by Sarah Steel
Twisting in her strict bondage, Ann strained to look up over her shoulder at the strawberry-blonde. For me? she asked silently through raised eyebrows of disbelief. For you, the slightly perspiring naked German nodded in silent reply.
Wriggling now to overcome the ropes at her wrists and ankles which hampered her considerably, Ann inched her nakedness towards the waiting Nantes truffle, dragging her bare breasts deliciously against the leather. Seven inches. She lunged, lips parted, nostrils flared. Five inches.
Snap, crack. Snap, crack. Petra lashed the swaying buttocks with a short strap. Ann shrieked and collapsed down into the polished hide.
'Move. Come on, piggy. Get your chocolate,' Petra barked.
Ann shrank back an inch or two in recoil from the glistening truffle. She shook her head, denying and disowning her desire for it.
Crack. Crack. The strap whistled down, snapping harshly across her bunched cheeks. Ann squealed aloud, her raw note of suffering echoing around the cubicle. The strap dangled over her whipped cheeks.
'Eat the truffle,' the German thundered. Then the strap spoke again. 'Eat.'
Ann pleaded aloud for mercy as a fifth and then a sixth red weal was planted by the cruel strap across her scalded bottom.
'Eat it,' Petra instructed, supremely dominant with her strap raised above the whipped cheeks.
Sobbing softly, Ann squirmed herself closer to the truffle. Crack. Above her punished cheeks, her bound wrists writhed. Crack. Her fingers splayed out in a reflex of pain. Crack. Her tongue flattened into the black leather surface of the couch. The truffle, aromatic and maddeningly desirable, lay an inch from her teeth. Crack. Driven on by the swiping, searing strap at her buttocks, she wriggled in renewed agony and strained forward, closing her mouth down over the exquisite morsel. Its creamy softness exploded in her mouth. Crack. The strap exploded across her ravished bottom. Trembling on the brink of a violent orgasm, she sank down like a stone into the depths of her sweet misery.
Chocolate melts at body heat. The truffle filled Ann's mouth smothering her squeals. Crack. Her buttocks quivered and spasmed at the leather strap's lash. Face down into the black couch, she guzzled and dribbled, a spindle of chocolate-stained saliva oozing from her lips. Her belly tightened. She came. Further down the couch, at the warmth where her pubis kissed the hide, her other lips dribbled, a spindle of sticky quicksilver oozing out to smear the polished sheen.
At lunchtime, three days after Petra's aversion therapy based on the pleasure-pain principle, Ann left her work desk and, avoiding the express lift, took the eleven flights of stairs at the rear of the office block down to the busy street below. Along the street - past the deli, where Hazel was allowing her latest overnight conquest to buy her a hot salt beef on rye - and past the other sandwich bar was The Kiosk. Ann paused, gazing intently at the pyramids of crystallised ginger, chocolate fudge and Russian caramels.
She pressed against the plate glass, like a groom against his bride in their honeymoon bed. Her tongue peeped out between her lips as she espied the pyramid of pineapple and marzipan creams. A confusion of responses ravished her. As her mouth watered for the tempting confections, the muscles in her belly contracted, shooting darts of stabbing arousal down to her pussy. Suddenly, her bottom felt hot and raw, just like the salt beef Hazel was devouring twenty yards away. Hot and raw, as it had felt after the kiss of Petra's strap across its nakedness.
Ann felt slightly giddy. Steadying herself against the plate glass, she squeezed her thighs together. She was coming: right there in the busy lunchtime street. Jerking her face away from the tormenting display of delicious sweets and chocolates, she slumped heavily against the window, hammering her hips against the glass. She came with a squeal, stopping a dozen onlookers in their tracks, and ground her pubis into the hard glass. The paroxysms were so powerful, when she opened her lust-bleary eyes, the first thing they saw was the pyramid of Russian caramels tumbling down into the tissue below. The second thing they saw was Hazel, attentively escorted by her overnight conquest.
'Chocolates, darling?' he murmured. 'Which ones do you want?'
Hazel's eyes met Ann's in the reflecting glass.
'I want what she's having,' Hazel grinned.
'Good. Very good. Four pounds lighter,' Petra announced. 'And already looking - and certainly feeling - trimmer.' The grey-eyed German's firm hands swept up along Ann's thighs and cupped, then squeezed, each naked buttock. 'Down from the scales. I propose to start a new programme with you this week.'
