by Penny Birch
As his panting became more urgent I pushed my bottom up to meet him, hoping some lewd behaviour would take him over the edge. He pushed harder in response, and faster, until I was panting and clutching at the table in reaction, only for him to stop suddenly, wheezing and gasping for a moment before he spoke.
‘I can’t,’ he puffed. ‘You’re too sloppy. Let me use your arsehole, Gabby, please?’
‘No, I am sorry, but no,’ I managed. ‘Wait a bit, Monty, then finish. That was nice.’
‘I can’t. I really can’t. Not up your cunt. You’re so fucking sloppy. Come on, Gabby, I can see you’re ready. Your arsehole’s greasy and loose. I know I could get my cock up. God, you need buggering, so badly.’
‘Monty!’
‘Oh, all right!’
He began to climb off, silent as his cock pulled out of my hole. I wasn’t going to let him sulk, and waited until he had sat down before getting up myself. My whole body ached, but I went down anyway, kneeling between his thighs with my mouth open in invitation. He resisted for a second, then slid forwards on the chair and lifted his belly, offering me his cock and balls.
I nuzzled my face in, licking his balls, which were dirty with juice. When I took his cock in it tasted of processed meat, but I sucked anyway, quickly bringing him back to full erection. If he was messy, I was worse, with fluid dripping from my sex now that I was the right way up. I knew there’d be a puddle under me, and wondered if I dared pee on the floor before masturbating. He was going to make me clean the mess up anyway.
I let go, putting my hand to my sex as the piddle spurted out, hot and wet on my fingers, pooling in my palm and splashing out to run down my thighs. Monty was watching me suck his cock, and if he noticed he gave no sign, just grinning down at me as I mouthed eagerly on his penis and my puddle spread out beneath me. I let it come, as much as I could, until I was kneeling in it, with my sex and the tuck of my bottom wet and warm. I’d have done more if I’d been able to, but it was enough. I shut my eyes, concentrating on the delicious thought that I’d just peed on the floor as I began to masturbate.
Monty had begun to grunt and to push his cock up into my mouth. A phone rang somewhere in the background but he ignored it, taking me by the head to control the motion of my sucking. He was going to come, and I rubbed harder, eager to reach orgasm as I got my mouth filled.
I didn’t make it. His cock jerked; I felt the sperm erupt into the back of my throat and my mouth filled with the salty, male taste. He grabbed his cock, pulling my head back to try and spunk in my face, but managed no more than a dribble, which he wiped on to my nose. I was close and squatted down, sitting my bottom in the pee-puddle. My mouth came open, letting him see the pool of come and saliva inside, which began to run out as my jaw went slack. Some fell between my breasts and I slapped it over them, rubbing yet harder.
He was watching me, amused by my urgency, grinning out of his dirty, red face. I thought of my nudity, the way I was completely on display to him, naked, while all he was showing were his cock and balls, and that so they could be used in me. It was glorious, utterly abandoned, naked, fucked, wriggling my bottom in a puddle of my own pee, masturbating furiously as I smeared his sperm over my breasts. I started to come, gasping as my thighs locked on my hand, my muscles twitching, my bottom splashing in the piddle as I squirmed and jiggled, until I hit my peak, long and high and so, so good.
‘Dirty bitch,’ Monty remarked as I finally slumped down.
I nodded in acknowledgement and gave him a smile. I was still high and eager for my turn, which I had undoubtedly earned. It was going to take time, though, and the first thing I was going to make him do was spend a good half-hour creaming my bottom. Both cheeks felt bruised and tender, while my sex was more than a little sore. It was definitely time for play, and not for conventional sex.
Monty was still recovering his breath, with one hand on his chest, a gesture I always found worrying. I let him take his time and stayed squatted down in my rapidly cooling pee-puddle, not wanting to break the game. Only when he began to wipe the baked-bean juice off his face did I speak.
‘I am afraid I have piddled on your floor. I think I need to be put in nappies.’
‘OK, but you can clean your mess up first, while I see who that was on the phone.’
