by Penny Birch
‘Kiss it,’ he ordered. ‘You’ve done it before. What’s the matter?’
The matter was that I could see what I was supposed to be kissing, and that I was sober. There was a huge lump in my throat, and a voice in my head screaming at me not to be so dirty, so disgusting.
‘Kiss it, you stuck-up little bitch!’ he spat. ‘Kiss my arsehole!’
In my fantasies I’d always been made to do it, forced, sat on or dragged by the hair. Now I couldn’t do it, not like this.
‘Make me,’ I answered him, really softly, hardly hearing my own voice.
Immediately he hooked his foot over the chair arm. His hand came out, gripping me by the hair. He pulled, far too strong to resist, and my face was smothered, in hot, sweaty male flesh, his balls squashing out over my nose and eyes, my lips pressed firmly to his anus. An agonising bubble of humiliation burst inside me as I puckered up my lips and kissed his ring, and then I was licking, my eyes tight shut, slobbering at it, like a dog, and up to his balls, gulping his fat cock into my mouth and sucking off the spunk, then back to his bumhole, licking, kissing, probing with my tongue until at last he pulled me back by my hair.
I was breathing really deeply, almost panting, and I felt suddenly weak. He laughed, reached out to dab a stray smear of sperm off my nose and cuffed me gently in the face.
‘That’s for not obeying immediately,’ he said. ‘Now get on with your dinner, bitch.’
I went back to the pizza and the bowl of beer. It was different now. I was eating not because it was fair to play his game, but because my master had ordered me to. He watched as I guzzled it down, eating with one hand while he played with his cock with the other, breaking off occasionally to take a swallow of beer.
My pizza was about half gone when he finished his. By then his cock was fully erect, and glistening with grease from his food. He was really excited, and I could actually smell his cock, despite my face being covered in bits of pizza, which wasn’t easy to eat on my hands and knees.
I thought he would fuck me, and maybe push my face in the remains of my food as he did it. He held back, opening another box to start on his second pizza. I continued to eat, mouthful after mouthful, although I was beginning to feel bloated. I finished it though, every last scrap, which left my tummy hard and round, feeling fit to burst. There was a sickly feeling in my throat too, and I was hoping he’d let me digest for a while before doing anything rude to me.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘number two. Same again, only this time a special I made up, just for you: tuna, tandoori chicken, pepperoni, spicy pork, pineapple, green chillies and extra cheese. Come and get it, bitch.’
He put the box down open, and I could only stare in horror. My stomach already felt bloated, a round, hard ball inside me, and I knew I would be unable to finish. It was a horrid combination too, and as I put my face down the smell hit me, making me feel queasy. I had to try though, and took a bite, tearing it off with my teeth. He chuckled and went back to his own, stroking his cock as he ate.
I was going to be sick, I knew it, as I forced myself to swallow mouthful after mouthful, always putting off using my stop word, until at last I knew that if I took one more mouthful I would really be sick. I paused, looking at him in the hope of sympathy. He was still eating, licking the topping off a slice in the most disgusting manner. His cock was already filthy, because he had changed hands several times. I was pretty sure I was going to have to suck him clean, but I was still taken aback when he folded the remains of the pizza slice around it and began to masturbate with it. He was smearing cheese and tomato up and down the shaft, over his balls too and, as I watched, the sick feeling in my throat grew stronger.
‘Suck it,’ he ordered.
I crawled forwards as he spread his thighs, so grateful that he’d let me stop eating, despite what it meant. The smell of cock and pizza grew stronger as I rested my arms on his legs, so strong I had to swallow to stop myself retching. It hadn’t seemed a big deal before, when I’d been made to kiss his bumhole, but now it was overpowering, and sickly. I swallowed again as he took my hair, but let myself be pulled on to his cock, taking the thick, greasy shaft into my mouth and sucking on it.
