It was enough for the moment. I had tasted blood again and knew that the desire for its flavour was still in me. I took my mouth from Miranda’s wound. I knew her blood was smeared across my face, on my cheeks and nose - I could smell it, scent its delectable aroma.

  Mandy pushed a tissue into my hand and tried to mop my face. I didn’t know whether or not to let her or whether to do it myself.

  I stood up to let Miranda past. I couldn’t stop myself from running my hand between her buttocks as she squeezed by. She did not show approval or otherwise. I watched her go into the lavatory, hoping she would leave the door unlocked as an invitation for me to follow her, but when the “Occupied” sign came on I knew she had shut me out.

  She did not say anything when she came back. She reached up into the overhead locker and moved things around before sitting down. She pulled a blanket over her knees and closed her eyes.

  I pushed myself against her and listened to the deep hypnotic drone of the engines. All I could see in my mind was her cut hand. All I could taste in my mouth was her blood. All I could think about was drinking from her and wondering if it would ever happen again.

  The next thing I knew the lights went on in the cabin. Passengers started to rouse themselves, put their jackets on, and get their bags down from the overhead lockers. The cabin staff brought out breakfast. I looked out of the window; the sun was rising - gold and red across the sea, colouring it red, like a massive ocean of blood.

  Miranda pulled down the window blind.

  Mandy offered Miranda a tray - coffee and croissants; not much. Mandy tapped a piece of folded note paper that was on the edge of the paper plate. Miranda nodded.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked wiping my bleary eyes.

  ‘My next instruction. It doesn’t stop you see, it never stops. It is my life now.’

  She unfolded the note and read it slowly, nodding as she took it all in. I wanted to ask her what it said, who it was from, but I didn’t dare. I hoped she would want to tell me, but she just put the note in her bag, took out her lipstick and pouted her full lips at its bright red point.

  ‘I’ll get your box down from the locker. It might be best to keep it under the seat for landing, don’t you think? Where we can keep an eye on it?’

  LONDON

  The plane arrived late at London Heathrow. We circled the city for an hour before finally touching down at 1.30pm.

  I walked out into the main building of Terminal Five with the plastic box hanging heavily from my hand. I felt tired from the flight. I went to the information desk and was directed to the “Connections” counter. The girl there - blonde with pale skin and a wide appealing mouth - told me there was not a direct connection to Bratislava. She looked at my note from Acme Couriers and passed it back to me with a shrug. The best she could do, she said, was a flight to Vienna and from there, she suggested, I take the train!

  I couldn’t believe it! I looked at the ticket wallet the man at Acme Couriers had pressed into my hand when I had left San Francisco. I had not looked in it since I had handed over my ticket in San Francisco. There was an envelope inside it. I opened it. On a note was written an address and the message: “Please make you own arrangements from London. This should cover it”. Thirty ten dollar bills were pinned to the note. I swallowed hard. My first thought was to leave the box right there, in the middle of the terminal and just go. Then I thought I’d probably be arrested for abandoning a suspicious package, and then I realised that if I didn’t get to the address with the box then I wouldn’t get enough money to travel any further. And my fee for delivering the box would, I imagined, be more than three hundred dollars.

  ‘Have you made up your mind?’ asked the blonde haired girl behind the counter as she twisted her hair in a curl around her pencil. ‘There are others waiting, you know.’

  ‘Yes, of course. A single ticket to Vienna. Will this cover it?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s only one flight a day to Vienna. And you’ve missed today’s. The next flight is tomorrow at ten am, from this terminal. You’ve got a bit of a wait.’ She held out my ticket and looked down the queue behind me. ‘Next, please.’

  I took the ticket and wandered off across the terminal. It was cavernous and overpowering. What was I going to do until ten o’clock the following morning? Everyone seemed to be going somewhere except me. I stared at some posters on a display board in front of a shop selling luggage. One in particular caught my eye: “Visit Hampton Court. Home of Henry VIII”. ‘Why not?’ I thought. The palace of a king! That should occupy me for a few hours at
least.

  I struggled with the box to the taxi rank. It seemed to be weighing me down - it was as if it was getting heavier every time I picked it up!

