by Willow Sears
“Come and put that beautiful big cock inside me, baby.”
I hear the words but my senses are scrambled. I have a sense of sinking gently from the clouds, my bum frazzled and the receptors there starting to feel the burn again. The slaps have stopped. It is only hurt there now. I am tearful and my knees ache. I have never, ever, been reduced to such a snivelling, helpless state by anyone before. I was there for the fucking, cheeks ablaze, and I would surely have come harder and louder than ever before from just his first electrifying slide. Instead he is in her. As my eyes refocus and I lift my shamed face I see that he has mounted her as she was, with her legs spread wide apart. His muscular backside comes back and I can see the swing of his heavy balls. Then he slams into her with a dirty wet slap, so much filthier a sound than the crisp explosions his hand made against my backside. She wails and grips his arse, forcing him into her.
I had expected great things from them, being who they were. I expected all manner of Kama Sutra gymnastics and recreations of positions from the film that made him fall for her. Instead it is just missionary – perhaps their way of showing each other that they are in love and want to make love like lovers do. However, not all new lovers spank a third party as foreplay. I don’t know what I am to do now, other than pull myself together and stop snivelling at the foot of their bed. I am fixed on his rear end; the clench of it as mesmerising as Russell’s was that day; the flash of her slippy stuffed puss before his balls slap against her. Perhaps like a loyal subject I am expected to free myself and carry on taking snaps of this action. Maybe Sindee, once she has had her turn and if I can get over the singe in my tail, still has plans to share me with her new lover.
Through bleary eyes I see her arm stretch out toward the bedside cabinet. I think at first it is just part of her throes of ecstasy. Then suddenly we are in total darkness and it is clear she has turned off the light. She no longer wants pictures. Does she even want me here? The sting in my backside grows ever greater, leaving my chest heaving. I feel suddenly lost. I pull at my bonds, and with minimal sliding and wriggling I pull clear. There are just her moans and his grunts and that dirty wet body slap. There is no way in there for me. Maybe my friend knows I need to escape more pain and indignity at the hands of Cas. Maybe she fears he will use me against my wishes. She didn’t see how wet I got.
The sear is almost overwhelming now. I rise on shaking legs and fumble for my camera before it can be bounced off the bed. As I pick it up I inadvertently press a button. I hear an electronic whir that tells me it is about to spring to life and before I can react it has found its auto settings, sparking the flash so that it goes off in series, like the slow strobe Thunderhed use on stage when they play their anthem Pile Driver. Before I can switch it off I see so many dirty, ghostly glimpses of him slamming hard into her. Each vision will be seared into my mind. I sneak away, my red backside poking shamefully out of tattered stockings, and limp back to my room. I know I will have to sleep on my front tonight, but then I also know I won’t be going to sleep for quite some time.
Chapter Thirteen
Designated Perv
I guess I am now officially kinky. Can people tell, like you are convinced they can after you lose your virginity? As with a home truth unleashed or a first hit of heroin taken, I cannot go back from it now. It’s not that I had it done to me. It’s that I liked it. It made me shake and weep and burn red but instinctively I know that once won’t be enough. I couldn’t ask for it or even will it, but just the thought of it gives me that same expectant tingle. Hearing the S-word from now on will always send my pulse racing and have me shivering and feeling that urgent electric twinge between my thighs.
I am fuzzy-headed through tiredness. The burn and the itch both back and front wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace last night. I could barely bring myself to inspect the damage when I got to my room. It was like not wanting to look at a just-acquired cut. It was scarlet and looked sorry for itself but you couldn’t particularly tell that it was proof of a momentous happening. Still whimpering, I applied cream. Shame and pride are very strange bedfellows but I can’t deny that they both featured large in my emotional mix. For someone who presents such a strong front as me it was certainly humiliating, but not enough to stop me going to bed with my ripped stockings still on, to feel even more like the kinky spank slave.
Two others know it because one did it and the other watched it happen, but I don’t want this new truth getting out. I don’t want it as a definition of me, suddenly more telling than every other detail or complex component. I don’t want another label like ‘The Fridge’ to sum me up to all who hear of me. I am not going to be getting a T-shirt printed like the ‘Cock Gobbler’ one Sindee sometimes wears. It feels like I have burnt a bridge behind me and in one sense I am elated. I just don’t know that I could carry the weight of being a known spank-lover, even in the depraved world I currently live in.