His grip tightened, twisting in my hair, and I wondered if he was going to do the same as Damon, making me suck and swallow what came out. He certainly had his cock deep enough in my throat, so deep I was starting to gag and was unable to swallow my mouthful of cheesy saliva, until he finally let me up a little. I quickly swallowed my mouthful as he started to fuck my mouth, with long, slow strokes, each of which ended with the head of his cock jamming into the back of my throat. I could taste everything, not just the cheese, but cheap tomato paste, anchovies, garlic and most of all, cock.
If he didn’t stop I was going to be sick all over his cock and balls, which was going to bring our session to an abrupt end. I tried to mumble my slow down word around my mouthful and slapped his leg gently, looking up at him. He grinned and eased my head off his erection.
‘Can’t take it?’ he said. ‘Eat this then.’
He held out the piece of pizza he had been wanking with. I opened my mouth, my need to be a good girl warring with the urge to be sick. His cock looked fit to burst, and I knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer, so I just needed to keep myself together a few minutes more. The pizza slice was pushed into my mouth and I bit off the tip, chewing and trying to ignore the taste. He passed his beer can and I took a gulp, which only made it worse, with the horrible tinny taste of the beer on top of everything else.
I felt my gorge rise, but I swallowed, trying to be brave. His hand was on his cock, jerking at it, held out with the end pointed at my face. He was breathing heavily too and I knew it was going to happen at any moment.
‘Take it,’ he puffed, pushing the pizza slice at me. ‘Hold it under my cock. I’m going to give you a spunk topping and watch you eat it, I am, you little bitch, you stuck-up little bitch . . .’
Suddenly it was all too much for me. I felt the contents of my stomach coming up, rising in my throat, and I was running for the loo, clutching my mouth. He gave an exclamation, annoyed, then burst into hysterical laughter. I made it, just, but as I pushed open the door it all came up, into my mouth and hand. I held it in, sinking to my knees with my head over the bowl, to puke into the lavatory, again and again, spasm after spasm, completely unable to stop myself. At last I managed to choke it back and I was left coughing and spluttering into the bowl, my head well down, with my hair hanging into the mess beneath me.
I never even realised he was behind me until I felt his hands on my hips, and the next moment I’d been lifted and impaled on his cock. It went straight up me, really easily, with his fat belly squashing against my bum as he pushed it in to the hilt. I tried to protest, but another spasm hit me and I was choking and gagging into the loo, utterly out of control, my body jerking to his thrusts, my boobs slapping against the cool plastic of the lavatory bowl.
I was sick again, twice, as he fucked me, but he didn’t seem to care, humping away at my bottom, harder and faster. He let go of my hips, grabbing my head to shove it further down the loo. I squealed in protest, more of my hair going into the sick. Then suddenly he had taken my boobs in his hands, squeezing them hard, jerking my body like a doll, grunting and mumbling, calling me a stuck-up bitch, over and over as he emptied his spunk up my pussy.
His cock came out with the last push, sliding up between my bottom cheeks to leave a slimy trail of sperm and pussy juice from my bumhole to the top of my crease. I was still gasping, totally unable to speak, let alone get up. He had sat back, and I could hear his breathing, really heavy from the exertion of the way he’d fucked me. For what seemed like ages I stayed like that, utterly spent, occasionally coughing or spitting bits of pizza into the bowl, until at last I found my voice.
‘You bastard!’ I spat. ‘You find that sexy, fucking me while I’m being sick?’
‘No,’ he answered. ‘I find it sexy watching a girl like you l
ose control.’
Six
I felt so much better for my session with Monty. There really is nothing like a good spanking. I had no illusions about our relationship. He was easy to control and he appealed to my love of erotic humiliation, that was all. In return, his sadistic attitude towards me seemed to come from an odd mixture of body worship and resentment. I was slim, and pretty, and I suppose privileged too, from his point of view. If he wanted to take out what was probably a lifetime’s worth of rejection by women on me, that was fine, although what he’d done to me had taken me right to the edge.
