Brought to Heel
Page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
By the same author:
Contents
Brought to Heel
1. Hard Court
2. Sticky Fingers
3. Rough Shoot
4. Stocking Filler
5. The Mousetrap
6. Sachertorte
7. A Penalty to Pay
8. Night School
9. Party Line
10. Low Fidelity
11. Double Yellow
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9780753529300
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.
First published in 2000 by
Nexus
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Road
London W6 9HA
Copyright © Arabella Knight 2000
The right of Arabella Knight to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
www.nexus-books.co.uk
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound by
Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks
ISBN 0 352 33508 4
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
‘Legs apart,’ came the crisp command.
The splayed nude whimpered. Crack. Bostick spanked the upturned cheeks savagely, swiping her flattened palm dominantly down across their proffered swell. The spank elicited a shrill squeal of outrage from the writhing nude across the table.
‘I said get your legs apart, bitch,’ the spanker warned the spanked.
Her reddening cheeks wobbled as the thief sullenly obeyed, inching her thighs apart. ‘Please don’t –’
‘Too late for that now.’ Bostick snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and pulled the nude’s cheeks apart.
By the same author:
THE ACADEMY
CONDUCT UNBECOMING
CANDY IN CAPTIVITY
SUSIE IN SERVITUDE
THE MISTRESS OF STERNWOOD GRANGE
TAKING PAINS TO PLEASE
Contents
1 Hard Court
2 Sticky Fingers
3 Rough Shoot
4 Stocking Filler
5 The Mousetrap
6 Sachertorte
7 A Penalty to Pay
8 Night School
9 Party Line
10 Low Fidelity
11 Double Yellow
1
Hard Court
The young blonde rose up on to the toes of her white pumps. Her ponytail swished as she jerked her head back.
‘Keep your head down,’ he rasped, tightening his controlling grip at her wrists.
She staggered slightly, collapsing the swell of her pert buttocks into his groin. The short, pleated tennis skirt flared and rode up over her hips, exposing white-pantied cheeks to the firm length of his erection. He pressed his lean, athletic body into her lithe warmth. The blonde squealed as his stiff shaft raked her softness. Her pumps squeaked as she trod the polished gym floor, grinding her buttocks into his crotch.
Pinning her left hand down against her golden thigh, he grasped her right wrist and thrust the captive arm upwards.
‘See? That is where your arm should be for the forearm smash. Elbow straight.’
In the deep mirror before them, the young blonde’s brown eyes opened wide. She gazed into her own reflection, noting with a sudden surge of pride her full breasts bulging within the bondage of her tight T-shirt. Beneath its stretch of taut cotton, the dark nipples showed boldly, their alert peaks betraying her arousal. Once more, the ponytail swished enticingly.
He snapped at it with a flash of white teeth. He captured it and sucked hard at the fragrant blonde toque.
‘Good. Next week,’ the warm breath at her neck murmured, ‘I will be teaching you how to improve your service.’
The blonde closed her brown eyes – but the image of his thighs straddling her bottom, which she had glimpsed in the glass, continued to burn brightly. His supple, golden-haired thighs, trapping and squeezing her soft buttocks as his hot shaft nuzzled her cleft. She thrilled to the controlling hands at her wrists – wrists now pinioned to her thighs. She blinked and swallowed silently. The restraining hands at her own were causing her panties to grow damp at her pussy.
Would he? The whisper in the locker room was that this was the moment when Gunter made his move. She jerked her rump back into the club’s new German tennis coach. He growled softly, hammering his hard thighs into her in instant response.
Yes. He was making his move. The ponytailed blonde shivered expectantly. Gunter was young, fit and evenly muscled. Vorsprung durch technik, as the girls in the tennis club showers giggled. His eyes were ice blue. They had a piercing, pitiless glint. His mouth was constantly fixed in a cruel curve. And he was holding her now like a fox taking a hen – ruthlessly. Between the blonde’s clamped thighs, her cotton panties grew heavy with the soak of her wet warmth.