Ann dismounted and watched the digital reading revert to a line of blinking red zeros.
'New programme?' she echoed, her voice softly submissive.
'Come,' Petra beckoned, leading the nude across to a deserted corner of the nearby gym area. 'We will be alone here for the next hour. I arranged it this way. Over here.'
Ann followed the strawberry-blonde over to the wall bars, her naked feet padding silently upon the wooden floor.
'Turn and face the wall bars,' Petra instructed.
Ann turned. Her breasts collided with the horizontal bar. She inched away from it, peeling her heavy bosom from the shining wood.
'Arms up. No, a little higher than that. Now grasp the bar. Good,' Petra directed. 'Now climb. A good metre clear of the floor.'
Hanging down from the wall bar, her arms stretched and aching, Ann's breasts bumped against the wood, her toes pointing straight down like a ballerina. Her bunched buttocks, naked and beautifully rounded, hung like peaches ripening on the branch.
Petra mounted the wall bars, catlike, and stealthily stole up alongside the suspended nude. 'I am going to secure you, Ann. Do not be alarmed and do not struggle.'
Ann's tiny toes danced frantically in the empty air as handcuffs - two pairs, one at each wrist - were snapped into place.
'Close your eyes, my sweet,' Petra purred.
My sweet. The words exploded in Ann's brain. The dominant mistress was dispensing a touch of tenderness to her willing slave. Ann wriggled with pleasure, unaware of any latent irony in the words. For Ann, the lonely City girl, it was merely a term of intimate endearment.
A soft rustling filled the silence. Petra crushed up against her victim swinging gently in suspended bondage. Ann squirmed as she felt the strawberry-blonde's breath on her face. Something firm, cool and surprisingly solid was being pressed up against her lips.
'Open wide,' Petra commanded, her tone dominant once more.
What could it be? What manner of confection was shaped and fashioned like - like a lipstick? Or a fat bullet? Ann's mind whirled in a frenzy of anticipation.
'I said open your mouth,' the German hissed.
Pleasurably stung by the severity of the waspish instruction, Ann parted her lips - and moaned as the smooth phallus slid in to fill her wet warmth. It was, she realised without having to peep, an ivory dildo. The curved shaft played upon her flattened tongue, then teased the sensitive roof of her mouth. Ann jerked in her strict bondage as she sucked hard.
The dildo was slowly removed. Ann whimpered, mourning its loss. With it went Petra: Ann sensed the blonde's departure from the wall bars and heard her land softly down upon the gym floor.
A slow minute passed. Another. Soft grunts filled the silence.
The sounds were unmistakable. Petra was using the dildo on herself. Ann thrilled to the image of the ivory nuzzling the stern blonde's pussy, then probing deeply. Petra gasped aloud and Ann writhed in response to the carnal moan, bucking in her bondage so that her breasts squashed into the hard wood at her nipples.
Was Petra kneeling, her thighs apart over the erect phallus?
Ann burnt to risk a swift glimpse, but obeyed the stern injunction not to look. The image tormented her. How was Petra spearing herself with the wicked length? And where? Ann suddenly shuddered at the thought of the ivory inching up between the strawberry blonde's rippling buttocks.
A shrill scream filled the gym, then silence returned. A little later, Ann sensed - then felt - Petra's presence a
longside her at the wall bars. A feral tang flooded Ann's nostrils. It was the haunting whiff of Petra's wet arousal. Ann mewed aloud as the tip of the dildo visited her mouth like a lipstick, pushing the top lip up with brutal tenderness.
'Lick,' Petra whispered.
Tongue flickering, Ann obeyed.
'Now open wide.'
Ann's tremulous lips parted to accept the probing shaft.
'Suck,' came the command.
Leaving her victim with the dildo firmly in her mouth, Petra dropped down onto the gym floor and scooped up a short whip. Planting her feet apart, she carefully judged the distance between herself and the bare buttocks above to within a centimetre.
Crack. Crack. The thin whip lashed up against the cheeks. Ann grunted, twisting in her bondage, her cry of pain smothered by the dildo deep in her mouth.
Eleven strokes later, Petra tossed the whip aside and sprang up the wall bars. Alongside her moaning victim, she slowly removed the hard, curved shaft.
'Open your eyes and look at me,' Petra whispered.
