by Penny Birch
Again our mouths met, kissing gently now as my fingers worked on her sex. Quickly she started to push herself against my hand, cuddling on to me, tighter, until I pulled back, to kiss her chin, her neck.
‘Oh, Tasha, no,’ she moaned. ‘Not that.’
I ignored her, kissing lower, on to her breasts, taking each nipple between my teeth, lower, down over her tummy, to her belly button, lower still, and she gave a low groan as my lips found her pussy. For one instant she held back, and then she was pushing herself into my face and her hand had gone to the back of my head, the other to her breasts. I began to lick, exploring her pussy with my tongue, tasting her juice and teasing each little fold of flesh. She was moaning, stroking her breasts, with her head back and the water cascading down over her face.
‘Don’t stop, never stop!’ she gasped.
I kissed her clitty, sucking the little bud in between my lips to make her cry out before going back to exploring her.
‘Oh, you’re good, so good!’ she moaned. ‘Chris has never done anything like this . . . so nice . . . so good.’
With that she came, her thighs tensing against my face, spasms running through her flesh, her hand locking in my hair. I kept licking, kneading her bottom as well, my finger still in the tight bud of her bumhole, which was pulsing as her climax ran through her.
She had come, and I was going to take my turn if I had to sit on her head. In fact, that seemed the perfect thing to do. I took her hand, leading her out of the shower. She looked so pretty, with her bedraggled hair and her steamed-up glasses, which she hadn’t taken off at all, perfect to be smothered in pussy and made to lick.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked as I eased her down on to the floor. ‘Do you . . . do you want me to . . . to you?’
I nodded, straddling her body as she went down. She seemed confused, nervous, but not at all unwilling, looking up at me as I mounted her, my pussy right over her face. I gave her a moment to realise what I was going to do, then sat down, smothering her mouth with my pussy. Her pert little nose pressed to my clit, which I began to rub on her, wriggling it in her face.
She began to lick, clumsily, but well enough, her eyes staring up at me through the big, round glasses. It was such a sweet sight, and I could feel everything, my bumcheeks spread over her face, my anus pressed to her chin, her tongue in my vagina, her little nose on my clitty. I wiggled down, masturbating on her face, thinking of how lovely she had looked, nude, bent, with a tube up her bum and her pussy sticking out behind, her head hung in shame and confusion as her belly swelled with water. It had been so good, so rude, so mischievous, a seduction by enema, a successful one, because now I was mounted on her face and she was licking my pussy out . . .
I came, screaming and writhing my bottom into Ami’s face, squirming and wriggling as she struggled to lick at me. For one moment her tongue lapped at my bumhole, and I caught the thought of how it would have felt to expel my own enema in her face, and watch the mess run down her cheeks and drip from her hair, her glasses spattered with it, her mouth wide in shock and disgust. Then she was licking my clitty and everything was forgotten but pure pleasure as I held the moment, on and on, until at last I could take no more.
I saw Ami off in a minicab at nearly three in the morning. She was still giggling as she left, and gave me a wave from the window as the car moved off. We’d had sex again, stroking and licking at each other in my bed until we had both come. After our second orgasms we’d lain together in each other’s arms, content to cuddle until she finally decided she had to go home. I went straight to bed, and more or less straight to sleep, feeling thoroughly pleased with myself.
I’ve known girls to get in a state after having sex with me before, even ones who were a lot cooler about it than Ami had been. So I wasn’t all that surprised when my phone went in the early afternoon and it was her, with something close to panic in her voice.
‘Tasha? I need to speak to you!’ she blurted out.
‘Sure, what about?’ I answered, trying to be as cool as possible.
‘What about? About what we did together!’
‘No problem. Calm down.’
‘Calm down? How can I calm down? I can’t handle this at all. I don’t know if I’m a lesbian or what!’
‘Ami, Ami, please, get a grip. We only had a little play, it’s nothing to get in a state over.’
‘A little play! We had sex, Tasha!’