‘Monty!’ I protested. ‘Never mind that. Do you not want to watch me clean the floor?’
‘Hang on.’
He left the room, waddling out as he stuffed his cock and balls back into his trousers. I sat still for a moment, cursing him, then got up, reasoning that it wouldn’t take long, and that I could start on the floor. In fact, the whole kitchen needing doing, and not only the mess we’d just made. Monty was an absolute slob and there wasn’t even any kitchen towel, only an unopened packet of disposable dish-cloths stuck behind a tap, where it looked as if it had been for months.
I do actually enjoy cleaning up, especially in the nude, so I retrieved my glasses and set to work, opening the packet and wetting a cloth. I did myself first, or at least the worst of it. I was sweaty and plastered with various kinds of muck from my lower back down to behind my knees – also my sex, belly and breasts. I was going in the pee-puddle anyway, and the floor was filthy, so there was no point in more than a quick rub down, which I managed.
Monty was talking to somebody on the phone, patiently at first, but with ever greater irritation. I wanted him to watch me mop up the pee, so started on the table and bread bin. He went on talking, with my sense of sexual submission gradually fading to be replaced by irritation. He was talking about computers, so it was obviously something to do with his work. Finally he put the phone down, to re-enter the kitchen looking peevish.
‘I’ve got to go in,’ he told me.
‘What, now?’
‘The whole system’s crashed.’
‘It’s Saturday, Monty, nearly six o’clock.’
‘Our servers are down, everything.’
‘Is there not somebody else to sort it out?’
‘No. I’m the man.’
‘How long are you going to be?’
‘Depends.’
As he had spoken he had picked up his anorak and pulled it on. I just stood there, the dripping dish-cloth in my hand, feeling incredibly frustrated and not a little angry.
‘Ring back, say you’re busy,’ I suggested.
‘No can do.’
‘You’re ill? The car has broken down?’
‘Look, I’ve got to go, Gabby. Wait, yeah? I’ll be as quick as I can.’
I opened my mouth, intending to say something stinging. What came out was truly pathetic.
‘Don’t be late, please?’
‘Climb in bed if I am.’
His last remark was made from the hallway. A moment later the door shut behind him and I was left, absolutely seething. I was not going to get my baby-girl session, not soon anyway. At best I could stay over, which was never comfortable, and wait for the morning. It was hardly ideal.
I dropped the dish-cloth into the sink and sat down, forcing myself to think sensibly. Monty had to get to Reigate, sort out the problem and get back. It was unlikely to take him less than a couple of hours, very likely more. If he returned at nine, or even ten, there would be time for some play, if nothing elaborate. In any case it was likely to be a poor recompense for what he’d done to me. After all, my bottom was bruised, making it quite obvious I’d been spanked, so I wouldn’t even be able to visit the Haven, or at least not to go naked. If he was very late, he would be too tired to look after me properly, and would grow sulky if I pushed him.
It had also broken my mood, so I quickly dealt with my puddle and went up to the bathroom to wash properly and inspect my bottom. I was a mess, with curved, deep red marks on both cheeks where the end of the spoon had caught me, along with a general flush of rich pink. The bruises were already starting to rise. There was no question that anybody who saw my bottom would know I had received physical discipline. It was going to be at least a week
before I could visit Haven or do anything else that involved being bare-bottomed in polite company.
Not surprisingly there was nothing to douche with, so I did the best I could with Monty’s shower hose. I calmed down as I washed, reasoning that it was unfair to blame Monty. After all, had I received an urgent call from a client during an elaborate sex session I would certainly have done the same, and expected my partner to understand my choice of priorities. It was still irksome, but the only sensible thing to do was clearly to try and make the best of a bad situation.
Even in Monty’s absence I could play a game with myself, building up slowly until his return, when he could take over. In many ways it was ideal, as it would allow me to become thoroughly aroused before he became involved. That avoided the problem of his becoming excited long before I was ready for actual sex. Not that I particularly minded being put on his cock in the middle of a feeding session, or being fucked while having my nappy changed, but it was not the ideal.