The evidence is all gone this morning, but just hovering my hand there has the skin shrinking and the tiny hairs standing on end. I’d like to get up and feel as ordinary as one can in such a grand house, perhaps go find some breakfast and try to determine whether any of the servants heard me last night and think me a dirty bitch. Sadly, apart from a change of underwear, I have only got available what I had on yesterday, and my shorts are elsewhere. That leaves me confined to bed like a stricken weakling. It means that I can’t act normally, as if nothing has happened. I can’t be nonchalantly munching on toast when I see either of them.
When Sindee eventually does come she simply tosses my shorts across the room into my face and plonks herself down on the bed looking like a woman contented.
“You left early last night,” she says breezily, as if it had just been an evening at the pub.
“Well, you know – things to do...”
“Well you had better get dressed because we are going back to the festival any minute now. Cas is playing tonight, remember?”
And that is it. No mention of the fact that she turned the light off as if wanting me gone, or that she has left me marooned here all morning whilst she has been canoodling with her married lover. No mention of what she watched last night with her legs splayed wide. That pretty head of hers is concerned only about thoughts of the whole thing as another episode she has delighted in; just one of many with many more to come. The intricacies of it are clearly not that important. Last night was simply another night for one such as her, living a life less ordinary. It is pointless me trying to convey that it might have had extra meaning for me. I should simply be thankful that she isn’t teasing me about my new-found penchant.
“In that case,” I say, adopted her same matter-of-factness. “What the frig are we going to wear?”
So, Bag Man, fresh from yesterday’s ferrying around of ladies to and from salons, plus trying to track down a certain burlesque dancer Sheen has never met but wants to invite to tonight’s show, is once more despatched to Paris, this time with Sindee and I in the car. We have shopping needs that need sating. Cas has to fly to the festival. There is no sound-checking required but he still feels he should be there with the rest of the band, just in case they presume he has been kidnapped or something, and decide to go on a massive, performance-crippling bender to make up for it. The helicopter will come and get us later. Madness! Don’t tell anyone, but we girls could easily have picked up something to wear from the festival stalls, although it wouldn’t necessarily be our first choice attire. Cas seems to like the idea of us leaping out of the helicopter later, looking mighty fine, along with Ovaltine and manager Max’s girlfriend and a certain burlesque dancer.
“It will look like the band has got its own private flying babe ambulance,” he says.
It is too late for breakfast but I remind Sindee that it is the most important meal of the day, so we forgo a picky, leafy lunch and munch instead on delicious patisserie at a street-side table outside a cafe. Sindee wipes a little blob of compote from her lip and consumes it.
“I’m
going to have to have an extra fuck tonight because of that,” she muses. Bag Man sits dutifully a couple of tables away, consuming a vast burger plus fries and mayo. He looks incongruous hunched behind the dainty metal table, fat fingers squashing down upon his bun so that he can take a big bite. I can’t imagine the mess he would make of anyone who tried to fuck with us or any of his charges. He quietly pays for us both and we don’t even inform him that we are off shopping. He just follows around behind us or drives us wherever we want to go, paying for things when necessary. I definitely want a bodyguard for my next birthday.
Perhaps it is his hulking presence that stops Sindee talking about Cas, not that I’d imagine Bag Man is one to even dream of spreading rumours about his employers. You have to speak first to be indiscrete! Only once could she help talking about him, professing a need, as much as she was enjoying her shopping expedition, to get back with him as soon as possible.
“He better not be fooling around whilst I’m not there,” she said, sporting snake eyes. That was the first time I had witnessed her showing signs of jealousy, other than her usual requirement of being at the top of everyone’s girls-I-want-to-fuck wish-list. It is very difficult to get a take on Sindee’s reaction to bedding her most famous person yet – and the first that she knows to be married. I detect an air of triumph. She is certainly very light-hearted today. Maybe she is dying to talk all about it but wants to spare my blushes. It is hard to gauge whether either of those two serial shaggers knows how to determine love over simple desire, but she is in such a good mood today I know she plans to stick around with him some more. For once she hasn’t the urge to move on to the next conquest.
