A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel
Page 5
Richard crossed the room and she saw his reflection in the long mirror as he removed something from a drawer. He returned with the same sort of gag that he’d put on her that morning. She took the ball into her mouth and he tightened the buckle at the back of her head. Her hair was hanging over her face and he tucked the obstinate curls below the strap.
‘Pegasus,’ he said. ‘That’s really quite clever.’ He stood back. ‘Are you ready?’
She nodded. She was ready. She was going to be strapped or smacked or flogged and her bottom was ready, pushing itself forward, perky and curious.
She watched out of the corner of her eye, through stray locks of hair, as he opened a tall cupboard and spent a long time peering inside. She had no idea what he was peering at, but he reached a decision, removed something and closed the door. As Richard drew closer she saw a short-handled whip coiled in his hand and tears slipped one after the other down her cheeks. She had been telling herself that discipline was good for her, it’s what actresses need most. She thought the strapping with the belt had been a bit of a lark, and it’s all very well being brave and brazen after the event. But the whip in Richard’s hand looked deadly serious. So did Richard.
‘How many do you think you need?’ he said.
She couldn’t answer through the gag. She shook her head.
‘Shall we start with six?’
She wasn’t sure what to do. Six lashes with that horrifying whip seemed such a lot. Was he suggesting more? Would he settle for six? She just didn’t know. It was all new to her. She nodded her head hopefully and he looked pleased.
‘So you want six?’
She nodded firmly.
Richard disappeared from view. She listened to his footsteps on the wooden floor and then she heard the whip lash the air, once, twice, three times. He was flexing his muscles, checking the angle of descent, getting into practice. A chill ran through her. She closed her eyes and bit down on the rubber ball.
And then it came, slicing through the still room and searing her white bottom just below the small of her back. The sound was tremendous, a terrible crack like a jet taking off into the sky. The pain was shocking, electric, totally beyond any pain she had ever felt or imagined.
‘One,’ she heard him say and braced herself.
Her body broke into a sweat. She sucked hard on the rubber ball. Spittle was rolling from the corners of her lips, snot ran in files from her nose. The second strike fell just below the first, just as painful, just as fiery as it bit into her creamy soft flesh, and the whip she realised was fiercer than a belt, the leather finer, sharper, cutting deeper, and she panted for breath and waited.
‘Two,’ he said.
Four more, she was thinking. That’s not a lot. I can take that. I’m Greta May. I can do anything.
Number three fell in the same pattern just below the first two, right across the indentation at the top of the crease between her cheeks and she felt an oily trickle ooze from her pussy. It had opened like a flower. The pain of those three stripes was so intense it was almost a pleasure and she pushed her arse out, spreading her cheeks still wider to receive the next.
‘Three.’
And then four, the lash so hard, so uncompromising she felt the sting across the ring of her anus and she found the word bugger floating through her mind. I’ve been fucked and buggered and whipped. I’m a slut. And I’ve been whipped because I’ve been bad. I’ve been disobedient. I deserve everything I get. Her arse was on fire and her vagina was a swamp, a sopping drenched quagmire of sweat and pussy juice, pushing open and winking crudely between her thighs.
‘Number four,’ he said. ‘Two to go.’
As if she needed reminding. The fifth crossed the bottom half of her split bum cheeks, the tender flesh of that neat little curve screaming as every nerve ending caught fire. Liquids were pouring from her mouth and nose, from the inflamed lips of her vagina. Her white arse was the centre of her body and concentric circles of intense pain radiated out across her back, down her thighs. Greta was beginning to understand why she needed this. She needed to prove herself, show Richard that his trust was justified and Gustav had no reason to doubt her.
‘Five,’ he said, and his voice had changed, grown muffled.
One more, she thought, and pushed her hips out, showing him her split gash and puckered arse that he’d buggered so methodically that morning. The pain was transforming to pleasure and she didn’t understand the weird alchemy of this but with the pride rising in her body was an irrepressible desire to feel the weight and hear the cracking sound of number six. She clamped her teeth on the rubber ball and braced her legs.