  ‘How much to Hampton Court?’

  ‘That’ll be thirty five pounds to you, dearie.’

  ‘How much in dollars?’

  ‘Now, let me see. Yes, seventy dollars would just about do it.’

  I looked at my cash - not enough.

  ‘Sorry, I’m a bit short. Sorry. I’ll take a bus.’

  ‘How much short?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, I can only afford about ten dollars, well, nine actually.’

  The driver got out and opened the rear door.

  ‘What’s in the box, dearie?’

  ‘I don’t know. What it says, I suppose.’

  I held it up to show him.

  ‘Wow! “HUMAN ORGAN”! I think you definitely need a lift. Hampton Court was it?’

  ‘But I haven’t got enough money.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, dearie. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure we can.’

  I settled back into the sumptuous brown leather seat of the black taxi cab. I thought of how many others had sat here before me - how many bare bottoms had pressed against the shiny surface, how many cunts had squirmed down and moistened its ribbed corrugations.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off my knees. I tapped them with my hands, as though I was thinking of a tune in my head. I ran one of my fingers between them - just enough to open them so that the tip could slip in. My skin felt soft and smooth. I ran my fingertip around the insides of my knees - the light contact made me shiver.

  I watched his eyes in the driving mirror - fixed entirely on what I was doing as I ran my fingertips up between my thighs. My skirt was short and barely covered my cunt. I took my finger up to its hem. He adjusted the mirror so that he could see more clearly. I lifted the hem slightly - just enough to show him the slit of my cunt. I opened my knees a little to ensure he had a good view of its narrow glistening crack.

  The taxi slowed down in traffic then stopped. We were in a busy shopping street - held up by road works. People walked past - some shopping, some going to or coming from work, some sightseeing. A man peered into the taxi. I didn’t stop what I was doing. The driver leant over the back of the seat and peered. He didn’t say anything - just stared, wide eyed and engrossed.

  Someone knocked on the window. A muffled voice shouted to the driver.

  ‘I need to get to Kingston. Would your fare like to go halves?’

  The driver wound down the window.

  ‘Yes, mate. I think she might,’ he said still not taking his eyes off me

  The man peered in. I didn’t even think of stopping. I opened my knees wider, exposing my cunt fully to him. I ran my finger along the wet slit - it was smooth and silky; the touch of its wetness sent a thrill through my hands and wrists. I tightened my buttocks as another surge of pleasure rose up between my thighs and this time penetrated my anus. As soon as I felt it, I opened my legs wider - I had no choice. I licked my lips then bit onto them. I felt the sharp ends of my canine teeth pressing down against their soft flesh.

  The man opened the door and got in beside me. He was dressed in a dark business suit. He put his briefcase down in front of us, next to my plastic box. My heart was pounding. It was so exciting - being watched by the driver, and now a stranger, and not knowing what was going to happen next.

  The man in the suit adjusted his tie - easing the strain of the tight collar around his neck. My hand was still between my legs. I drew it away, suddenly embarrassed by a realisation of my situation. My fingers were wet and glistened in a shaft of sunlight that came in through the taxi window.

  ‘What have you been doing then?’ asked the man.

  I looked down and felt my cheeks burning.

  ‘Enjoying yourself, by the look of it.’

  I folded my arms and hid my wet hand from view.

  ‘Though it’s a bit naughty displaying yourself like this, in a taxi, so that anyone can see you. Don’t you think? A bit naughty? Putting yourself on show so that anyone can see you - what you’re doing?’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘A bit,’ I muttered, still feeling desperately embarrassed.

  ‘Yes, quite. Letting the taxi driver leer at you - see you - and then letting me do the same. Naughty, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose,’ I said. ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘I think some punishment is needed. Perhaps not too much, but enough to remind you that this sort of behaviour is inappropriate.’

  His admonishment was so straightforward. He had only just got into the taxi, I didn’t know who he was. He had no reason to take me to task and certainly no reason to think he could punish me, but still it seemed right somehow. I wanted him to tell me how he wanted to position me, what he wanted to do to me. I wanted to find out how much punishment he thought I should have, how much I would be allowed to scream out, how much of my pain he would allow me to release. I looked at him and bit my lips hard.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Here, bend over my knee. The best thing for you, I believe, is a sound spanking.’

