As the smooth round tip bored into her slit, all the stresses and strains of the day were focussed on those frantic inches of tissue.
Cock met pussy In a moist, dark ritual of homage. Flesh rigid and flesh resilient cleaved and clasped in urgent need.
But Adam was not done. One more heave wheelbarrowed her up the bed until, still securely entrenched, he collapsed on her back. Forcing his hands beneath her clothes, he caught her tits in a crushing grip. Defenceless, she lay pinned by his weight, his breath quick on her face.
Her thighs were loose, pointing the way as he moved. With the handholds for leverage he rocked on her ass, the buoying buttocks smoothing the slip and slide of his reaming rod.
Harder and harder he thrust, pistoning prick ramming and jamming fresh sensations into her welcoming womb; each squelching heave forcing air from her lungs in a moan of ecstasy.
They came together, spurling knob and creaming slit feeding flames of lust to their blazing souls.
***
Heather capitulated. From swimming pool to sun-bed to hairdressers, she had pried and prompted. As much as Debbie was telling she already knew: that Adam had spanked her, then - a fair but unconfirmed guess - screwed her battered little ass off. More than that Debbie wasn’t saying.
She gathered they had attended a fancy-dress party on the Saturday night, though Heather thought she sensed an element of shock in Debbie’s reticence over the costumes. Even allowing for Deb’s basic naivety, Heather’s imagination boggled at what might have gone on.
As they parted, she consoled herself with the knowledge that her one single virtue was patience and time would undoubtedly reveal all.
***
“You’re home late!” Adam snapped, his eyes never leaving his new illustration.
“It was the hairdress-”
“Never mind. Change!”
Since that fateful weekend, both of them had changed. Adam had ... grown? ... Yes. Definitely grown in stature. Become more masterful where previously tenderness had ruled over reason. And Debbie? She had grown too, but in an entirely different way. That night in the caravan had triggered a response in her which was a whole new plane of existence.
The following day it had taken her a while to comprehend his new-found arrogance. But any doubts she had as to her expected reaction were dispelled when she was unceremoniously upended over his knee and spanked for merely being slow on the uptake. By evening she was complying with Adam’s every whim as meekly as Petra. And enjoying every minute of it.
At last she knew where she stood. And why. For her, the battle of the sexes was over. Not as a prisoner but as a vanquished and willing serf.
No longer did she worry about pleasing Adam; he laid it all out for her. She had found, through every fault of her own, exactly what she had unknowingly sought all her life. Which didn’t make her less than she had been. In fact it made her more. Including a damn sight happier! Every day showed some new facet of the man whose sublimated manhood had hitherto been expressed mainly through his art.
A further advantage had been revealed the very night of the fancy-dress party and was in some ways the ultimate accolade. Nothing she ever did or said would ever go unrecognised again. In common with Petra and the other wives, she received the attention less fortunate women longed in vain for.
Adam’s eye for detail naturally meant that nothing noteworthy was overlooked, including her clothes - another concern which blossomed on party night, when he created her costume himself out of a pair of shoes and two coats of water based paint, decorating her bare body with an amazingly convincing maid’s uniform complete with lacy apron.
The mini-skirted dress was gauged to such a nicety that not one person detected the forgery at first glance. For Debbie it turned out to be the biggest turn-on she ever had minus her clothes. Even when second and third glances became fixed stares, she had to be ordered to cease parading and dance - somewhat gingerly in case the paint rubbed off - with Adam, whose pleasure in his work was equally obvious.
Back home on the Monday morning, he had gone eagerly to work, tracking down suppliers of the real thing via mail order catalogues full of sexy and exotic leisure wear in every conceivable material.
“What’s keeping you?” Adam bawled. “He’ll be here shortly.”
A muffled: “Who?” came back at him.
“Peter. He’s invited himself round for a chat. So get changed.”
“But ...”
“GET-ON-WITH-IT!” He ordered in a passing equivalent of Peter’s stentorian tones.
Many were the times Debbie had donned odd items of clothing to model for her husband. This, however, was altogether something else. Each time she wore the new outfits she underwent a transformation. Something akin to an actor putting on a character, perhaps. She would feel unutterably exposed and vulnerable, yet impishly incorrigible.
Hurriedly discarding her street clothes, Debbie took the ‘uniform of the day’ from the wardrobe. Before the full length mirror she applied each article to her body with narcisstic deliberation, savouring the thin, supple black leather against her skin.
First was the brassiere: a halter neck with narrow ties, which moulded perfectly to her high, gently curving breasts. Each cup had a three inch vertical slit which yielded to the imperative thrust, allowing her coral pink nipples to peek through.
Then she buckled on the deep suspender belt which moulded, flawless skin upon flawless skin, over the swell of her hips. Next came the stockings: sheer black, seamed gossamer embroidered above the ankle with the coiled menace of a bullwhip.
Old habits die hard and she caught herself reaching for the panties. But of course, there weren’t meant to be any with that outfit!
The skirt was almost chaste - almost. Fastening at the waist with velcro, it flowed sleekly over belly and bottom, draping so lightly she half expected it to flutter on thermals of body heat. Reaching to mid-thigh, modesty capitulated in the face of a full length slit which exposed her left flank when standing and a lot more when sitting.
