Woman on Woman

by Hilary Chale

  “Not yet. I was still feeling it when you rang.”

  “In that case, go and look and ring me back.”

  “I can do better than that, darling ... Hang on a moment.”

  She got up off the sofa and padded with the telephone into the hall where a pair of corner mirrors, at right angles to each other made useful assistance to the final adjustments of femininity. She knelt on a large pouffe with her behind towards them, put the telephone stand on the floor and looked back.

  “Well?”

  “I say! ... This is something to be seen!”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m counting ... Starting at the top there’s a thick red welt just about where my bum starts to divide. I think there are really three there. Then just below, about half an inch, there’s one which has gone purple. In fact it’s two, making five ... Then counting downwards there are ... six, seven, eight, nine and a triple making twelve, and two ...”

  “I make that fourteen,” Isabel said, “how far down have you got?”

  “About a third of the way down my curve ... fifteen, sixteen ... four more on top of each other ... I can see their ends ... make twenty. One and two and three and four. They are just where my bum starts to turn in. Twenty-five. Here’s a big lot. It must have bled a bit. I should think about eight, all purple and black.”

  “Thirty-three so far.”

  “Then three just touching that lot.”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “And then a bit lower down, four ... that’s forty, and two more, forty-six, and two more again, forty-eight, and there’s a one right on the crease ... I remember that one. It felt different, as if it were cutting something. It’s black, too.”

  “You moved, serve you right.”

  Jasmine sniggered.

  “Are you bending to the mirror or have you got your legs up?”

  “Bending.”

  “Very properly.”

  “You gave me lot more than forty-nine, didn’t you?”

  “Yes ... Remember the eighteen I gave you at the end?”

  Jasmine remembered.

  “I started with six and went up ... I wish I had my calculator.”

  “A hundred and forty-four,” Jasimine said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of the figure, yes. But why aren’t there more stripes on my bum? Do you suppose seven or eight fell on each place in reality?”

  Isabel said:

  “You did bleed, you know. It kind of welled up in places ... Wanking attractive ... Those must’ve been the ones which turned black.”

  “The black ones are mostly about half way down, give or take a couple of inches.”

  “A bit trickled down your thigh, too. I must try that again.”

  “I remember the trickling, it felt cold.”

  “But it seems a bit odd that there are so few stripes.”

  There was a longish pause in this girlish chatter and then Isabel said darkly:

  “Are you getting high?”

  “Ever since you rang.”

  “Very high?”

  “YES!” The hand was pumping in and out.

  “Do you want the cane again?”

  “Yes.”

  “From me?”

  “Oh yes, please.”

  “Shall I come across and make you bend over?”

  “You’re making me come!”

  “Make you bend over?”

  “I’m coming!”

  “I’ll cut a hundred stripes into your bending arse.”

  “I’m ...”

  There was another pause while Jasmine’s belly jerked with the spasms towards her climax. Then Isabel said invitingly: “Have you?”

  “M-m.”

  Isabel knew that her friend could achieve almost as many times as she wanted. It was mainly a question of touching the right chord. Last night she had gone past the barrier so often that they had lost count.

  “How often have you done it since last night?”

  “This is the first,” Jasmine said, gently fingering her clitoris again. Isabel divined her condition with the words:

  “Shall I make you kiss my pussy?”

  “M-m-m.”

  To Jasmine, if there was one thing more beautiful than another, it was the dark slit which began just below the black forest on Isabel’s mound. Big and soft, it opened demandingly when Isabel’s legs were up and wide, or protruded between the back of her naked thighs, alarming yet seductively available, as it indicated its association with the anal funnel higher up. Those entrances, Jasmine well knew, had been ... were often handled, entered and occupied by pricks round which Isabel’s desire throbbed and sucked until they incontinently spurted into the mystery of her belly or filled the backward channel between her buttocks.

  “Shall I make you kiss my sex?”

  “M-m-m-m.”

  Jasmine felt herself rising again.

  “Shall I take down your pants and whip you to do it?”

  Rising.

  One particular of Jasmine’s mind in relation to Isabel, was that she never felt the need to have a cock. She had two perfectly self-satisfactory holes of her own, and men to thrust their way into them. The same young man had broken her open virginally and anally long ago. It had been a one night stand; painful and satisfying. Now, with Isabel, there was a sort of analogy, but it repeated itself. Her need was to worship, to kiss Isabel’s intimacies, and to have her haunches chastised.

  Suddenly, as if of its own motion, her frigging rhythm rose. She looked back at the astonishing reflection in the mirror. The black and purple and red expanse of her backside had acquired a new significance. It was important that they should hurt, and bent tight as they were in her position, they did. But she wanted the pain to continue.

  “Yes! Oh yes please!” she said in reply to Isabel’s question. She was already at the edge of another crisis.

  “You’re coming again, aren’t you?”

  “Soon, very soon.”

  “Now ... Do it very slowly ... Ve-ry slowly ... You’re going to kiss my pussy from underneath. Open your lips wide ... That’s right. Now get my pussy-lips inside your lips ... That’s gorgeous. Now don’t forget that painful bum of yours. Now put your legs up so that you show it and your pussy to me. Are you doing that?”