Then it came, harder, cutting deeper, roaring through the air, the pain barrier exploding, taking her in its embrace. It was excruciating, unbearable. There was a snake uncoiling inside her tummy, its head rising as the sixth whiplash crossed the soft petal flesh of her labia. The snake hissed and roared and raced screaming through all her curling corridors and passageways, wet and creamy, licking over the walls of her anus and across the slippery cavern of her burning vagina.
‘Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me,’ she mumbled, her voice lost, and she heard the whip drop to the floor.
‘Six,’ he said, and it was such a relief when she felt his cock sink deep inside her, completing the thrashing in the best way, the only way. This is what she craved. She wanted to be fucked and fucked and fucked again. Fucked hard and long. Beaten and strapped and stropped and fucked in the arse, in the mouth, in the cunt. She was a wild creature born for fucking and like a thirsty animal she lapped up every drop.
He started to come immediately and so did she, the force of their orgasm extinguishing the pain and she rocked back and forth across the leather bench, her body singing.
Richard withdrew with a sucking sound and spunk ran in a stream down her legs. He stepped round the whipping stool, removed the gag, and she thought how brilliant the design because his cock, stiff still, was at the exact level of her mouth. She stretched forward to slip it between her teeth and tasted her own fear and juices, sweat and sperm. She lapped over the silky skin, pushed the tip of her tongue in the fine furrow at the crown of his cherry red helmet, and as she gave it a thorough clean it occurred to her that once you’ve been tied up like this, lashed to a stool and flogged, there was no way back. This was the beginning. She was reborn, a new being in a brave new world.
He slid his cock from her mouth and whispered. ‘Six more?’ and she wasn’t sure how to react, whether he was just testing her, teasing her, seeing if she really was obedient.
She nodded timidly.
‘Next time,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to spoil you.’
He disappeared and she breathed deeply, appreciative of his kindness. She was panting for breath, sweating on the leather top, her face streaked with tears, her bum stinging and contented. When he returned he was unscrewing the lid from an old-fashioned jar of ointment.
‘Witch-hazel,’ he said, ‘it’s going to hurt but it’s good for you.’
That came as no surprise to Greta. He rubbed the unguent on to her burning cheeks in gentle, circular movements and although it hurt like hell as he promised, the whipheat weakened and the pain faded to a candleglow.
‘Thank you, Richard.’
‘I have to go away, Pegasus, just for a few days,’ he said. ‘Are you going to be good?’
‘Yes, Richard.’
‘What I want you to do is... everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘When a girl has been properly disciplined her impulse is to feel grateful and loyal to the one who carried it out,’ he said.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Don’t be. You mustn’t be grateful Greta. I want you to be free. Don’t think. Do. Just follow your instincts and intuitions wherever they take you. Can you do that?’
She nodded and he unbuckled her from the bench. He held her by the elbows.
‘Everything,’ he said again.
She was looking up into
his eyes and it was strange the way he bent forward and kissed her.
They crossed the room to the mirror. Greta turned to look over her shoulder at the tartan pattern decorating her bottom, the six raised pink weal marks above the darker blush from the strapping.
‘It’s rather pretty,’ he said and she smiled.
Chapter Six – The Taste of Girls
THIS COULD HAVE been the longest week in the history of the universe but as she hurried for the tube that Monday morning Greta determined to make the most of it. Richard had taken her home in another Range Rover, a dark green one, and just as muddy, and she felt quite abandoned as she watched him drive away.
When she arrived at work, Madame Dubarry was sipping coffee with small hissing noises and listened distractedly as Greta explained that she was going on a riding holiday in the country and wanted to take her summer leave starting Friday. Madame Dubarry studied her through the steam rising in curls from her cup.
‘You had a... good weekend,’ she said, fluting her brow.
It was more a statement than a question and Greta swallowed the little lump in her throat and nodded.
‘Yes, yes I did.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘Well. You know...’