  My heart leapt at the thought. A spanking from a stranger, in a taxi travelling through the streets filled with people all of whom could look inside at any time and see what was happening to me.

  I bent over his knees without any further question. He lifted my skirt. Straightaway I could tell he was annoyed. It was the way he sighed and tensed, I think - but it was obvious he was angry. I think it was because I had no panties on. Perhaps he thought it was shameless or immodest - I don’t know.

  He lifted my hips so that my bottom was raised. He told me to let my arms and head hang down freely. He said I could rest my hands on the floor. If I squirmed, he said, I would receive more, and they would be harder as well.

  He started straightaway - a sudden hard smack. It stung terribly. I gasped. It was really hard. He smacked me again - this time even harder. My eyes widened and I gasped again. Another hard smack followed, and another. I couldn’t keep still. I reached my hands back, stupidly trying to stop him, stupidly trying to prevent him from carrying out my punishment. He knocked my hands away and smacked me even harder for trying to prevent him. From then on it was relentless - smack followed smack, stinging pain followed stinging pain. I squirmed and fought against him, but nothing stopped him. I couldn’t stand it - it was too much, too sudden, too painful, too deliberate - but he wouldn’t stop.

  I threw my head back, still trying to avoid his blows, but he was too strong and held me too firmly across his knees. I saw figures outside the taxi - faces staring in. People were looking at what was going on - ogling me, seeing my bottom tipped over my punisher’s knees, watching his spanking hand thrashing me so hard, seeing the cheeks of my buttocks reddened and smudged with the bruising he was inflicting on me.

  I know I was shouting for him to stop - screaming I think - but it only ended when he decided it would, and that was longer than I could ever have imagined.

  I felt the taxi stop, I saw more faces at the window. I felt myself being pushed from his knees onto the floor. For a few seconds I lay at his feet - depleted and racked with pain and humiliation. I struggled onto the seat. I couldn’t sit down, my bottom was too sore.

  A wad of money dropped by the side of me.

  ‘That should cover my half of the fare I think.’

  As he left and closed the door behind him, I counted the money. It was £200!

  Hampton Court was beautiful - the sun shone on its mellow, red bricked turrets, the golden crosses on their tops glistened and twinkled like stars, its massive chimneys heaved up into the sky like the cores of long eroded volcanoes. Opening times were ten un
til six - I could spend the whole day here! I waited at the gate while the handsome young guide for a group of giggling Japanese girls discussed the entrance fees. The distraction was sufficient for me to push in behind them without being seen. My nine dollars was still intact, and so was my £200!

  I walked beneath the high beamed roof of the medieval Great Hall. A guard pushed me back when I touched one of the huge tapestries which hung from the walls - endless depictions of hunting scenes and amorous lovers cradled in each other’s arms. Their stale linen scent stuck to my fingers.

  The Japanese group came in noisily, flashing their cameras and chattering excitedly amongst themselves. The guide - a handsome young man - held a Japanese flag on a stick. Whenever he called out to his charges he waved the stick and they all gathered around him like cheeping chickens. They all wore short red and black tartan skirts, loose leather belts, white shirts and red scarves pulled into toggles at their necks. Two in particular caught my eye - a little different from the rest. They held onto each other’s arms - one with red spiky hair, the other with black hair spiked in the same way, black lipstick and a silver ring in her nose. These two had black leather boots loosely crumpled around their ankles and white socks that were pulled up to just below their knees. Both of them smiled demurely at me before each pointing their toes together and looking down to the ground with slightly flushed cheeks. Some of the others giggled at them. They were entrancing. I was captivated by them and couldn’t stop myself from following them.

  For a while they walked arm in arm alongside the rest of the group but, touching the surfaces of tables with their fingers, or stopping to look at painting hung on the walls, they slowly drifted apart from the others. In the end, they separated themselves completely. Checking that no one could see them, they stepped into a narrow entrance leading off the main room. I hung back until I knew they had gone in far enough so that I would be able to follow them without them seeing me.