  “Oh-h Isabel, yes!”

  It was difficult but she managed to get her feet into the air so that she could see her sex open between her raw punished fesses.

  “That’s it! Now feel your way into my pussy with your tongue ... Further! And I’m going to lean over and spank your bruises with this sandal ... Further! ... With my ...”

  And without the final word Jasmine came and Isabel all those miles away, knew it. She had arranged it, as she always did and as she had arranged the events, not entering Jasmine’s leisurely recollection, of the previous night.

  The sequence had begun twenty-four hours earlier still, when Jasmine was faced with an inexplicable quarrel. Isabel had stormed at her in a scattering of arguments, accusations and sneers. Jasmine had found herself on the street catching a bus. She had been upset, but not in despair; it had happened before. The aftermath, ranging from six weeks of sulks to a Billet Doux expressed as if nothing whatever had happened, was quite unpredictable. The one probability was that the evening date for the next day was off.

  Even that was unpredictable. Isabel rang at breakfast.

  “Ever done any whoring?” she said abruptly.

  “No. Why?”

  “I’ve got a bloke ...”

  “I didn’t know you ...”

  “Wants two women and a cane.”

  Jasmine’s crawling sensation in her (then unsullied) behind had warned her that however outrageous th
e proposition, she would say ‘yes’.

  “He’s very rich,” Isabel continued, “I was talking to him last night in the club.”

  “Oh yes!”

  “Queenie say’s he’s all right and barmaids generally know.”

  “I didn’t know you did this.”

  “I don’t. Jamais de la vie, but I thought it might be fun for once. Try anything once ... or twice. Besides, he mentioned a figure.”

  “Did her? How did all this happen?”

  “Sex raised its ugly head ... Phallic phrase ... And it got round from the general to the particular, and by that time he was rather more than patting my bottom. And I let our about the cane ... Anyway, he finished by offering œ300.”

  “œ300.”

  “And I said I’d let him know ... His place is near Maida Vale.”

  “I must say.”

  “You’re attracted? So’m I ... Shall we go? After ALL ...”

  Jasmine had understood by the rising note of the ALL that Isabel would thrash her in the end, anyway, so she might as well make money out of it.

  “OK, Isabel.”

  “Fine, I’ll tell him and ring you back.”

  So they had met at Maida Vale station and had strolled up the road looking for the house. Isabel, quite uninhibited, had brought several canes tied together loosely with a bit of string. They brought curious glances from passers-by. They decided to drop into a pub because Isabel was against being too punctual. She put the canes on the bar counter and they had a couple of gins. More glances.

  “Dunno what he does, but ‘spect you’ve seen him at the club. He’s called Roger ... Roger Carr-something. Sometimes has the odd girl in tow ... Can’t say I’ve noticed any of them sitting down carefully.”

  “Those bar stools are pretty hard,” Jasmine remarked. Then they moved on, Isabel saying as they got out into the road: “Haven’t done you for ages, come to think of it.”

  “No. Bum’s pale and interesting. I was looking. Quite Narcissistic before I pulled on my pants.”

  Isabel stopped in the road.

  “Damn!” she said. “I forgot to tell you not to wear any. You could’ve taken them off in the pub ‘loo. He’s keen on girls without pants ... fixation or something.”

  “We could go into another pub.”

  Isabel looked at her watch. “No time now. You’ll have to take them off here.”

  “What! Here in the street?”

  “Yes,” Isabel smiled.

  “But ... but ...”

  Isabel drew a cane out of the bundle. She was smiling a particular smile which Jasmine had learned to associate with her sexual aggression. She had a visual sensation of being caned, skirt down or even skirt up, over that low garden wall out here on the pavement. The idea was not wholly a fantasy, and you never knew with Isabel. Isabel had once made her bend over on a golf course. She had pulled a Nilghiri out of her golf-bag and fairly laid it into the seat of Jasmine’s jeans, over a tee-box, regardless of followers-on on the nearby green. She looked up and down the road.

  Several cars were parked alongside the pavement, screening it from the other side. A big red pillar-box shut out the view from ahead. Isabel could stand guard from behind. The pants came down and off in a trice. She stepped out of them, picked them up and put them in her bag. The air at her genitals gave her a curious feeling.

  “Triumph of mind over convention,” Jasmine said.

  “And we can’t be far: this is No. 138. No. 144 is what we’re looking for.”

  He opened the door himself when they rang.

  “Sorry we’re a bit late,” said Isabel boldly, “Jasmine had to take her knickers off.”

  His white shirt and tightly cut trousers very precisely outlined a visible effect of this announcement.

  “Supper’s ready. Who’ll serve it?”

  Jasmine too her cue. “Me,” she said.

  “There’s Champagne in the sitting room and Lobster pasties in the kitchen. Start by opening the Champagne.”