The last items were a contrivance of Adam’s own, intended to wreck her equilibrium. Purchasing two pairs of black patent shoes, he had swapped them round to create pairs of uneven height. He changed the pairs at will, so today she found herself obliged to wear a four-inch heeled left shoe with a six-inch heeled right. To avoid accidents as she tottered about, straps passed under the shoe, crossed on the instep and buckled behind the ankle. making it impossible to step out of them unintentionally. “Next time I’ll get them with ankle straps attached,” Adam had told her, not in the least disconcerted by her moue of ingratitude.
Head up, tits out! Stomach in, back straight! Yup, quite a sight if she did say so herself. Taking a step forward, Debbie watched the flash of thigh as the skirt eased with her. She looked - and felt - like an orgasm waiting for a place to ... The bedroom door slammed open, making her jump!
“Get the fuck out here! He’s arrived.
Debbie hadn’t heard the bell but there was Peter right enough, sprawled across the sofa swirling ice cubes in a glass of decaffeinated cola.
“Deborah,” Peter nodded, his greeting inevitably pitched to reach the little man jumping up and down at the back of the crowd. His appraisal was slow and appreciative. “By Christ, I envy you, Adam. Y’lucky bastard. What a difference a few decades makes. When I was your age girls didn’t look like that. Not even in volley ball snaps. When I think back ...” a rare look of mingled sadness and disappointment crossed his face, “... my youth wasn’t so much mis-spent as lost through a hole in my pocket. What a waste!”
Debbie’s reaction to Peter’s candour was a coquettish curtsey which caused the skirt to flare briefly. Disbelieving the evidence of his eyes, Peter gestured at her belly.
“Did I see what I think I saw?’ he asked.
Adam grinned proudly. “Sh
ow him, Debs.”
She hesitated. Knowing Peter had already seen her wearing nothing but body paint did little to nullify the shock of exposing herself to him in the sanctity of her own home. Her hand ripped the velcro part way, then stopped. Head cocked to one side she studied the two men. Adam coolly standing with his fair hair a curly halo against the bright window - a reassuring omen? Peter sitting thin lipped, his pate shining bleakly through the thin, black cross-combed hair which was mocked by the lush moustache beneath the cold eyes. Adam’s mind was obviously on the jest to which Peter was about to become privy. Peter - as a glance at the indistinct but patently inert mass bulging the top of his trouser leg attested - was at least temporarily stricken only by curiosity.
So she tugged.
“Phew!” Peter whistled, leaning forward as if authenticating a work of fine art. “Feet apart, m’dear. Just a mite.”
It was indeed a work of cirrate art, courtesy of Adam’s concept, a beautician’s steady hand and the trimming attachment on Debbie’s electric shaver which maintained the creation in clipped perfection: her rich mahogany pubic hair had been meticulously shaped into a heart.
***
Peter seemed amused by Debbie’s pointed glances at his crotch, making no move to cross his legs. He spoke to Adam without once removing his own eyes from her as she fiddled and fidgeted round the room.
“You’ve made a lot of progress, old lad, I can see. Of course, it takes some longer than others. D’you remember the Gladstones?”
Adam shook his head doubtfully. “Don.t think so.”
“Herbert and Flora, You can’t have missed them. Very - and I mean Very - large woman. Husband thin as a rake, with a fetish for wearing towels. Ring a bell?”
“Ah.,yes.”
“Well, it took them ages to get to where you are after just a few weeks. Mind you, in their own way they are almost unique. Flora can work miracles with her pussy, so Herb tells me. She can vary the pressure virtually inch by inch. Even ripple it. Must be quite an experience.”
“What’s his forte, then?” Adam wondered what the male equivalent of Flora’s dexterity could possibly be.
“The biggest teapot and spout I’ve ever seen. No kidding.”
“Oh. Her size would be no problem in that case.”
“Hardly! Do you remember our original conversation?”
Adam shot an almost guilty look at Debbie. “Yes.”
“You had a problem. I suggested a solution. Ergo, problem solved.”
“Correct.”
“Because - “ Peter faltered as Debbie bobbed over to the coffee table and bent to clear their dirties. “Deborah! Don’t move. Please.”
Gesturing at the breasts hammocked beneath her torso, nipples protruding like detonators on a mine, he said : “Second wonder of the world, Adam. Eh? No matter how often you palm’em, you can’t help wondering about tits. That fantastic softness.”
Adam had his own curiosity. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like having a cock-filled belly. Can they feel the spunk splashing into them, or only the twitching?”
Both men grinned at the girl, who looked from one to the other with a knowing twinkle.
“Well?” Adam prompted.
“And spoil the mystery? Then how would you while away those lonesome hours on the lavatory?” She responded. “Anyway, by the same token, how does the cock feel? Is it waving or drowning?”
Once more she looked at Peter’s pudenda, unresponsive even to dirty talk. Just what, she wondered, was his kink? He wasn’t past it. She’d heard that much each night in the caravan. Was she just not his type, then? But there was a tenor in his voice which told her she could be, given some abstruse condition.