We tell Bag Man to take us somewhere we might find clothing that we like. Having had to scout around for a certain burlesque dancer he knows that the Pigalle is the place to aim for. He is right. Sindee is immediately excited by the sight of sex shops and nude theatres. I am dragged around, pretending not to be quite so enthusiastic. We are meant to be looking for outfits but she is just as happy looking at various items of sexual paraphernalia. She holds up a dildo in a harness for my perusal. I feel the shiver of nerves run down me.
“Surely only porn stars ever use those,” I say, trying to deflect the danger.
“I am a porn star,” she replies.
Next she holds up a whip with a little flat plastic bit in the shape of a hand at its end. She doesn’t say anything to me, she just raises her eyebrows. I decide to leave her and go to the clothing section. It’s mainly fancy dress in latex, which isn’t the ideal material for all-day wear, especially not in high summer. There is some clubwear and leather but it is very expensive. Then I remember that I’m not paying. There is one such skirt that would almost reach the knees, which I think might fit the bill and look more classy than tarty. Then, as I hold it up, I realise the back is cut out below the waistband and is held together only by two thin strips. It allows the buttocks to remain completely exposed. The tag, specially written for us tourists, calls it a ‘spanking skirt’. I quickly return it, the blood already colouring my cheeks.
Sindee is fortunately elsewhere, rather taken by some leggings in a red leopard-skin print, with a lace-up feature down both sides. You won’t be wearing any knickers with those on but my friend is not one to be bothered by such things. From memory she wore a pair similar in pink latex for her one filmed lesbian scene, so maybe it’s a special request from her new lover. I’m going to go with a pricy leather bustier and skirt, but that’s for tonight only. We will need something to arrive in and change into tomorrow – I don’t want to get caught out like I was earlier.
I want to avoid involvement with Sindee and her strap-on ideas so I take my choices to the till. Good old Bag Man, he doesn’t give even the slightest fuck. He just hands over the credit card and enters the number. I’m glad I added in those ankle boots now. They’ll probably end up hurting like a car crusher but it’ll be worth it. My friend arrives with her stack. It has a number of suspicious-looking items of equipment on top. I wonder if Cas knows what he’s got coming to him. She’s got her feeling very horny face on. I knew it was dangerous bringing her in here.
She is sidling up close to me and I’m feeling edgy again. That saucy smile tells me she has something to say. She is purposefully holding my gaze, stopping me from looking away, which means that some of the more threatening items might be getting bagged up before I can see what they are. Then she leans forward so that her mouth is at my ear.
“I wanted to take advantage of you last night, whilst you were tied,” she whispers, and then moves away to check my reaction. Her smile is still there but she is biting her bottom lip, trying to look coy. The adrenaline sweeps through me, the hairs raised around my neck and ear where her breath was. The flush returns to my cheeks.
“I see,” is all I can think of to reply, said low and seriously, so as not to let any eavesdroppers think there is anything sexy going on here. I glance at the assistant but she doesn’t care even if she can understand English – I mean, she bags up plastic fists for a living! Sindee is leaning forward again, almost as if to kiss me, but she just has more to whisper.
“The thing is, next time I see you restrained I don’t think I’m going to be able to restrain myself.”
She has that same butter-wouldn’t-melt half-grin on but this time casts her eyes down to the pile on the counter to draw my attention to it. I don’t spot any strap-ons but I do see some kind of straps in what looks like neoprene going into the bag. Since they don’t do diving equipment here my guess is they must be for use in bondage games. My heart is doing that loud thud thing that always gives me away.
“Right,” I say, but almost choke on the word. I was trying to sound non-committal, nonchalant. Some part of me didn’t want to sound like I was stonewalling her. She’s homing in on my ear again.
