Bouquet of Bamboo

by Sarah Steel

  ‘A and C,’ Andrea purred, bending to fleetingly nuzzle the glistening cherries. ‘And which one took your fancy, hmm? A or C?’ She guided the tip of her tongue down to prise out the first, and then the second elusive fruit, pausing deliberately to suck and softly bite Beatrice’s succulent flesh. The final cherry swallowed, she licked her lips and eased herself back a fraction, resting her buttocks on her heels. She placed her hands upon the soft cheeks below her, pressing her palms onto each fleshy mound and easing them apart.

  Beatrice whimpered, but remained utterly passive.

  Andrea spread the cheeks further before once more licking the length of the exposed valley between. Straining slightly, she eased back and peered down to inspect the trickle of juice flowing from Beatrice’s pussy, then keeping both cheeks under firm control, she clenched her fingers, squeezing the delicious buttocks possessively. To her delight Beatrice bucked helplessly in response. Smiling, she returned the tip of her tongue to the tight little rosebud of her lover’s exposed anal whorl. The puckered little crater shrivelled even more, stubbornly refusing the tongue permission to enter and probe. But Andrea was determined, and soon penetrated the dark orifice to taste the bittersweet warmth within. Meanwhile, she ravaged her victim’s pussy with the knuckles of her clenched fist, capturing and twisting a handful of Beatrice’s hair in her free controlling hand.

  ‘A or C?’ She lifted her head from the delicious buttocks to ask again. ‘One of them is the cause of your reticence to talk.’

  Beatrice shook her head.

  ‘I’ll get the truth out of you, bitch.’ Andrea left the bed again a moment, and returned with the boxed slipper. The rustle of tissue paper broke the tense silence with a menacing crackle as the slipper was brought forth.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  The supple sole viciously swiped the crown of both her prone lover’s cheeks, until both buttocks shone a bright pink. Eight strokes were administered, and even as she submitted to the rain of stinging pain, Beatrice bucked and jerked in torment beneath the slipper’s fierce onslaught.

  Pausing briefly, her breasts heaving and glistening with perspiration, Andrea gazed down at the bottom she had severely punished. It glowed a lovely crimson, expressive of pure pain. She then guided the rubber sole of the slipper down to her own glistening labia. The warm rubber kissed her hot lips. She pressed hard, and harder still, and then rhythmically tapped the slipper against her juicing pussy. Again and again, despite the delicious pain, she punished herself with the rubber sole. Jerking her bottom up she changed the angle of attack, her breasts heavy and aching as they swayed beneath her. The rubber sole scalded her sensitive flesh, and teetering unsteadily, almost drunk with lust she ravished her wet heat until her belly tightened, signalling the initial tremors of an approaching orgasm.

  Closing her eyes tightly and imprisoning the image of Beatrice’s red bottom behind them, Andrea slipper-spanked her climax to its peak. It broke with devastating power, with a sweet violence that sent the slipper dropping out of her limp hand. As an orgasm pulsed down from the pit of her stomach into her tightly muscled warmth, she nipped her proud clitoral thorn as carefully as a snake charmer milking venom from a captive cobra. A second wave of blinding pleasure ravaged her body, and she collapsed across Beatrice’s back.

  Both naked girls tensed as their flesh united. Slowly and deliberately, Andrea raked her hips from side to side, dragging her pussy across the punished buttocks below her as she came yet again, smothering her cries by biting Beatrice’s shoulder.

  Afterwards she gently caressed her partner’s sore bottom, and at last, her eyes averted, Beatrice began to speak. She explained the innocence of the initials A and C, but had to be questioned closely about her disturbing experience at the hands of the French waiter that afternoon at Les Yeux Ardants.

  Andrea listened to the tale in appalled silence. It angered her intensely to hear how her beautiful lover had been humiliated during an important business lunch, which had turned into an emotional and financial disaster.

  ‘It was terrible,’ Beatrice concluded with a choked sob.

  ‘What you’ve just told me has given me this huge hunger,’ Andrea declared.

  ‘Hunger?’ Beatrice echoed, her tear-filled eyes widening.

  Andrea nodded. ‘Hunger pains, or rather, hunger pangs, for punishment.’

  She tut-tutted at, and adjusted, his velvet bow tie.