By the time I’d finished my shower I knew what I was going to do. I dried myself and went to fetch my bag, lying on his bed to powder my pussy and bottom-hole before I began to cream myself. I took my time, lying face down with a mirror adjusted so that I could see my bottom and the rear view of my sex as I rubbed cream into my smacked cheeks. It felt as soothing as ever, more so for having been spanked so hard. By the time my whole bottom was a smooth, glossy ball I was feeling properly relaxed and also aroused. My anus showed in the mirror and I began to tickle the powdery little hole with a nail. It was tempting to apply more cream and put a finger in, even two, which was about as much as I could take. It would have been too early and I held back, contenting myself with teasing and thinking arousing thoughts.
His central heating was full on, making the house pleasantly warm – warm enough to stay nude, or at least semi-nude. Once I was satisfied with creaming my bottom I selected a nappy and put myself in it, lying down as if I was being changed. Even before the tabs were fastened it had started to work, making me want to squirm and wriggle on the bed, with my bottom stuck out to display the fat pink bulge behind, or my legs rolled up to show off the way it covered my pussy.
I could see in the mirror too, my body naked but for around my hips; my feet bare, my legs, my chest, everything, but for the puffy pink nappy around my middle. I’d been letting my hair grow out, long enough to make a short pony-tail or even little spiky bunches. I’d been going to wait a little longer then do it with pink ribbons, just as a treat for myself. Now seemed as good a time, assuming Monty owned anything girlish enough to work.
I couldn’t see him owning any ribbons, and pink was not his colour. Cloth would do, at a pinch. He was pretty obsessed with girls’ panties, and I had a sneaking suspicion he collected them. He’d kept a pair of mine from the first time we’d met in any case. On another occasion he’d had me wank him off with the pair I’d been wearing wrapped around his cock, then pocketed them so I had to go back with nothing on under my skirt.
I felt a little guilty going through his drawers, but decided that having to search through his own under-clothes was punishment enough for the breach of courtesy. His chest of drawers drew a blank, also his wardrobe and the drawers under his bed.
There were no panties, but there was plenty of porn, unfortunately all too tacky to excite me. Judging from his collection his ideal woman was about eighteen, with uncomfortably large breasts, a big bottom and extremely cheap taste in clothes. Two were devoted to spanking girls, both recent issues, another to bondage, but none to girls peeing, let alone grown-up baby girls. I quickly gave up and returned to my panty hunt, which had now become a need in its own right, regardless of my desire for ribbons in my hair.
Despite my not having found them anywhere obvious, it seemed safe to assume they were in his bedroom, given his dirty habits. For the same reason it seemed likely that they were somewhere easy to get at, or at least fairly easy. I tried the top of the wardrobe but found only dust. There were various boxes, none of which proved fruitful, although there were more porn magazines and also videos.
Failure only made me more determined. He had two pairs of mine and I hadn’t found them. Therefore I wasn’t looking in the right place. Clearly they were hidden, although it seemed odd that he would hide his collection of panties more carefully than his magazines or videos. I started to consider less orthodox spaces and struck lucky with my first try. They were in the space beneath the lowest of his drawers, a gap six inches high, accessible simply by pulling the drawer completely out.
One glance and it was obvious why they were carefully hidden. There were hundreds or pairs, far more than he could possibly have been given by girlfriends. The realisation put a catch in my throat, and for a moment I wondered exactly who I was dealing with. Only when I had examined a few pairs did my qualms recede, partially at least. They were all clean, except for mine and one other pair, so he had evidently stolen them from washing lines rather than actually removed them by force. Having said that, if anybody had forcibly divested women of the number of pairs of panties in his collection there would have been a major outcry, even if it had been done over several years.
They were also labelled, every single pair, with a neatly printed card pinned to each, recording a place, a date and sometimes a name. I picked mine out, one pair and then the other, and read the legends – ‘Gabrielle Salinger, nappy freak. War Down Man, Hampshire’ and ‘Gabrielle Salinger, girlfriend. Home’. The dates they had been removed followed.