  Jasmine was good with Champagne bottles but did not know her way about the house. She decided not to ask, but to explore. Isabel put the canes on the mantelpiece. As Jasmine passed Roger, who was sitting on a sofa arm, he put his hand up her skirt. It was a warm and sympathetic hand searching the cleft between her buttocks. She checked, remembering why she was there, to give him a little time. He said, “let me see.”

  She bent down and took up the back of her pleated skirt.

  “Lovely ... Isn’t it, Isabella? Do you prefer it plain or striped?”

  Jasmine thrust it back towards him and said archly:

  “White or pink? ... I mean the Lobster pasties, of course.”

  “Oh yes,” he said, letting her go, “the Lobster pasties.”

  She blundered, (on purpose) into one or two other places on the way to the kitchen. A dining room, a cloakroom, a study, decorated with paintings of nudes in intimate postures. She found the pasties. Some, as it turned, were pink, others white. When she got back to the sitting room he said: “Enjoy my nudes?”

  She felt her blushes but decided to put a bold face on it. “There wasn’t time to enjoy them ... as one might,” she said.

  “Would you pose yourself?”

  “Plain or striped?” she quoted.

  “Now, that’s an idea.” He glanced at Isabel, who was leaning against the mantelpiece. She raised an eyebrow. He nodded and she took up a cane.

  “Strip-tease first,” he said.

  Jasmine had sensibly put on easily removable garments. The jacket came first, and then she handed the patties round. The blouse came next, revealing the proportions inside her bra. She topped up his glass. Then, of course the bra came off and brought out her pink and stiffly protuberant nipples. The camera whirred again. She had decided to keep her necklace, a black bead six-stringed one. It set off her throat and breasts with a kind of simple splendour. He said:

  “Make her kneel on that chair and give her six of the best.”

  It was a low-backed chair, and when she knelt on it she could easily bend over and hold the crossbar between the legs on the other side. Isabel threw up her skirt. Then came the whirr and jar and throat catching rush of the first stroke, followed by the alarming pain of the second, the third, the fourth and the fifth. Jasmine stayed where she was, expectant. After a moment’s delay she said: “What about the sixth?”

  “She’s quite right,” Roger said, “count the welts.”

  “Sorry,” said Isabel, and unleashed the sixth. “Funny sort of mistake to make on a virgin bottom ... One tends to mis-count later.”

  Jasmine stood up and the skirt fell to cover her. She opened another bottle. Then she stood in the middle of the room and dropped her skirt to the floor. She was careful to show her striped behind to each while she refilled the glass of the other.

  “Perfect service,” he said, “deserves a reward, touch your toes.” Isabel got up and took a cane at random. Jasmine could not reached her toes but, with her back to Roger, grasped her separated ankles.

  “Same again?”

  “Give her seven.”

  So Jasmine felt seven strokes cleave into her, but because she was bending tightly and Isabel did not believe in hitting low, they all landed in a single assemblage near the apex of her bum. She could observe back between her legs that Roger was caressing the bulge in his trousers.

  Now they took their glasses into the dining room which, as she had noticed earlier, had three narrow tables, each only wide enough for a single place, and arranged like an opened out capital E with the middle tongue missing. Each diner could thus be served across the table. Roger took the middle, with Isabel on the right and Jasmine on the left near the door.

  “Glad you took your skirt off,” said Isabel. She had brought the canes and put
them across the end of the sideboard. Jasmine was in the full blaze of high heels, sheer stockings and rosetted garters pointing to her sacred triangle on the one side and to her thirteen stripes on the other. She filled the soup plates from the tureen and sat down in her place.

  “Does it hurt to sit down?”

  “I feel it,” she said. Isabel said, “that comes later.”

  “Eight after the soup,” he said.

  When they had finished, Jasmine said: “Better clear the plates first.”

  “Yes and then bend over your own table.”

  It was more comfortable than holding her ankles, and besides, she could watch him while the cane strokes whistled and cut into her behind. She was beginning, as she usually did after eighteen or so, to come to terms with it. When she stood up, she was quite ready for the next course and its probable aftermath. Acting on his instructions, she carved the pheasant while he watched the movement of her buttocks and looked for hints of her scabbard. There was also some good decanted claret to be poured. They talked a great deal, but the only matter which she could recall at this point was that he explained about the chef and his wife, who between them cooked and laid up to the minute and then tactfully left.

  “What happens if your guests are late?”

  “If they’re called Jasmine, they get caned.”

  “And if Jasmine isn’t late?” Isabel asked.

  “Then Jasmine gets the cane just the same.”

  Jasmine was beginning to feel that lift in the genitals which came before randiness.

  “Before second helpings?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Nine, of course,” Isabel said when Jasmine bent over the serving table; and as the first backstroke wiped the air, she felt herself beginning. She pressed her sensitive part against the table edge and stiffened her belly muscles into the blessed spasms as the cane, a new one, slashed her backside.

  “Won-derful,” she said when she stood up.

  “Ten more, Roger?”

  “Go on, Isabella. Bend over again, Jasmine.”

  She was rising again and Isabel of course knew, as she widened the intervals between the cuts, thirty-eight, thirty-nine. “Coming?” Isabel said in a low compelling voice; and then she replied passionately as the orgasm shook: