‘Reach in and pick out a tile,’ she instructed, and without knowing why, but not daring to disobey, Sophie did and felt a number of small cubes within the warm velvet. She then withdrew one of the tiles.
‘Read the number on it for us all to hear,’ Mrs Powell said, and Sophie weakly announced the number seven.
‘Damn it,’ Julian grumbled.
‘Good grief, George,’ Marjorie said, ‘how do you always do it?’
‘Just lucky, I guess,’ George chortled gleefully.
‘So what is it to be?’ Mrs Powell asked. ‘Are you going to choose to flog her, or be the first for “afters”?’
‘You are joking?’ George said, staring at Sophie with a delighted leer. ‘You sadists can compete for the pleasure of thrashing her, whereas I intend to be the first to fuck the succulent little morsel!’
This time her knees buckled so much that she might have fallen from the chair had the superintendent not supported her by the arm.
‘All right, Sophie, choose another tile, please,’ Mrs Powell continued, and the bewildered girl reached into the bag again. ‘Read it out, nice and clearly now.’
‘It’s n-number three,’ she managed.
‘Ho!’ the delighted superintendent exclaimed beside her. ‘I am really going to enjoy this, my dear!’
‘Twenty-two!’ the audience chorused as the twin tails bit yet again into Sophie’s bottom and she howled forlornly. The superintendent was as uncompromising as he was skilful. Every stroke of the tawse that cracked across her bottom was fearsomely harsh as well as accurate. Sophie twisted and moaned in pain, her buttocks and upper thighs boiling with pain. Surely the skin must have blistered, she thought as she writhed on Estelle’s back.
The blonde had won the right to ‘horse’ the girl, so she was made to put her arms around the woman’s neck, who bent a little, holding her wrists just above the handcuffs, and pulled the alarmed girl’s feet clear of the floor. It was a strange and insecure feeling. Her hands were pinioned, her naked breasts pressed into the back of the blonde’s angora sweater, while her stockinged toes dangled helplessly just above the carpeted floor
Until the first wicked stroke of the belt, that is. Once the twin tails cracked across her naked bottom with a pistol shot retort, Sophie’s feet danced rather than dangled. She writhed, she bucked, she twisted and she kicked as the police officer belted her with measured ferocity, but Estelle had no difficulty holding her in position.
‘She’s getting a little noisy, now,’ Mrs Powell said. ‘Shall we use the gag, do you think?’
‘Might be an idea,’ the superintendent conceded.
Sophie was barely capable of standing unsupported by now, but this was not a problem as many willing hands held her steady while her feet were lowered to the carpet. Hands also took the chance to feel her burning bottom and squeeze her breasts. One even rummaged between her legs.
‘Oh…’ Sophie began, startled by the rude fondling, but the rubber ball-gag was quickly fed between her teeth.
‘Open wider.’
Sophie hesitated again, alarmed by the gag, but a vicious pinch to her nipple made her open her mouth to shriek and the ball was pushed further in. After that it was the work of a moment to buckle the straps that held it in place, and then again she was hoisted onto Estelle’s back and her bottom clenched fearfully.
She heard the whistle of the tawse a second before the crack of the impact, and she heard the crack a second before the searing pain engulfed her. This time she could only emit a muffled squeal in response to the fire that blazed across her already tender bottom.
‘Twenty-three!’ the audience chorused enthusiastically.
‘Well, I don’t really see why not? Don’t be a spoilsport George.’
‘Look, Julian, who won the lottery? I want to fuck her first.’
‘Of course, old chap, no one is saying you shouldn’t, only I don’t see why I shouldn’t make use of the other end while you do your thing.’
‘Because I want the gorgeous little bitch to focus on me while I’m fucking her, that’s why. You can wait to get sucked off, surely?’
Sophie was weary and distracted by the throbbing in her punished rear, so the conversation only made vague sense to her.
Then her torso was pulled across the tabletop, the superintendent holding the chain of the handcuffs, making her stretch over the lustrous surface. Estelle lit a cigarette and watched with amused eyes, and Julian muttered about George’s selfishness.
Sophie gave a muffled moan. The gag was still in place and prevented any more coherent sound. George was feeling the soft folds between her legs and producing sensations strange and overwhelming, quite different and yet somehow connected to the soreness in her poor bottom.
‘She’s very wet already,’ he drooled.
‘Must be your immense charm, George,’ Estelle said sarcastically, then something firm and rounded pressed at Sophie’s sex lips, George gave a couple of grunts, and she felt him sink deep inside her with one lunging penetration, and after all the pain and humiliation suffered, rather to her surprise she was engulfed by waves of overwhelming pleasure.
George began to swear and snort, and Sophie’s orgasm came quickly. As she writhed on the table and panted around the gag, so George erupted inside her and she slumped, spent and exhausted on the polished mahogany.
George muttered an appreciative curse and withdrew, and Sophie felt the gag being unbuckled and the rubber ball eased from her aching mouth. She was still in a state of dreamy fatigue, her mind overwhelmed by extremes of sensation; pain, desire and humiliation, when her hair was clutched and her head pulled up. A glass of water was put to her lips, which she drank thankfully.
‘Now, Sophie,’ the superintendent said, ‘your evening isn’t over, so no time for rest yet. It’s time for you to fellate Mr Peterson. Then you can see how well your tongue does on a lady, and after that I am going to bugger you.’
‘Ah, there you are, Sophie,’ Mrs Powell said, smiling amiably at her. ‘I’ll be wanting both you and Sharon this evening.’
‘Yes, Mrs Powell,’ Sophie responded, and the woman was gone as quickly as she’d appeared. Sophie shared a glance with Sharon, an elegant blonde, who looked rather nervous.
‘Will they want us to…?’ Sharon began, but faltered. She was still fairly new to the household and had only been to two of Mrs Powell’s parties.
‘Dance?’ Sophie finished for her. ‘Yes, they will. They always want us to dance.’
‘No, I meant—’
‘Yes,’ Sophie cut her off a little impatiently. ‘Yes, of course they will want to do that too.’ She thought with dread about the tawse and the awful scoring system, and then she thought about the ‘afters’ with an altogether different emotion. But before that she would have to perform. As time had gone on her scores improved, but she’d not yet been able to get her forfeit under twenty strokes. ‘They always want to indulge themselves in such ways, Sharon,’ she said in a more sympathetic tone, looking into the blonde’s anxious eyes. ‘But if I were you, I should worry more about the quality of your dancing.’
The Honey Moons
The sound of distant church bells broke into Eve’s reverie, and she wondered how long she’d been sitting there looking at the picture album. She looked at the clock and felt a fluttering in her tummy, a potent mixture of anxiety and excitement thrilling her. There was no putting it off any longer. It was time to get prepared.
First she took a shower, gasping with pleasure as the jets of hot water pummelled her naked body. Eve loved to shower and usually lingered, but today was the big day and time was running short, so she turned it off and quickly dried herself. Then naked she sat in front of the dressing table mirror and blow-dried her long golden hair. She wondered if she should have gone to a hairdresser to have it elegantly styled, but Ross loved it left free to fall in tresses around
her shapely shoulders, and so did she.
It took time to dry and brush to shining perfection, and there was more urgency in her actions as she began to apply her make-up with customary skill. She kept it fairly simple; a touch of pale blue eye-shadow to compliment the deeper azure of her eyes and pick out the forget-me-nots in her bouquet, a touch of mascara to enhance her long eyelashes and just the merest hint of blusher. A sugar-pink shade of lipstick, matching her nail varnish, completed the job.
She stood and contemplated herself solemnly, lifting her firm, full breasts appraisingly. She tried to find fault, but she’d never been neurotic about such matters. In fact, Eve had to admit that her self-criticism was unfounded. The truth was that her figure looked pretty damned good.