... I was fucked senseless on the floor by a complete stranger, I was beaten with a belt, thoroughly buggered, I stood naked in public for all the world to see my striped bum and shameless breasts … oh yes, I had a glorious orgasm in an art gallery, I was strapped to a whipping stool for a good thrashing … and fucked mercilessly.
‘... just the usual things,’ she said with a little shrug and was sure Madame Dubarry could read her dirty mind.
‘Go. Go. You must make the most of every opportunity.’
‘Thank you, I will,’ Greta replied, and wasn’t aware of Madame Dubarry’s fingers rising to touch the spot where she kissed her powdered cheek.
The first customer of the day had entered the shop, a man with a leonine quiff of silvering hair and the brisk movements of someone who, while in no hurry, anticipates immediate service. Greta pulled in her tummy, straightened her shoulders and, just as Madame Dubarry had taught her, slid like a masked guest at a costume ball languidly towards him.
Being an extremely expensive shoe store there were very few shoes on display, the suggestion being that prized objects are rare and precious. The man was considering a brown suede loafer with a buckle across the instep.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she said.
She gave a little shimmy as he turned.
‘Indeed, they are,’ he replied, staring openly down her cleavage.
‘What size?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘My size?’ he repeated, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. He glanced down. ‘Quite big,’ he added with a soft, Mediterranean rhythm to his English.
She sat on the low stool wielding the shoe horn as he slipped his long foot into a size 11, his eyes following the antics of her playful breasts as they reached like two puppies over the v of her black suit jacket. He strolled up and down the burgundy carpet, swept his hand over his hair as if to show her how lush it was and she sighed contentedly as he withdrew his Amex card from a snakeskin wallet.
‘Buono. Buono. Now we shall be well shod,’ he said in an oddly familiar way as he signed the slip.
Greta put the shoes in a bag. ‘Here we are,’ she said, but instead of taking the bag, he cupped her hand in his long fingers and stared into her eyes as if he were in search of her secrets.
‘I shall come and see you again. Soon,’ he said and Greta felt a tingle of fear run up her backbone. He squeezed her hand and she thought about Richard as she plunged into his hypnotic blue eyes.
‘Buono,’ she replied.
The lion strode out on his long legs and Greta unpopped the top button on her jacket as a young American entered with the look of someone lost on their way to Piccadilly Circus. She persuaded him to purchase a pair of black brogues for winter as well as the fawn slip-ons that had first caught his eye. When his map appeared from his pocket she accompanied him outside and pointed the way.
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’ And she thought it is so easy to please Americans. They are just like children.
The air smelled fresh, even in Bond Street, and Greta was overcome by a feeling of joy and optimism. Just one week and she would be going on holiday.
When she came back inside the store, Madame Dubarry nodded with approval and gave her bottom a friendly slap.
Mmm, that’s new, she thought.
Greta rolled her hips like a mambo dancer as she snaked down the narrow stairs to the stockroom. Something had happened to her. It was weird. Nice. But weird. Suddenly everyone wanted to touch her. Even on the Underground from Hammersmith that morning Greta had played a cameo role in a minor fantasy.
The carriage had been packed to bursting point, the wage slaves being shunted to work like farm animals to the abattoir, and there was a balding, middle-aged man with a bulging briefcase resting his hand gratuitously on her buttocks. It’s the usual game, the innocent hand holding the newspaper, his curled fist as if by some perverse fluke bridging the gap between them.
Greta had always made it apparent by pulling away and glowering that these sly advances were unwelcome, but after the experience with Richard decided to have some fun and gave her arse a tantalizing little wiggle. After all, Richard had told her to do everything her instincts told her to do.
The man’s breath stilled. His fist froze for a second, then he upped the pressure, his knuckles kneading the soft flesh of her tender bottom. It wasn’t until the lights flickered out between Knightsbridge and Hyde Park Corner that he abandoned the paper and turned his hand to cup the swell of her cheeks in his open palm. They remained like that, as rigid as the marble sculpture at the Serpentine Gallery until she stepped out of the train at Green Park.