  The arrogant Frenchman flinched, smouldering furiously beneath her inspection.

  ‘Your hands,’ Andrea demanded. ‘Are they clean?’

  He nodded indignantly.

  ‘Show me.’

  He tossed his head back defiantly.

  ‘No show, no big bonus,’ she warned quietly. She had lured the waiter to a friend’s Barbican flat on the pretext of needing him to serve an after theatre supper. Now she was pretending to make the last minute preparations. Les Yeux Ardants had sent Patrice, along with the food and wine, at her special request. ‘Show me your hands,’ she insisted. ‘I cannot abide dirty nails.’

  With a shrug of sullen reluctance, Patrice offered his hands, which emerged elegantly from the laundered white linen jacket’s sleeves and a white silk shirt with opal cuffs. His skin was nicely tanned and his manicured nails were neat and clean.

  ‘Perfect.’ She nodded, and deftly snapped the handcuffs on him before he could react defensively, and the Frenchman’s eyes widened in surprise and alarm.

  Beatrice drove them back across London. He had struggled, but Andrea’s hand cupped threateningly over his balls effectively silenced his protests. As they approached Notting Hill, she blindfolded him.

  After taking the food and wine in, Andrea and her lover returned to the car to guide the waiter up to Beatrice’s flat. But first they tied two red balloons to his jacket, and passers-by smiled enviously at the sight of two lovely women accompanying a lucky stag to some wild party.

  Once in the flat Beatrice retired to her bedroom, leaving her dominant lover to prepare Patrice for his impending punishment.

  ‘Kneel,’ Andrea commanded, popping the balloons.

  He resisted, remaining rigidly upright by planting his polished black shoes wide apart as he cursed her in both English and French. ‘You cannot do this!’ he hissed.

  ‘Silence,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve been brought here tonight to be taught a lesson, my pretty little bastard, a very painful lesson. And you will obey my orders or I promise you will suffer – and suffer more than was intended.’

  He swore again and ducked out of her controlling grip. But blindfolded and handcuffed, his bid for freedom was doomed. He tripped and stumbled, collapsing heavily onto his knees.

  ‘That’s right,’ she purred, inching closer to him as she spoke. ‘You’re learning quickly. Assez bien, garcon. Lesson number one, obey. I told you to kneel, and you did.’

  He snarled viciously.

  ‘Be quiet. We’ll have no more out of you, mon petit, until we give you permission. Permission,’ she added silkily, ‘to plead with us.’ Reaching down for the prepared gag of used panties and a nylon stocking bunched up into a ball, she silenced his curses with it. ‘He’s ready, my darling,’ she called, picking up a pair of sturdy kitchen scissors and snip-snapping them ominously.

  ‘Coming,’ Beatrice called from the bedroom.

  Patrice’s head swivelled as he followed the exchange, and then froze as the snapping scissors neared his head.

  Snip! His velvet bow tie fluttered down to the carpet. Snip! Snip! His fine linen sleeves shrivelled before the greedy steel jaws. Snip! The frilled dress-shirt peeled away from his bronze shoulders and slipped off him in elegant tatters. Snip! Snip! Before Beatrice rejoined them, the handsome waiter was kneeling bound and naked and utterly helpless, his clothes shredded around him.

  Beatrice was naked, too, and Andrea let the scissors fall to the floor as she gazed at her, e
nraptured.

  ‘Not now, later,’ Beatrice smiled, squirming shyly under her lover’s intense gaze.

  ‘Sure about the outfit, are we?’ Andrea teased.

  ‘I’m dressed for business,’ Beatrice responded in a darker, more purposeful tone. ‘Strictly for business.’

  Andrea nodded. ‘Then he’s all yours.’ She picked up a web cam from the desktop and settled down on the sofa with it, seemingly indifferent to the drama about to unfold before her as she prepared to record it.

  Beatrice urged Patrice back up to his feet, and then pulled his blindfold down. The young Frenchman’s eyes ogled her bare breasts, her taut belly and her lush pubic bush. Then she caught his chin in her hand and held it dominantly, forcing him to look her in the eyes. He flinched, but she held him silently in her absolute thrall, gazing sternly at him.

  He closed his eyes and steeled himself.