Ann turned her tear-filled eyes towards the dominant gaze of the grey-eyed German. Inching closer, Petra kissed Ann's mouth firmly.
'From now on,' she whispered huskily, 'I am all the sweetness you desire. I will cure your craving.'
Their lips met hungrily.
'Yes,' Ann panted. 'Yes.'
Petra withdrew, smiling at Ann's sudden whimper for more.
'No,' the German said sternly. 'You will only get sweets if you are very, very good. Very good, very obedient and utterly mine.'
Ann nodded submissively, yearning for the sugared dominance of the strawberry-blonde's mouth upon her own. Petra, reading the signs of surrender, returned her lips to kiss Ann savagely - then drove her tongue deeply where the dildo had just been.
A rumour had swept Frankfurt at nine minutes past ten. By ten sixteen, all the screens on the trading floor were flickering red. For half an hour, the striped shirts battled over their banks of phones. The screens returned to blue.
Ann eased back in her chair and opened her drawer for a tissue to dry her damp palms.
'Hey,' Hazel called out, thinking the tissues to be sweets, 'give me one of those. My sugar level's as low as the lira.'
Ann tried to close her drawer but was too late to stop Hazel from swooping down behind the tissues and snatching up an ornate silver chocolate box.
'Wow. Fancy chocs,' Hazel pronounced, scanning the expensive Old Bond Street label.
Ann swivelled in her chair, her breasts bulging as she stretched up to retrieve the box.
'I'll only pinch one,' Hazel promised, stepping back and keeping the box aloft. She flipped the lid open. Her eyes grew wide as she gazed down at the contents. Suddenly she giggled. Her hand jerked and spilled the contents onto the grey carpet.
Several traders and a few brokers - who had gathered with amused tolerance to witness the horseplay - gasped aloud. Down on the carpet lay a smooth, nine-inch ivory dildo.
Hazel, affectionately known by the striped shirts as The Bike - all of them had ridden her - picked the dildo up. 'Now that's what I call a sweet tooth.'
Scandinavian Mischief
It was that time of the year again. Bad-tempered crowds in the shops. Tired old repeats on the yawning TV screens. Police vans howling through the dirty slush, their stubby aerials trailing tinsel. Christmas.
Roy decided to give the works Christmas party a miss. Slade at sonic boom pitch, chicken in a basket and limitless lager. Just a rowdy 'Seventies night' with plastic mistletoe thrown in. As a security guard at the works, he was a loner anyway. Neither part of the management and definitely not one of the boys.
Sneaking out, he was cornered by a gaggle of tipsy girls from packing. After two hours in the pub across the road, they were unusually willing to let him frisk them - a task he always left to his more confident colleague. Breasts and thighs encircled him, crushing him up against the wall. Roy took the line of least resistance and slunk into the works canteen, merging into the shadows at a corner table.
The new canteen committee had made a bit of an effort. There were silver and purple balloons. A real tree: Roy caught the pungent whiff of crushed pine needles. The big rumour was that the committee had booked a hot act.
Roy went up to the bar. The two young barmaids - all thighs and eyes - were just about coping with the boisterous men crowding round the pumps. Up at his end of the bar, Roy waited patiently for the maturer blonde to serve him. She had a generous bosom, the deep cleavage displayed enticingly by the tight-fitting bodice of her black bustier. Roy furtively eyed it beneath the stretch of her straining silk blouse. She had broad, strong hands. Hands that excited him. He sensed their strength as she squeezed out a wet bar cloth. He briefly imagined them around his balls - squeezing, squeezing hard as she forced him to pay homage to her swollen breasts. His cock stirred and lengthened in his trousers as he waited for his drink. She bent down to snap off the metal cap of a pineapple juice.
Her bosom bulged, the satin globes rippling deliciously. Roy wanted to drown in them, to be smothered by their warm weight. His cock twitched and raked up inside his shorts as he appreciated her covertly. Indifferent to the two young lovelies further down the bar, he only had adoring eyes for the stern-faced, big-bosomed blonde. Her dark eyes were hard; the crimson lipstick gave her mouth a touch of cruelty. A woman to kneel down before and adore. A woman to worship on both knees, writhing in the cold heat of her supreme indifference. Roy sagged his knees and eased himself in against the bar, crushing the tip of his gathering erection into the hard wood.