The hand was still mentally glued to her backside as she bent from the waist to pick up empty boxes, blushing as she planned to dress the next day in a shorter skirt. She mounted the ladder to reach the shoes on the high shelf. Greta was aware of her body’s every motion, as indeed was Madame Dubarry who watched her as people watch celebrities.
During her lunch break, Greta fought the urge to buy a packet of cigarettes. Smoking is strictly against the rules. She found a gorgeous little silk bra with teeny tiny panties like the wings of a butterfly and wondered why something quite so small should have quite such a large price tag. You only live once, she said to herself, parading through the store for everyone to see, and drank bottled water with her sushi at Pret.
In the tabloid she found on the table there were stories about hurricanes in Florida and blackouts in France and it all seemed far away and unimportant, a world that had nothing to do with her. Greta had been a reflection of other people’s desires and expectations. She had been moulded by her parents, by convention, by the nuns at Saint Sebastian.
As she sat watching the people streaming by like worker ants outside the window she was aware quite suddenly of her own individuality, her own sense of self. She felt renewed, free, young again. It was heady stuff and she understood that only when you have a firm grasp on your own identity do you bring that special quality to the stage. She had always set out to shape herself around the character, when a great actress will mould the character to herself. This was a revelation and Greta knew intuitively that whatever role she played in the future she would perform with unnerving passion.
She strolled back to work in the afternoon sunshine, the new underwear in layers of tissue in a shiny black bag, as big as her new purchases were small, another of their tricks, she thought, and when she smiled, people in the street smiled back at her.
There were customers waiting, two squat, turnip-shaped women with accents from Eastern Europe who bullied her with strident voices and whom she served with the charm and equanimity of the girl in the riding video until they parted with great wads of red £50 notes.
It’s really weird, but when you work hard time flies; Tempus Fugit, as she’d learned in Latin at school, and was shocked when she noticed the big hand reach for six o’clock. She had sold 37 pairs of shoes in one day and that was a record.
No one reached for her arse in the tube back to Hammersmith but after the long day bending and stretching her panties, by the time she arrived home, were moist with girlie excretions. The aroma brought back memories of pony club, the feel of a throbbing warm animal between her stretched thighs, the piquant whiff of the stable, the girl in the video riding free, tanned and naked.
She took her knickers off, pressed the white cotton to her nose and ran the damp crotch over her lips. Greta liked her own smell and dropped back across the bed, the pearl of white cotton over her face, her fingers reaching for her pussy. The little nub of her clitoris was aching for some attention. She was so juicy down there she could feel the vibes of early orgasm and made herself stop, delaying pleasure in pursuit of greater pleasure. It was all very Shakespearean. She pulled off the rest of her clothes and in the bathroom her eyes lit on the economy-sized bottle of supermarket shampoo.
Just the job, she thought, teasing and tickling the mouth of her pussy as she stepped back across the hall into the bedroom. She inserted the rounded bottle top with a soft sucking pop as she fell back on the bed. She had forgotten to close the door and the thought of Tara strolling in at any time sent wild fantasies galloping like carousel horses through her dirty mind. You are such a slut, Greta May, such a slapper, you should be punished, smacked, strapped, whipped, beaten. She tasted the words and nearly wet herself.
She drove the bottle in deeper and remembered how Gustav had screwed the tripod handle slowly, patiently in and out of her wet pussy. The memory was delicious. Her free hand massaged her breasts, slipped down her side and under her bottom. She nursed the rubbery ring of her anus with its little muscle like a valve before sliding her index finger inside. She gasped for breath. Her right hand was pumping away on the bottle and the finger in her bum nursed the pattern of spiralling pleats and creases, all so neat and pretty like a snowflake. Her arms moved robotically and, as her legs arched, she pictured herself in a hazy black-and-white photograph depicting a disobedient maid bound to a whipping stool. She could still feel the sting of the whiplash across her backside, her insides were churning and as she reached her climax she levitated clean off the bed.