Gunter lowered his face down between her shoulders and sniffed. His ice-blue eyes narrowed as his nostrils flared. He sniffed deeply, catching the sensual harmony of her orange water, her sweat and the feral whiff of her arousal.
‘Ja,’ he muttered savagely, tonguing her flesh. ‘I must improve your service.’ His English was impeccable, but the Teutonic vowels gave his voice an erotic charge. She shuddered, fleetingly remembering black-and-white B-movie fantasies: the flash of the monocle, the crack of the riding crop in a leather-gloved hand. The German officer interrogating the captured French resistance girl, before using her for his brutal pleasure.
His lips at the nape of her neck broke into her reverie.
‘Your lesson is over now. Almost.’
Amazed at her own honest lust, she jerked her buttocks urgently.
‘There is, perhaps, one thing I can do for you.’
Drawing her wrists together up over her head, he pinioned them single-handedly against the glass. She whimpered her willingness – a willingness he had already taken for granted – eager for the tennis coach to commence with the special tuition. Spreading her feet apart, he thumbed her cotton panties down, dragging them over the rounded swell of her peach-cheeks to a tight stretch between her upper thighs. He gazed down, savouring his handiwork and approving of the band of cotton supporting the gently wobbling buttocks. The blonde ponytail swished as she squirmed, anxious for her panties to go lower and reveal the wet plum of her pubis.
A ringing crack echoed around the training gym as his right hand, palm flattened, swept down across her right cheek; he spanked the defenceless globe fiercely. At the glass above her bowed head, her captive hands starfished in a reflex of sudden pain, her fingers splayin
g wide as she scrabbled at the slippery sheen.
After quelling her with a second spank, Gunter knuckled the blonde’s sticky cleft dominantly. He hissed pleasurably as he sensed her sphincter shrivel in fear, then flower in eager anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, he worked his knuckled fist deeper between her passive cheeks, forcing the satin flesh-globes painfully apart. She wiggled her hips, then kissed his dominant hand with her hot anus. A third harsh crack broke the silence as he tamed her impatience with yet another harsh spank. The ponytail swished as she jerked in her pain. She bowed her head, mewing softly – not in protest but in pleasure.
Then he entered her. Swiftly and assuredly. First she felt his thumb-tip, then the teasing length of his probing index finger. Working his finger rhythmically, he gradually widened the tiny pouting crater of her anus until it opened like a rosebud. He slid the straightened finger in full length. Pumping slowly, dominantly, he easily mastered the resistance of her tightened muscles. Lubricating her with her own wetness, Gunter prepared the blonde for his shaft.
Guiding the glistening glans up against the inner curve of her spanked cheek, he lodged the tingling knout at her hole. The young blonde collapsed into the full-length mirror, crushing her nipples painfully into their own reflection and smearing the image of her contorted features with a sticky pink lipstick smudge. He entered her ruthlessly, up on tiptoe as he speared between her heavy cheeks, and pumped savagely. At the glass, her lips whispered silent obscenities, leaving pink lipstick arabesques which were instantly clouded by her hot, panting breath. One hand still pinning her wrists up above her head and the other hand spanking her punished cheek soundly, the German tennis coach thrust into his captive pupil furiously. Accustomed to fast play and a sudden finish, Gunter’s arrogance was almost contemptuous.
The blonde shrieked and started to come, hammering her belly into the glass and squashing her bunched breasts painfully. He rode her with increasing fury, his muscled thighs taut and glistening. Then, with a dismissive grunt, he orgasmed. Withdrawing instantly, he squirted over her spanked cheeks, silvering their crimson with his hot seed.
Released from Gunter’s cruel grip, the young blonde slid down across the surface of the deep mirror, both her pink lipstick and her wet slit signing her utter submission to him in ragged smears as she sank to her knees. His ice-blue eyes read her spidery confession in the glass. Ja. He nodded. The pupil had learned her lesson. Gunter wiped his wet cock in her blonde hair as, stretched tightly beneath the deliciously plump swell of her punished buttocks, her cotton panties caught the slow drip of his semen creaming from her cleft.