'Yes?' she snapped. Roy thrilled to her white flash of teeth.
The blonde was tired, her tone deliciously impatient.
Roy dithered, relishing her severity. He asked for a bottled beer, mumbling.
'What was that?' she snapped.
Roy repeated his order, took the bottle and glass and paid with a twenty.
'Nothing smaller?' she sighed, ill-concealing her exasperation. Roy was in heaven. He closed his eyes as he waited for his change, briefly picturing the dominant bar maid pouring his drink into a large ashtray and making him go down before her on all fours to lap it up like a whipped cur. Whipped. He whimpered softly to himself. He opened his eyes to find the heaviness of nineteen pound coins weighing it down. The blonde's breasts bounced as she turned away angrily. Roy went back to his table deep in the shadows, thrilling to her dismissive scowl. As he sat, nursing his glass of pale ale and his painful erection, he examined and enjoyed every moment of his brief encounter with the dominant blonde barmaid. He had annoyed her. She had been brusque. It had been perfect.
Pulling the paper plate towards him, Roy mechanically ate cold chipolata sausages on sticks. There was no mustard or brown sauce handy - not without having to stand up and ask the giggling girls at the next table. Hating any unnecessary contact with such girls, he ate the sausages blandly unseasoned. Such girls always made him blush, but there was something about that big, busty barmaid. That stern-faced, plump blonde.
Peeping over to the bar from the safety of the shadows, Roy's eyes worshipped her ripely rounded breasts as she bent to pull pints. He dwelt on her deep cleavage, imagining its silky warmth as he buried his face into it, smothering and choking as she forced him to worship. Once more, he imagined himself kneeling down before her, trembling slightly, begging for permission to strain his mouth up to kiss them reverently. Permission denied, the red lips would snarl. Then her strong white hands - Roy was forced to open his eyes to glimpse them - would slowly unbutton his trousers and palm his engorged length. He opened his eyes once more - her right hand was gripping an erect pump handle and pulling it slowly - then shut them tight. He shivered as he thought of his cock in her hand, her thumbtip playing with his wet snout. Would she wank him slowly, dominantly, as she lowered her heavy breasts down over his upturned face?
Gulping greedily to rinse away the sour taste of arousal from his mouth, Roy drank his pale ale in one swallow. He r
emained in his seat, idling with the empty glass. He would not go for a refill just yet. He'd wait until it got busier, until the blonde was rushed off her feet. Then he'd go and find some way of deliberately making her angry - upsetting her to earn himself a delicious tongue-lashing.
The buzz in the centre of the canteen became audible. 'Stripper's here.' All heads turned to the double doors expectantly. There was a blast of taped drum-roll. A chorus of shouts and whistles. The excited hush as four young men, their naked torsos oiled and gleaming, their heads decked with green plastic antlers, entered the canteen. They each hauled on lengths of twisted red rope, dragging a semi-naked female Santa on her sleigh.
Another taped drum-roll. Fuzzy, not crisp. An echoing announcement. 'Ladies and gentlemen—' the whine of feed-back, 'all the way from the frozen North to melt the...' More feedback distortion.
Santa skipped off her sleigh and the human reindeer shuffled off, their PVC shorts shining, the little bells dangling between their thighs jingling faintly.
Santa was a heavy blonde thirty-something. A fit piece, Roy thought appreciatively - he couldn't go for anything younger than himself. He peeped at the little red tunic, his eyes bewitched by the white fur trim skirting her large bottom. Exactly the type of bottom he wet-dreamed about - heavily plump, superbly curved. A mature woman's buttocks. Her thighs were great, the black fishnets' stretchy sheen exquisite. Powerful thighs that would capture and grip a kneeling worshipper's eager face. Roy's throat tightened as he studied the black, knee-length leather boots and the elbow-length latex gloves. It was just like one of his special pictures - pictures he kept under his mattress - come to life. His pulse quickened and his cock rose up stiffly.
She had a little sack over her left shoulder. As she swung it down between the parted feet of her black boots, Roy glimpsed her white balconette bra. His favourite bondage for the female bosom. A balconette always denoted heavy breasts - swollen mounds of satin softness to drown in. A low-cut, half-cupped, delicious confection such as a balconette - his survey of lingerie brochures informed him - always meant a full, proud bosom. A bosom that demanded devotion.