‘So? Haven’t you ever been with another girl before?’
‘No I haven’t!’
‘Oh. Well, still . . . look, you enjoyed it, didn’t you? I did.’
‘Of course I did, you know I did. That’s the trouble. I enjoyed it more than I do with Chris! I think I’m a lesbian, Tasha!’
‘Well that’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘No it is not all right! What I am supposed to say to my mum?’
‘Don’t tell her.’
‘How can I not tell her? It’s a really important lifestyle choice! And I’m not sure she’ll understand. And she’s always wanted me to have kids.’
‘What’s stopping you?’
‘Being a lesbian?’
‘You’re not a lesbian, Ami. We were a bit drunk and we got a bit carried away with each other, that’s all. It’s nothing to worry about. It happens.’
‘You’ve done it before?’
‘Yes. It’s nice, just think of us as closer friends.’
‘Closer friends?’
‘Yes, why not? Look, I gave you your enema, didn’t I? That’s pretty intimate, and it made you feel good. I made you come as well, and that made you feel good too. What’s the difference?’
‘It’s sex!’
‘And taking the enema didn’t turn you on?’
‘No! It . . . I . . .’
The phone went dead. I waited a moment, expecting her to ring back. It was hard not to smile, because she was always talking about women’s rights to express their sexuality and so on, and now she was in a fine state, just because she’d been to bed with me. It wasn’t even as if we’d done anything kinky. Well, the enema, but that wasn’t really sex, or at least she hadn’t seen it that way until too late. I was fairly sure she wouldn’t even tell anybody. Not that it mattered, because we hadn’t done anything our friends would view as perverse. Well, again, the enema, but I was absolutely sure she wouldn’t tell them that it had turned her on.
It was only when I put the phone down that I realised there was another thing I could be absolutely sure of. She would tell Gabrielle Salinger, everything.
Five
I had formed a picture of Gabrielle’s office in my mind, with a file on the desk about two inches thick, labelled ‘Natasha Linnet – Sexual Deviant’ or some such title. Now she could add to it, with some new details on my perversity, adding sexual enjoyment of enemas to wanting to be spanked.
It really was too much, and I was still holding my head in my hands and cursing Ami for not being able to handle her sexual feelings when the phone rang again. Naturally I thought it was her, and I picked up without looking at the number on the display, intent on inviting her out for a drink in an effort to explain that it was perfectly reasonable to have sex with your girlfriends.
It wasn’t her, it was Damon, and that threw me completely. I just didn’t know what to say. The whole business with him had slipped my mind, and I simply didn’t have an answer ready. After all, I could hardly say I didn’t want to see him because I’d started a lesbian relationship with Ami Bell, although it was tempting. It just wouldn’t have been fair on her.
‘Did you get my roses?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I admitted. After all, I could hardly deny it.
‘I bet they’re all over your flat,’ he laughed.
‘Er . . . yes,’ I answered, immediately realising that it was not a sensible answer. Nor would ‘no’ have been.
‘Look, I am sorry,’ he went on. ‘I realise that I was getting, well, maybe a bit possessive. It’s only because you’re so w
onderful, so free in yourself . . .’
What he meant was that I was a dirty slut who didn’t mind him getting off on forcing me to swallow his spunk, but I didn’t say it. He kept talking, while I struggled to think of a good excuse to turn down the date he was quite obviously leading up to asking me for.
‘. . . there’s this new place,’ he was saying, ‘Chez Fabrice. I think even you will be impressed by the wine list . . .’
‘It’s crap,’ I said, struggling to buy time and making a complete mess of it. ‘No, I didn’t mean that . . . it’s . . . it’s not really my thing.’
‘It’s great, you’ll love it. I know the patron, I’ve booked the best table . . .’
‘You arrogant bastard!’
‘Natasha!’
‘What do you mean by booking a table before we’d even made up? How dare you? What do you think I am, some little airhead you can buy off with a few cheap roses and a meal? Who the fuck do you think you are?’