I wasn’t entirely happy about being referred to as a ‘nappy freak’, although as he freely described himself as a ‘panty freak’ I didn’t imagine it to be intended as an insult. Nor was I sure about ‘girlfriend’ – but there was a much greater concern, which was that he was a panty thief. It didn’t altogether surprise me, but it was hardly socially acceptable behaviour.
In my position of intimacy, the responsible thing to do was clearly to try and talk him out of it. Unfortunately that meant admitting I’d searched through the room for his collection. I was going to have to do that anyway if I wanted pink cloth to make hair ornaments. I decided against that, both because they’d been so carefully concealed and because it seemed wrong to spoil a pair when he had taken such obsessive care over the collection.
My discovery had broken the mood in any case, much to my annoyance. I began to look through the collection, very carefully, fascinated despite my moral reservations. The collection, along with Monty, could probably have produced enough information for a doctrinal thesis, certainly a spectacular case-study. Not that he was likely to co-operate.
The collection reflected his tastes and was certainly not random. There were no huge granny pants and nothing suspiciously small, only pretty briefs and thongs, mainly scarlet or black, along with white, pastels and the odd bright primary. He also seemed to have a taste for nylon.
Only when I began to worry about him coming back did I start to put them back. I was careful, replacing each pair exactly as it had been, every bit as methodical as Monty himself. My own had been on the top, along with a white silk pair belonging to Natasha, making me wonder if he had given up his dirty little hobby since he had been having sex with us. It seemed entirely possible and added a new dimension to my moral dilemma.
With the panties safely away, I lay on the bed, thinking and trying to get back in the mood for baby-girl sex. It was not easy, with images of Monty sneaking through darkened alleyways and into people’s gardens to steal girls’ panties constantly intruding on my thoughts. I also kept expecting him to come back.
Eventually I gave up and went to make myself a coffee. Oddly enough that worked where all my deliberate efforts had failed. Being in just my nappy as I walked about downstairs gave me a thrill I had been unable to achieve in the bedroom. Pleased with myself, I swallowed the coffee and followed it with two pints of water. After that I knew what would happen, and I could feel my sense of erotic tension building slowly as I waited, simply reading one of Monty’s books on military
history to help pass the time.
I was hoping he’d come back before I was ready, but there was still no sign of him by the time my bladder had begun to feel tense. I fought the urge down, letting it build with my arousal. Very slowly it began to get painful, but still I held back, wanting Monty to watch. Before long I was on my knees in the centre of the living-room carpet, holding my tummy, with my sex clenched tight to keep it in. Only when my eyes had begun to water with the pain did I give in, letting go to fill my nappy with pee and my head with a glorious, unmatchable sense of relief.
With my nappy hanging soggy and heavy between my thighs it was more than I could resist not to masturbate, Monty or no Monty. I did it with my eyes closed, one hand down my wet nappy, the other in my mouth, to bite on my fingers and suck on my thumb as my orgasm hit me in a wave of ecstasy that faded all too quickly to disappointment.
Three
Monty returned sometime after three in the morning. By then I was fast asleep, curled up in his bed with my thumb in my mouth, by instinct rather than for the sake of sexual arousal. He woke me, hoping for sex, and got turned down. It was the same in the morning, and he went into such a sulk that I ended up going home.
I was seriously wondering if it wasn’t time to call an end to our relationship, or agreement, which was a better description of the way we worked. It was not good. I’d let him use me exactly as he’d pleased, and been left to masturbate for my own pleasure. When he had finally come back what he had expected was a quick blow-job, with no consideration whatsoever for my needs.
With every meeting he seemed less suitable. On the other hand, there was the fact that without me he would probably go back to being a peeping-Tom, a panty thief and whatever else he got up to. To cut him dead was clearly irresponsible, and went very much against my personal ethics. I would have to be tactful at the least. I also felt obliged to speak to him about the panties.