Adam laughed. “Beats me.”
“Now that’s settled then, can I stand up and take these things into the kitchen?”
“If our guest has no objections. Remain there until I call.”
Peter nodded. “Fine by me. Now, where were we?”
“Herbert and Flora,” said Debbie as she wibble-wobbled cheekily away.
“Ah, yes. Propensities, Adam. In a word yours! Have you conquered your guilt?”
“Ye-ss,” Adam confessed.
“Would it be fair to assume that your palm now itches to correct Deborah’s faults?”
“Hm-hm.”
“And that you no longer wait to have your nose rubbed in some misdemeanour, but actively seek reasons to punish her? Be frank.”
Adam hesitated, savouring the uncertainty. Peter was leading him somewhere. But where? Finally: “Agreed.”
“Why?”
“I don’t understand.”
Peter smirked. “I believe you do,’’ he said archly. “Think back to that first night at the club.”
“All right, I enjoyed it,” Adam mumbled.
“Past tense?”
“I-enjoy- it,” he expanded testily.
“Better. Deborah does, to. And that is not in question. I can see it for myself even if there isn’t so much as a finger mark on her arse!”
“Peter, what is this leading up to?”
“Precisely that. You enjoy punishing Deborah, you enjoy inflicting pain. The comparative lack of severity is irrelevant to the principle, I am sure you will agree. You therefore enjoy Deborah’s ... what word should I use ... discomfort? Or can we be truthful enough to specify suffering?”
“It’s a game, though.”
“Pain is real. Ever and always. Just as your psychic pain was tangible at the prospect of penury and a broken marriage. Has she behaved herself since?”
“More or less.
“And is the less deliberate, perhaps? To keep the ball in play? Consider this, Adam.” Peter became engrossed in examining his hands, giving the younger man the chance to work through his reactions unobserved. “The equation in its simplest form is: pain equals pleasure. For both of you.”
Adam swallowed “So?”
“Why limit it to crime and punishment? Why not extend your authority to every facet of your lives? Assert absolute control?”
Adam was openly puzzled: “I thought I had.”
“You made your wishes known and left it up to her to more or less honour them. By your own admission. That is nothing more than every day, common-or-garden survival. We are discussing a higher equation, remember, than household chores and sexy lingerie.”
“You mean quit the qualifying rounds and jump straight into the final?” Adam asked with a now familiar flutter in his stomach.
“Exactly.”
“How?”
“You trusted me once.”
“And am happy to do so again.” The flutter became an expectant itch Adam couldn’t wait for Peter to scratch!
Peter leaned forward earnestly. “In the words of the best B-movie gangster films. Here’s my plan!”
***
“You men had a lot to talk about,” Debbie pouted when her
summons finally came. “Has Peter gone?”
“Obviously,” said Adam tartly. “Where did you go this afternoon?”
“As you were working, I thought ...”
“Where?”
Her face blanked. The ominous tone was a sombre reminder of his last little chat with Peter Wardle. “Heather wanted ...”
“Heather again?” he interjected.
“... to start a tan before her holiday, so we went to the health club after shopping.”
“Shopping? We did the shopping yesterday.”
“Just some underwear. I thought we needed a change.”
“We?”
“I bought you some new underpants, too.” Debbie told him, chancing a wicked leer which didn’t quite come off. “Your old boxers are on their last legs.”
“T
hey are comfortable.
“Well I got you a selection from the new boutique. If you like any, I’II get you more.”
“Show me the cheque stubs.
“I - er ... I forgot my chequebook.”
“But not your cheque card, I assume?”
Debbie gulped and shifted uneasily in the mismatched shoes.
Adam extended a finger: “Question one - how much did you withdraw from the cash-point?” He lifted its neighbour in a rudimentary gesture: “Question two - how much is left?”
“A hundred.
Adam waited in silence.
“In actual cash? Another hundred. About.” Another gulp.
Adam’s jaw dropped and his fingers slowly closed in a gesture which would have made a strong man wince. “A couple of good commissions and you think Christmas has come early. Well hear this proclamation: Lent starts today. Understood?”
She nodded meekly.
“L E N T. Which means ...” he sought a pertinent phrase, but the best he could contrive on the spur was: “Let’s Expect Nothing Tomorrow! Hmm?” He paced the room thoughtfully, determined to lay a foundation substantial enough to withstand the traumas soon to be heaped upon Debbie’s benighted head. “Remove your shoes.”
She did so, somewhat awkwardly since his instruction hadn’t mentioned sitting down. The straps were a bother, causing her to sway precariously on each foot in turn.
“Straighten up! Hands on your head. No! Not behind your neck. AND KEEP YOUR BLOODY HEAD STILL!”
Adam’s gaze traversed her body. Lifted and tautened by her upraised arms the breasts had withdrawn behind their leather curtains, the slits closing upon the teats like lips tasting a kiss. The suspender belt clung to her flat belly before spreading tight over the callipygean hips. The black nylon beckoned so strongly it took effort of will not to stoop and kiss the legs, which stretched every seductive inch from here right up to there.
Wage Slave Page 5