I slammed the phone down, almost in tears. I hadn’t wanted to make a fuss, but I’d had no choice. It had been that or accept a date with him, because I knew him. If I’d made some lame excuse he’d have just kept picking at me until I gave in, and I knew full well that if I’d tried to let him down gently he’d have come round. Then I’d have had the problem of explaining the absence of his precious roses.
In fact there seemed to be every chance that he would come round anyway. I needed to be out. For a moment my hand hovered over the receiver, as I wondered if I should call Ami and try to make her see sense. It would mean a really intense conversation though, and that was the last thing I wanted.
I got the TVR out of the garage and just drove, out on to the Westway at first, then south, down through Hammersmith and over Putney Bridge. I was telling myself all the time that I was driving at random, but I knew perfectly well where I was going, and I ended up parking in the street where Monty Hartle lived.
Normally if I get really fed up I go to Percy, and get a really good spanking, even a dose of the cane or belt. Physical punishment really brings the world into perspective, thrown down nude or with my clothing in disarray while a dirty old man thrashes me until I’m in tears. Everything else always seems so much less important afterwards, especially while he’s got his cock inside me.
There were one or two other people who could have been relied on to give me much the same treatment, but Monty was the man of the moment, and he hadn’t had a chance to punish me yet. I was sure he’d want to as well, or at the very least that he’d do it. Certainly I couldn’t imagine him going on about respecting me too much to do it, or it being against his moral principles, the way some men have been known to do. To the best of my knowledge Monty didn’t have any moral principles.
The difficulty was that it was far too early for him to have got back from work. So I sat in the car for a while, then walked to the end of the road and back, to try to soak up the atmosphere of the surroundings he lived in.
I don’t really go out into the suburbs a lot, or at least, not to stop. There had to be thousands of streets just like his in England, maybe tens of thousands, but to me it was really quite unfamiliar territory. For a start it was oddly quiet. Other than the background hum of traffic that you can never really get away from in London, there was only the faint sound of a radio, nothing else. It was also deserted, and I was the only person in the street, despite there being fifty or so houses on either side. They were all the same too, more or less, other than the occasional coat of paint or pebbledash front. It was uniform, humdrum, the sort of image of suburbia pop singers like to paint. I was sure that was superficial, having read somewhere that more strange sexual practices go on in the suburbs than anywhere else. I was sure it was true. Anyway, if it wasn’t, then it would be soon enough once Monty got back from work.
At half past six he appeared, rolling around the corner at the far end of the street. I watched him for a while, just admiring his bulbous, sacklike body and enjoying the intense erotic shame he gave me. He had a completely blank expression on his face, and I could see that he was miles away, probably in a certain garage in Brighton.
When I got out of the car he did a wonderful double take, before his fat face broke into a beaming, lecherous grin.
‘Hi, Monty,’ I greeted him.
‘Natasha, hi,’ he answered. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘I bet you didn’t expect to see me at all.’
‘Well, maybe. So what’s up?’
‘I wanted to see you. I need to have my bottom spanked.’
‘Wow.’
He’d been fishing his keys out of his pocket as we spoke, and he dropped them. I laughed. That was the great thing about him. I could say what I meant, straight out. I didn’t care what he thought, and I didn’t have to worry about the consequences.
Retrieving the keys, he fumbled them into the lock.
‘You’re into all that bizarre stuff, aren’t you?’ he said, pushing the door wide open.
‘I suppose so, if you want to call it that.’
I followed him through the door, squeezing past him so that he could shut it. My boobs brushed his chest as we passed and he caught one in a hand, squeezing it. I let him fondle, after all, once he’d beaten me I knew I’d be up for anything he wanted to do to me.
‘So what’s with the spanking?’ he asked. ‘Coffee?’
That was great, so casual yet so dirty, feeling me up and asking about spanking, then offering a coffee.