  ‘Look at me,’ she commanded, but he refused to obey. So she squeezed his face in a fierce grip, digging her fingers into his cheeks until they whitened, tilting his head back. ‘Remember me?’ she asked smoothly when he finally opened his eyes again.

  His frown of concentration resulted only in a slow shaking of his head.

  ‘You will,’ she promised. ‘You will remember me.’ She pulled his blindfold up again, covering his startled stare. She left it in place, satisfied with the shadow of alarm she had seen clouding his insolent gaze. ‘Perhaps you don’t remember me now, but you will, and I can assure you that you will never forget tonight. Never.’

  He shuffled backwards.

  She laughed. ‘I’m going to enjoy making you pay the penalty for your arrogance and rudeness. Understand? You humiliated me, so I’m going to humiliate you. And then,’ she leaned close to whisper in his ear, ‘I’m going to punish you severely for what you did to me.’ She allowed her eyes to take in his nicely muscled chest, flat stomach and dark pubic hair. His impressive cock was thickening slightly with fear, but it remained essentially flaccid, potent but passive.

  From the sofa, half her face hidden behind the web cam, Andrea murmured a question.

  ‘No,’ Beatrice replied, ‘they’re fine where they are. I’ll leave the cuffs like that. He’ll go over my knee for a spanking and then for some special treatment.’

  Patrice’s whimper was smothered by the nylon stockings and panties filling his mouth.

  Beatrice, her breasts bobbing gently and her naked buttocks rippling, moved softly with silent, menacing steps as she twice circled her tense captive. Pausing, she swiftly drew her fingertips down the curve of his spine, and probed the crease of his bottom cleft. He rose up on his toes as she fingered his anal bud, buried deep between his taut cheeks.

  ‘Punishment,’ she said sternly, ‘can be so very pleasurable. For some, it is a duty. For others, it is a privilege. For me,’ she continued, her voice a velvet whisper, ‘it will be such a pleasure.’

  He surreptitiously drew his thighs together.

  ‘Ah, non, ne faites-tu cela,’ she purred sweetly. ‘You are mine, mon petit, all mine. And there’s nowhere to hide.’ She cupped his bottom cheeks and squeezed them viciously, forcing them apart until his shadowy cleft yawned open. ‘No hiding place.’ She grinned as she felt the rush of his fear warming her cupped hands, then releasing his buttocks from her fierce grip, she continued prowling around his naked body. She noted the glisten of perspiration at his temples and the way dread tightened his tight buttocks.

  ‘Nappy?’ Andrea asked from behind the masking web cam.

  ‘Where did you—?’ Beatrice began to ask.

  ‘Sorry, sitting on it,’ Andrea giggled, and then squirming, she prised it out from beneath her left buttock and tossed it across the room.

  Beatrice caught it in mid-air. ‘Left foot up, garcon,’ she instructed, whipping the Frenchman’s bottom with the plastic nappy, but he remained immobile. ‘Lift your left foot up a little,’ she repeated firmly. He hesitated another long moment, but then grudgingly obeyed and she peeled open the plastic and slipped it over the hovering foot.

  ‘Your right one now,’ she ordered sharply, giving it a firm nudge with her knuckles, and this time he instantly did as he was told.

  ‘Down now,’ she said, savouring his silent submission as she drew the nappy up his stout legs and secured it around his hips.

  Andrea rose from the sofa and walked past them towards the desktop workstation. She set the camera down, sat down and began tapping the keyboard. In less than a minute she swivelled around with the web cam nestled in her lap. ‘Got it,’ she announced, fingering the camera. ‘We’re live and online to Milan. Should give A and C a bit of an eyeful.’ She picked up and levelled the web cam directly upon Patrice’s tightly clenched bottom. ‘You may begin.’

  Beatrice nodded. It had begun – the humiliation, retribution and severe punishment of the supercilious waiter who ruined her important business lunch. His male rudeness was being brought to heel by feminine domination and discipline. Her breasts rose, swelling with pride. Her nipples tightened and peaked and their delicate pink darkened. He was all hers, bound, blindfolded and helpless. All hers. She fleetingly fingered her moist labia, and then lightly drummed wet fingertips across his nappy-clad bottom. He was all hers to punish at her pleasure, for her pleasure.