The spanking had worked anyway. My head was completely clear, and I felt up to handling Damon Maurschen, Ami Bell, even Gabrielle Salinger, and without losing my cool. In fact I was in such a mellow mood that I even felt a bit sorry for Damon. On the other hand, I couldn’t see what else I could have done. I didn’t want him, and that was that. I either had to be nasty about it or give in to him, which was no choice at all. Ami was different. After all, I had seduced her, after a fashion. I liked her too, and I wanted to make up. I wasn’t sure how, but I was determined to make the effort. Gabrielle was harder, as in her case I didn’t really have any control.
There were six messages on my answering machine when I got in, at nearly midnight. The first was the editor of a wine magazine, asking if I could do an article on Cahors, which cheered me up even more. He was an old friend of Percy’s and I knew I wouldn’t have got the commission otherwise.
The second was from Damon. It was in much the same tone as his note had been when he sent me the roses, apologetic yet also condescending. He admitted that he had been wrong to book the restaurant table without asking me first, but adding that he hadn’t realised how ‘sensitive’ I was. By sensitive he obviously meant immature, and that was really infuriating. Certainly it had been immature of me to throw a tantrum, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that I didn’t want to be with him, and he was refusing to take no for an answer.
It was beginning to look as though he was one of those men who would get more and more desperate for me the more resistant I became. That was just what I did not want and, to make matters worse, I was sure he had no real affection for me, just a desperate need to salvage his pride. I was obviously going to have to do something drastic, or very clever, and I was trying to think what as I listened to the rest of his message. There was lots of it, and eventually I’d stopped listening and was drumming my fingers on the telephone table, waiting for him to finish.
Finally he did. The next three messages were from friends saying they’d call back, then came another female voice, but with a different accent, which I recognised immediately. It was Gabrielle.
‘Natasha? Hello. This is Gabrielle Salinger. Sorry you’re not in. I would like to talk to you. I . . .’
There was a click and the little red warning light came on, telling me the memory was full. I could have kicked Damon at that moment. Because he’d wittered on for so long I’d missed the end of the message from Gabrielle, which was far more important. I didn’t know if she was going to call back, or if she wanted me to call her, or what, and I wasn’t even sure if I still had her number.
I could think of only one reason why she would want to talk to me, which was to grill me about what had happened with Ami, and with Jo Warren too. Unprofessional it might me, but she hadn’t seemed too worried about that in Brighton, openly discussing a case with Amy McRae of all people, and only holding back the client’s name.
That was a worrying thought. What if she wrote something for Amy, on sexual dysfunction, using me to illustrate her remarks? She might not give my name, but people would guess. Maybe that was why she’d rung me up.
It was ten minutes past midnight, hardly the best time to call somebody, especially on a week night. I didn’t care.
I tapped in 1471, praying nobody had called me since. The number that came back was unfamiliar, and I pressed the 3. It began to ring and I blew out my breath, trying to calm myself as I wondered if it was best to be aggressive, or conciliatory, even whether I should try and make a joke of the whole thing.
She answered, her voice sleepy, but still with that touch of formality I always found unnerving.
‘Salinger, hello?’
‘Hi, Gabrielle,’ I answered, my confidence dissolving rapidly. ‘It’s Natasha, Natasha Linnet. You called me earlier, and . . . it’s just that my answering machine didn’t pick up the message properly. Some idiot had left a really long message on it. The memory ran out. Did I wake you up? Sorry.’
I trailed off, feeling really stupid. Now she was going to think I was a lunatic as well as a pervert. I could see the file growing fatter.
‘No. Not at all. I was just reading in bed,’ she answered me. ‘I . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ I cut in. ‘I just thought it might be urgent. I’ll call back tomorrow, shall I?’
‘No. Do not. Hang on.’
The was a rustling noise and a snap, which I imagined was her getting her glasses out of a case.
‘That is better,’ her voice came again, firmer now. ‘Yes. I called you. I was hoping to see you.’