Gunter grinned, his parted lips revealing wolfish white teeth. As his hand stretched up for the cold tap in the shower and twisted it on, his teeth clenched and his grin become a snarl. Ja. So good, the ice-cold water that cleansed away his sweat and hers. Gunter took a shower after every sporting engagement. For the German, fastidious as he was vain, it was not a necessity but a ritual.
The freezing sluice raked his upturned face and firm, lean body, rinsing away the suds of his expensive pine gel from his nakedness. He spread his legs wide and, cupping his balls, offered them up to the pleasurable pain of the stinging shower.
It was good here at the English tennis club. Here, deep in moneyed Hampshire. The English had their little jokes at his expense – but Gunter was having the last laugh. A little under a mile away, there was excellent fly-fishing on a stretch of the River Test. In the car park of the exclusive tennis club, beneath the whispering beech trees, BMWs glinted alongside snub-nosed Audis. Gunter grinned again, taking pride in the sleek German machines occupying the asphalt.
Stepping out of the shower, he towelled himself vigorously, leaving the tiny golden hairs on his legs erect. Ja. It was good here at the club. Coaching the young women. And no men. No pale, flabby Englishmen to bother him. They were too busy in the City each day, and too tired at the weekends for anything but a drink too many in the private club bar. But their young, lonely wives . . . Ja. Gunter grinned.
Tossing his towel aside, he strode, naked, across to the small fridge by his locker. Opening it, he took out a fresh pair of blue boxer shorts and pulled them on. So good, the crisp, cold cotton at his aching balls. He fingered and snapped the elastic waistband pleasurably. Turning to his locker, he extracted a small golden trophy. The Challenge Cup. He had bought it for thirty marks in a Dresden flea market and had had his own name enscribed at the base. With an impressive CV and the deception of winning a Challenge Cup, he had been appointed tennis coach here at the club. The English were so trusting: with their jobs, with their young wives.
Returning to the small fridge, he selected a chilled Pilsner, snapped it open and filled the Challenge Cup. Sipping slowly, he savoured the bite of hops. When he’d finished off the golden cupful, he poured out another and scooped up his black leather appointment book. His finger turned the pages for the week ahead, his delicate touch as assured as when at a bra strap or inside the tightness of a nylon stocking-top.
Tuesday. Penelope at eleven. Yes. He would be having Penelope from eleven until twelve-fifteen. Her husband was in pharmaceuticals – frequently overseas. Gunter sipped his drink. Penelope, the neglected brunette, liked it down on all fours on the polished wooden floor of the gym. Always hot and eager for her tennis coach, she would start to strip straight away. Gunter would order her to redress, replacing her bra and panties. By the time he took his teeth to her, she was whimpering for him. Her breasts would tumble and bounce as he bit away her bra, and he took a dark delight in humiliating her by waiting until she was soaking wet before removing her panties, catching her spindling stickiness with his tongue-tip before bringing his hungry mouth to her hot slit.
Gunter closed his eyes. Penelope. Playing with her breasts as he took her furiously from behind. She loved that, she had whispered hoarsely the first time. Loved having her naked breasts pleasure-punished as he rode her. Almost as a concession, Gunter would reach around her captive nakedness and encircle her, cupping and squeezing their soft warmth – snarling as her thick nipples kissed his wet palms – before emptying himself inside her. As he came, pumping and squirting his sweet release, he would remember to ravish the bare bosom savagely. That is how Penelope loved it. As she came, with that haunting, stuttering cry of hers like a curlew in the rain, she would quickly gather his hands up to her mouth and kiss the palms that had been so brutal at her bosom.