  Bending over slightly, she tugged up the nappy, dragging it even more firmly into position so the waistband bit into his flesh. The heat from his sac clouded the clear plastic, forming an opaque patch at his groin. The rasp of the nappy over his cock caused it to unfurl, lengthen and rise inquisitively, thrusting the swelling knout against the stretched material.

  Holding the camera before her, Andrea approached slowly, as if stalking them, circling the pair in silence. Flicking on the zoom button she took in both their faces in vivid close up – the contorted features of the apprehensive Frenchman and the serenely dominant mask of Beatrice’s lovely face. ‘Bare his bottom slowly,’ she suggested.

  Beatrice nodded as she inserted her thumbs into the nappy’s tight waistband and gradually tugged down the plastic to reveal Patrice’s naked buttocks.

  Andrea squatted, inching closer, and aimed the web cam upwards. ‘Proceed,’ she directed.

  Beatrice turned away, selected a fork and spoon, and returned to address the buttocks of her victim. ‘Punishment is meted out by a disciplinarian or a chastiser,’ she informed both Patrice and their invisible audience. ‘When that chastiser is a female, she is called a dominatrix. Dominatrix,’ she echoed. ‘What a beautiful word; a word that sends shivers of delicious dread down the spine of the helpless male.’ She let the spoon hang limply from the fingers of her left hand while those of her right tightened around the handle of the fork. Inverting it, she brought the points of the three-pronged utensil to the exposed nape of Patrice’s neck. ‘Dominatrix,’ she hissed, increasing the pressure of the tines. ‘Sends a sudden shiver down the spine, does it not?’

  Three little white points of pain appeared where the prongs prinked his skin and the Frenchman’s feet trod the carpet anxiously, his toes curling in dread.

  Swiftly, with the speed of a heartbeat, she raked the fork down to his clenched bottom cheeks. Then she brought the prongs back to prickle the nape of his cringing neck again. ‘But I believe the French have an even more beautiful word to describe the majesty of the dominant female,’ she went on. ‘Don’t they, mon petit?’

  Patrice lowered his head in abject surrender, and then jerked it up again violently as she raked the fork down the length of his spine, at first fleetingly, and then very slowly and more firmly.

  ‘Dompteuse, not dominatrix, but dompteuse. Yes,’ she cooed as she prodded both his cheeks savagely, ‘I like that word. It has a quality of fullness and ripeness. It both suggests and embodies the absolute authority of the female punisher over her victim, n’est-ce pas? Oui, mon petit. Ce soir, je suis toi dompteuse.’

 
The plastic nappy had peeled down to bind his upper thighs tightly together. Dropping the fork and capturing his hips almost tenderly, she turned him around as she sank to her knees before him, her eyes level with his cock. She inched the plastic nappy back up, trapping and taming his straining shaft. After teasing his glans through the plastic with the base of her palm, she thumbed the nappy down again slightly. Unbound, his penis sprang up, rigid and quivering. She lifted the spoon to his swinging sac, cradling it through the sheathing plastic, and his gasp was just audible through the gag.

  ‘A good waiter must be skilled at silver service,’ she remarked, lightly tossing his captive balls. ‘The art of the spoon and the fork?’ she murmured. ‘Silver service is what I paid for, and what I expected to receive when lunching with my important guests. You failed to deliver that, garcon. You failed miserably. Let me teach you the art of silver service.’ The prongs of the fork closed over his sac to meet the opposing face of the spoon, and then gripping the fork and the spoon in the classic silver service style, she skilfully trapped and tamed the perspiring Frenchman’s balls.

  ‘That’s great,’ Andrea said excitedly, shuffling closer to get a better shot. ‘Shift your elbow, darling… great!’ The web cam remorselessly captured the teasing, bullying dominance of the kneeling woman controlling the balls of her victim.

  ‘When serving up the à la carte vegetables,’ Beatrice went on malevolently, ‘be sure to drain them well.’ She squeezed gently, and Patrice pawed the carpet with his foot. ‘Broccoli and spinach, for example, benefit from this little touch.’ The ripple of undulating muscle along her forearm betrayed the slight increase in pressure from the spoon and fork pincer capturing his sac. His feet shuffled and he staggered slightly as his clamped balls bulged.