‘Sure,’ I answered. ‘Black, no sugar, unless it’s instant, in which case white. It’s complicated about the spanking. Let’s just say I need discipline from time to time.’
‘A school thing?’
‘No. There was no corporal punishment at all at my school. Sorry to disappoint you.’
He shrugged as I followed him into the kitchen. It was small, and poky, with a strong smell of curry. He wasn’t the tidiest of people, with the remains of last night’s takeaway still on the table, but it was no worse than I’d expected. I could see why he was fat too, because he appeared to have eaten the contents of six aluminium packs and two heat-saving bags. Of course there was another possible explanation.
‘You did say you lived alone?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ he answered.
For a moment I had a truly dreadful vision of his mother walking in and catching me across his knee with my panties at half mast. It made a great fantasy, and the humiliation would have been unbearable, especially if she’d dealt with me herself for being a tart, only of course it wouldn’t have worked like that.
‘Look, if I give you your spanking, will you be my sex slave?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Maybe,’ I answered. ‘It depends what you want to do to me.’
‘Make you crawl around on the floor, that sort of stuff, like in this German video I saw, where the girl’s on a lead, like a dog . . .’
‘Well OK, so long as I get a stop word.’
‘What, like if I go too far?’
‘Exactly. I usually use ‘‘amber’’ for slow down and ‘‘red’’ for stop.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
‘And no bondage, I don’t know you well enough.’
‘Sure, but I can fuck you?’
‘You know you can.’
‘Let’s do it then! Fucking hell, you’re hot!’
‘Great. Do you want to beat me first? I’ll be a lot more obedient once I’ve been punished.’
‘More obedient? You are something else. I’ve already got a stiffy.’
‘That’s what all the boys say,’ I answered, and gave his crotch a squeeze.
He was hard, rock hard, his cock a solid bar in his trousers, sticking up to one side. Just looking at him, and knowing the thing in my hand was going in me, was almost too much.
‘Come on then, punish me,’ I urged. ‘Put me over your knee and spank my bare bottom, or cane me. Have you got a cane, like a school cane?’
‘A school cane? No.’
‘Sure.’
‘Then use it on me. Come on, Monty, I’m getting urgent. You’ll make me kiss your bum afterwards, won’t you?’
‘I’ll make you lick it!’
‘You’d better do me hard then. Have you ever punished a girl before?’
‘No.’
I’d been squeezing his cock as we spoke, but I stopped, scared he’d come in his pants and spoil everything. Too many men go off on guilt trips after they’ve come, which was the last thing I wanted.
‘Just make sure you keep all the smacks on my bum,’ I told him, ‘and make a big deal of exposing me.’
‘Count on it,’ he answered, passing me the coffee.
He left the room, which puzzled me for a moment, until he came back, holding the most enormous spoon I’d ever seen, about three feet long, with ‘The World’s Biggest Stirrer’ painted on the handle. The expression on my face had changed at the sight of the horrid thing, and he noticed, giving me one of his dirty leers.
‘Get in position, then,’ he said, hefting the spoon.
It was going to hurt, a lot, but it was good, because it added an air of ridicule to the whole thing. I always like to think there’s something comic about a girl getting a spanking, because it deepens my humiliation. Monty with his huge spoon was as comic as it gets, but it was me who was going to get bent over with my bare bum showing, me who was going to get spanked.
‘I’m bound to make a fuss,’ I told him as I pulled the chair out from the table. ‘Just ignore me, unless I use my stop word. Give me a dozen, hard ones.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. You have to throw dice to see how many you get. Look, see.’
He rolled something out on to the table, where it came to a stop against a curry container. It was a die, not an ordinary one, but a huge yellow multifaceted thing. The number nine showed uppermost and there were sides to spare.
‘Twenty sides,’ he said proudly, ‘a role-playing dice. I throw, and if you don’t like the result you can buy a reroll, with, let’s see . . . yeah, you get your knockers out. If you want a second reroll you have to take it with something up your cunt, an egg. I’ve got eggs. All right?’