‘Professionally?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Oh.’
‘In Brighton, you said you were a wine writer. You have been to Alsace?’
‘Yes. I was there earlier this year.’
‘I am from Colmar. Did you know?’
‘No.’
‘It would be good to talk. I think. If you like. Perhaps at lunch?’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘Tomorrow, at the Café Eperney. Perhaps one o’clock, if you are free?’
‘Yes. I mean, no. I’d have to check . . . Yes, I am.’
‘I will see you there, then. Thank you.’
She put the phone down and I was left holding the receiver.
I’m normally good at reading people’s emotions in their voices. With Gabrielle it was next to impossible, especially over the phone, with her precise, formal English and her odd accent, between French and German. So far as I could tell she had sounded genuine, but I didn’t believe a word of it.
Her excuse was too thin, not impossible, but thin. Then again, she was a psychologist. Possibly she had chosen the excuse precisely because it was thin, to unsettle me. It was convenient though, convenient enough to be true. It might even be true, but that didn’t alter the fact that I knew exactly why she really wanted to speak to me.
She had been hard to refuse too. Impossible in fact, as I had found myself accepting her invitation without even checking my organiser. It had been her voice, full of calm certainty, as if there was no possibility of me refusing, as if she was used to people doing as she told them, without argument. A little shiver went through me as I put the phone down, a very familiar shiver.
My first thought, in the morning, was simply not to go. That lasted the length of a coffee and a piece of toast, after which I decided that it was too cowardly an option. I would go, and talk to her, and take control of the situation. If she genuinely wanted to talk about Alsace, then fine, I would do so. If she wanted to dissect the intimate details of my sexuality then I would refuse politely, making it quite clear that I was happy with myself and considered my sex life private. I would show her that I was as strong as she was.
I took a cab down to Covent Garden, in a fairly bloody-minded mood, but by no means downbeat. It was a challenge, after all, and a real one, with real consequences. With what she knew, she was quite capable of making my life unbearable. My only defence was her sense of professional confidentiality, which I knew wasn’t all that strong. I couldn’t afford to put her back up, but I was determined not to give in either.
When I got to the Café Eperney she was already there, reading Metropolitan as if she was criticising a rival’s paper. She hadn’t seen me, and I watched her for a moment, studying her face. There was no doubt she seemed naturally strong, with her firm jawline and perfectly regular features made stern by the short hair and s
mall, steel rimmed glasses, the image of an old-fashioned librarian. It was in the way she dressed as well, very neat and formal, and the way she held herself, as if she was under constant scrutiny, yet perfectly confident.
She looked up as I came in, smiling and shutting the magazine with a single, quick motion. The table she had chosen was in a sort of cul-de-sac to one side of the bar, the quietest part of the café. Also, she was seated against the wall, forcing me to take a chair which left me with my back to the door. Obviously she had arrived early to establish herself in a commanding position, but that sort of simple ploy wasn’t going to work on me.
‘I was reading Amy’s article on women in religion,’ she remarked, gesturing to the magazine. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘Yes, it’s very interesting,’ I answered.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘yet it is a shame Amy must take so populist a line. The evidence for what she says is no more than anecdotal, while there is a sensationalism to it that trivialises very real concerns, to an extent.’
‘She has to make Metropolitan sell,’ I countered. ‘Too much science bores people.’
It was an obvious attempt to gain the upper hand, demonstrating her intellectual superiority. I was having none of it, not on her terms anyway.
‘What shall we have?’ I asked, picking up the wine list.
‘There is a Sylvaner,’ she answered, ‘for fifteen pounds. At my home it would be a typical café wine, in a carafe, at perhaps thirty francs.’
‘You’d still be disappointed,’ I told her, glancing down the list to find the wine she was talking about. ‘It’s just a co-op wine, nothing special. We should have Alsace though. There’s a Tokay here, from Jean-Paul Dard. Let’s have that. You know him, I suppose?’