“So if you don’t want me to take advantage of you when you are next tied up, I’ll need to know. You will need to tell me.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, which is just as well because I have none. With the grin spreading to a white toothy smile to show what a naughty girl she is, her hand comes out from behind her back and places another black gathering of straps on the counter. I’d already seen the ball gags hanging up so I know exactly what it is. This one, however, is a bit different in that it hasn’t a ball as such. It has a blob of silicone shaped like the head of a penis to fill your mouth and stop you talking. The full significance of this equipment is already filtering through but just in case it hasn’t she leans forward again to repeat her last words in my ear.
“You will have to tell me not to do it.”
She is a tease and this is the biggest tease of the lot. I can see how happy she is with it. I am on shaky legs and no one else gives a damn. The assistant bags up the gag like a grocer bags just another apple and our bodyguard stops staring out of the window so that he can sort out the payment. There is no answer to her when she is like this. I just have to soak up her words and try to seem like they haven’t hit me like a cannon shot.
Not feeling sexy in these clothes is like not feeling thirsty when someone drapes a cold beer in front of your face on a hot summer’s evening. Being left on one’s own at a festival is less sexy but that’s what happened when my so-called friend disappeared with the guys as they went to do their final prep. Even less welcome is having to fend off advances from other famous musicians I’ve never met, especially when I have always thought their music truly awful. However, it is back to sexy time again when watching Thunderhed do their show in front of a crowd of, what, 50,000? I get to see it from the overspill area between audience and stage. I’m right there, with Cas bossing it just feet away, that wall of sound almost knocking me off my feet. Now that feels special.
I could go on about die-hard fans making more noise than twice as many curious on-lookers but Thunderhed won many over tonight and had the place jumping. Their anthems were sung back to them avidly and there must have been goose-bumps all round. I felt ver
y proud, although they aren’t my band, but I was there by invite to see them, right at the very front but safe from any mosh-pit nonsense and hurled cups of piss. And I was wearing a pair of knickers that someone had bought for me. Well, Sindee hadn’t actually bought them – the Thunderhed credit card took care of that – but she had picked them out for me and put them on her pile, presenting them as a gift as we were readying to go once back at le chateau.
They were to partner the bustier, which meant they were in very soft black leather with a suede lining. They were thong-backed too, to be tied at the side, so they didn’t exactly scream ‘comfortable, safe undergarment for the Prim Gentlewoman’. They were for sexy time. What’s more, such things are never given in the hope you might one day unobtrusively wear them down the shops. They are given expressly so that the giver may see you in them sooner or later – in this case later, since Sindee hadn’t forced me to try them on and show her at the chateau. They were meant for tonight. And since I have worn them as instructed, that pretty much means that I have entered into a panty-unveiling contract with her, and presumably all the associated things that might go with it. She knows I rarely wear any knickers without a full back but a thong is what she went for so one has to wonder what she has planned for all that extra exposure.
So the beers flowed and Sindee danced away next to me, grabbing me excitedly from time to time, even planting her lips on mine to help break me down, as if that was necessary; I was wearing in thong form all the foreplay I would require. Cas was up there strutting around like the rooster he was. He looked huge. At one point he dedicated the next song to all the sexy British babes in the crowd, especially those who were the ‘designated perverts’ for tonight, whatever that meant.
“I know one of those,” he sniggered into his microphone, looking down in our direction. Sindee grinned and blew him a kiss back but, do you know, I swear he was looking at me when he said it. I was, after all, the one chosen to be the spank addict, a pervert created for his delectation, and now he was pointing this out to me in front of all these people. Or did he just mean Sindee after all? It’s a good thing this new Cas-obsessed version of her thought so. She would not have been pleased to have him picking out anyone other than her. Hers is an odd form of jealousy. She is starting to cling to him now and not care who sees it, but at the same time she thrives off the fact that he is adored. And he is – even here away from the metal-heads. Girls in the crowd, up on shoulders – maybe even those of their boyfriend – were getting carried away and lifting their tops to flash him their bare tits. Even afterwards at the backstage party it went on, from ladies supposed to be VIPs. There was this singular urge to attract his naughty attention. One girl approached and nonchalantly slid her hand up her skirt, closing her eyes and slowly moving her hips so we all knew she had a finger inside. She then removed it and gave him a saucy pout and seductively wiped the wet finger across it.