‘Eve!’ a voice called from downstairs. ‘Eve, get a move on!’
The basque was in a flat box, wrapped in tissue paper, and she took it out almost reverently. It was delicate white lace and satin, and had cost a small fortune. Much too much to pay for just one day, however special, she thought with a guilty smile as she hooked the garment up and adjusted her breasts in the scalloped lace cups.
She took the flat packet of stockings from the drawer and snapped off the cellophane wrapper. They were pure white with deep lace tops. She smoothed them up her long legs and clipped them to the suspenders of the basque with a little difficulty; mounting nervousness was making her fingers clumsy, she realised.
One garter, white lace and blue satin; she pulled it up around her right thigh, then hurriedly slipped on the costly white silk knickers. Little fingerless lace gloves followed and, at last, she was ready for the dress.
She should have got Elaine to help her, she thought as she struggled to get into the thing. Fortunately the white silk creation was front fastening, otherwise she might have been there wrestling with rustling silk for the rest of the day.
‘Eve!’
‘Nearly ready!’
She had to run the brush through her hair again before she placed the veil over her head, then picking up the bouquet she allowed herself a last look at her reflection.
‘Wow,’ she said, astonished; the girl in the mirror really did look pretty damned fabulous, she had to admit. She might have been a model in a wedding magazine.
Ross shrugged off the jacket of his morning suit and placed it on the back of an upright chair. She watched him move with pleasure. He was ten years older than her, but very fit and tanned, six foot tall, with short dark hair.
If the bride was nervous, it was clear that the groom did not share the feeling. Indeed, Ross seemed positively relaxed. As she stood wondering what to do he poured himself a brandy and settled into a comfortable chair. Only then did he give her his attention. She found herself standing a little awkwardly in front of him as his dark brown eyes locked onto hers. He kept looking intently at her, until she began to blush.
‘That really is a beautiful dress, Eve,’ he said at last, slowly swirling the brandy around in the glass. ‘But now it’s time to take it off.’
She could feel her cheeks glowing. Eve had known, of course, that this would be part of the bargain, but she had not expected this moment to come so soon. She looked at the window with something close to alarm. It was still light outside. It was not even time to go to bed.
‘Please…’ she began, but her voice wavered, the look of displeasure in his eyes stopping her short.
‘You have already kept me waiting once today.’ His voice had become a low, menacing growl. ‘I really would not advise doing so again.’
It seemed she had no choice, so blushing furiously she began to undo the dress with trembling fingers. He watched from the chair sipping his brandy, making no move to help.
‘Put it over there, that’s right, now come and stand in front of me,’ he said, quietly but firmly. ‘I want to look at you.’ She could not have explained why, but she found his insistent tone more difficult to disobey than any bellowed order could have been. His strength and air of authority were a part of what had attracted her to Ross in the first place. Now that authoritative aura seemed to hold her in its spell.
Still blushing uncontrollably Eve did as she was told, and feeling an intoxicating mixture of excitement and embarrassment, stood awkwardly in her bridal lingerie before her husband, who calmly sat and contemplated her from his chair.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you to cover yourself. Keep your hands at your sides, please Eve, I want to look at you.’
‘Please, Ross…’ she managed timorously, wishing she could control her furious blushing.
‘What was it you said at the wedding ceremony?’ he demanded, a touch of real anger in his voice. ‘I thought you vowed to honour and obey.’
Eve bit her lip. It was true. However embarrassed she might be, she must honour her vows. Reluctantly she took her hands away from her lace-cupped breasts, horribly aware that the white filigree did little to veil her nipples, which for some reason seemed to have become startlingly erect. Somehow she forced her trembling fingers to her sides.
Ross took a sip of brandy and perused her with unhurried but all too evident relish. Eve found it almost unbearable to stand and be appraised in such a way. She felt like a harem slave, displayed for the pleasure of some eastern potentate. It was too much and she felt she must protest.