Gunter finished off the lager and poured out another cupful. With a 330 cl bottle, he could fill his Challenge Cup nearly four times. It was a small trophy, but it had landed him a big prize. Tuesday. Penelope. He smoothed the page down with a firm fingertip. Squeezing her breasts as he took her, on all fours, brutally from behind. Gazing at his drink, he studied the beading of condensation. Like little pearls of his semen sparkling on her inner thighs. He thumbed the dull gold slowly as he flicked over the page.
Thursday. He tapped the page. Amanda. At four-thirty. She drove a black VW Passat. Gunter closed his eyes. Amanda. A big-buttocked young beauty in her mid-twenties. More horsey than sporty – until word reached her of the special tuition on offer at the tennis club. He was in software, frequently selling in Frankfurt. Gunter grinned, relishing the irony. Amanda’s husband sweating in some trade fair while Gunter sweated on his big-bottomed wife. With her husband away, Amanda was at a loose end. And always wet and willing. Amanda was receiving coaching to improve her forearm smash – Gunter was improving his. She adored being disciplined before making love. Demanded it, in that shy, eager whisper as she struggled out of her panties to bare her bottom for his cane. Gunter was happy to oblige. He liked ordering her around in their private corner of the secluded gym. Ordering her to bend over. Ja. Like the naughty schoolgirl. Bend over and touch your toes.
Discipline. She had brought the length of whippy yellow cane on her third visit – plucking it out of a bed of sweet peas after a sudden summer shower. Gunter had been able to smell the fresh earth. He kept it in his locker. It had a li
ttle white label tied to the tip on which she had scribbled ‘For Amanda’s naughty bottom’. Gunter remembered her trembling hand. He found the English a curious people. So correct – yet still eager for correction.
He finished his lager and slowly poured out another golden cupful. Bend over. Amanda would bubble at her slit but obey instantly. Gunter liked that. Prompt obedience. His twitching shaft would nod approvingly. Then he would flex the cane. He did this every Thursday, a little after four-thirty. At tea-time, as the English called the hour. Gripping the cane firmly, he would stand directly behind her bending, bare buttocks and trace the tip of the yellow cane up along the inside of her thighs until it paused, quivering, to tap-tap at her wet pubis. Sometimes her fearful fingers splayed across her cheeks protectively but Gunter flicked them away with the cane, baring her buttocks before visiting them with the pain of his cane. With her upturned bottom perfectly poised and presented for punishment, Gunter would silently tread the two and a half steps necessary to bring him into position. Raising the cane up, he would pause for a moment, inspecting and approving of the clenched cheeks dimpled by fleeting spasms of expectant fear and dread.
The cane made such a delicious swishing sound – like the fat tyres of an S-class Mercedes cruising the autobahn in the rain. And Amanda’s responsive hiss of exquisite agony was equally pleasing to his ear. After five slicing strokes across her broad, bulging buttocks, Gunter would pause to watch the thin, pink cane stripes deepen and darken into crimson weals. Amanda’s fingers would be busy at her pussy, working her wet flesh-lips frantically as her bottom blazed. Swish, slice. Another couple of slow, deliberate strokes. Another pause. In the snatch of silence, Gunter strained to hear the soft, liquid lapping sounds of the whipped girl’s wet fingers scrabbling in her warmth.
Teetering off balance, the punished nude often stumbled, buckling at her knees. Gunter’s alert cane steadied and stilled her instantly, back into the punishment position for her remaining pain. Administering another four strokes briskly – four crisp cane kisses across her beautiful buttocks – Gunter would depress the whippy wood down at the nape of her neck, forcing her to kneel. Bringing the cane to her lips was their intimate signal: she would lick the bamboo feverishly then come, her moans melting into sweet groans. As her hips pounded into the polished wooden floor, and her striped cheeks writhed, Gunter gazed down at the outstretched nude, contemplating her as pain fuelled her pleasure. If she climaxed too quickly, remaining hungry for more, he would kneel and lash the proffered bottom until she squealed her second – then her third – orgasm.