‘Please, Ross…’ she began again, but her husband raised a finger and frowned.
‘No,’ he said, quietly but firmly, ‘I do not want you to speak. I want you to be quiet. Now, my girl, come closer.’
She looked at the beckoning finger, and then hesitantly moved to him, feeling hypnotised, somehow powerless to rebel, until she stood so close that her stockinged leg almost touched his suited knee, so close that she could smell the heady scent of expensive brandy in his glass, so close that she could hear her husband breath. He reached out a tanned hand and gripped her lace-encased thigh, just above her knee, and she could not help whimpering in response to his firm, almost painful grip.
‘Be quiet and be still,’ he ordered, stroking the stockinged flesh with evident relish, Eve trying, with limited success, to control the trembling his caressing hand provoked.
‘Turn around.’
Eve did, and gasped as he patted her silk-sheathed bottom.
‘Now Eve, I want you to place your hands behind your neck.’
She did as she was told, and his hand continued to caress her bottom.
‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘You have a truly lovely bum, Eve, and it feels so nice in these silk knickers that I could touch it all day, so it is almost a pity that they have to come down now.’
What did he mean to do next? Her heart was hammering as she felt him slip his thumbs into the waistband of her panties and ease them down to her stocking tops. She was desperate to find out his intentions, but following his firm instruction to be silent she did not dare ask.
‘I am going to spank you now, Eve,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts.
‘Sp-spank me…?’ The statement was so outrageous that for a moment she quite forgot herself.
‘Shhhh…’ His hand was back on her bare bottom, fondling the soft cheeks possessively. ‘You made me wait. I do not like to be kept waiting. I want you to understand that, so I intend to spank you before we go to bed. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said softly, for there seemed to be nothing else to say.
‘All right,’ his hand was still cupping her bare behind, ‘I want you to get over my knee.’
‘Oh please… Ross… sir,’ she stumbled. ‘This really isn’t necessary… ow!’
Her husband chuckled as he pinched her, but when he spoke his voice remained commanding. ‘I will decide what is necessary,’ he stated. ‘Now, I really do suggest that you do as I say without question.’
Not daring to disobey him further, Eve apprehensively lowered herself onto his lap and felt a hand
clasp her waist, feeling the warmth of his fingers through the satin and lace of her basque. She could feel something else, too – something rigid beneath Ross’s trousers, pressing against her flank as he held her.
‘Such a sweet bottom,’ he said. ‘My own honey moons.’ He chuckled at his own pun and smacked her gently. Eve held her breath with trepidation, quite unable to share in his amusement, the anticipation becoming unbearable.
Then the stroking stopped and the only sound in the room was the previously unheard clock, as she waited for his hand to sweep viciously down.
Smack! Eve gave a gasp of relieved tension and felt the heat start to suffuse her left buttock.
Smack! Another solid spank bounced off her right cheek.
The next smack stung the bare back of her upper left thigh, taking her a little by surprise. She couldn’t stop herself wriggling, and felt her husband’s restraining hand on her waist grip tighter as another slap impacted on her right thigh.
‘Be quiet and stop squirming,’ he admonished, the latter in particular being an order she struggled to obey, her bottom glowing, every new smack making her writhe helplessly in response, the relentless sensuality of the punishment stronger than the spell of his authority.
‘This is to teach you that you are mine now,’ he told her. ‘Rings and churches are all very well, but for you and me this is the real ceremony.’ More solid spanks rained down on her bottom to punctuate his words and Eve tried not to cry or wriggle, but it was just too much, too intense to lie still and endure. Her bottom was really stinging, and every new smack made her yelp with pain.
‘Please Ross, ow!’ she babbled helplessly as her husband spanked her bare bottom with skill and obvious relish. ‘Please I’m, ow! I’m sorry for keeping you, ow, waiting. I promise I won’t do it again.’
At last he stopped, but by now her bottom cheeks were glowing, and in truth the sensation was more pleasurable than really painful.
Damsels in Distress Page 17