by Nicole Dere
‘Yes, yes!’ I babbled. ‘Everything you tell me, whatever you say, I swear!’
The next thing I knew she was kneeling beside me and lathering my scorched bum with a beautifully fragrant and gloriously cooling cream, and I would have got down and licked her feet in gratitude if I hadn’t still been pegged out like a star to the furniture.
I had eight days of solitary servitude in my new home. Much of it was a blurred, timeless period, of intense fear, and prolonged pain, and constant shame. By the end of it I was already quite accustomed to my nakedness, as well as my complete subservience to the couple who now ruled every aspect of my life. Sometimes it amazes me still how quickly I accepted it: never to speak unless invited or commanded to do so, except for the instinctive babbling pleas when beatings were administered, invariably by my mistress. In spite of her claims of complete complaisance when Ant had sex with me I knew that the degree of severity of the punishment she delivered would increase in the wake of his shagging of me, even though he scarcely ever did so in her absence.
Most of our daily or nightly sexual activity involved all three of us. He even cajoled Clio into allowing me to stimulate her. Though she professed extreme reluctance, and declared vehemently at our first tribadic union, ‘I won’t do a damned thing with her. I’ll just lie back and let her get on with it,’ which she did in all our subsequent lesbian activity, her body soon responded hectically to my kisses, fingering and tonguing. The first few occasions she kicked me viciously away just before the point of crisis, though, finally, with Ant’s insistent restraint, she was forced to endure my working face buried between her thighs until she bucked and cursed, moaned and screamed, then wept at the force of her coming under my ministrations. It was almost worth the blistering agony of the thrashing she gave me the following day. And after that her protestations when I was called upon to make love to her lacked any real vehemence, as did the spankings she administered afterwards.
And then, when I had almost forgotten him, Marty was brought back home.
End of story: Mixed Doubles
Chapter Eighteen
AS THE TWO NAKED figures confronted each other in the sun-dappled living room, the whole gamut of their rioting emotions was stamped on their faces: shame and embarrassment uppermost at seeing one another stripped, for the first time, exposed to all the extremes of degradation, with nothing, and nowhere, to hide their mutual ignominy. The leather dog collar, and the thin, drooping chain by which Clio held Jan, was a potent symbol of mental and physical possession. The seemingly contrasting image of Ant’s tanned, muscular right arm, draped so familiarly across Marty’s thin, paler, bent shoulders, was none the less just as powerful a message of ownership in every sense.
‘Come and say hello to your old girlfriend, Marty,’ Clio grinned, drawing her captive forward with a tug that had her stumbling as she was pulled towards the open doorway. At the same instant, Ant shoved Marty forward with a booming laugh, so that he virtually collided with Jan. Urged on by master and mistress, the helpless pair made a shamefaced effort to embrace, though both faces flamed, and eyes darted to avoid the glaring nudity as they reached out their arms and allowed their cheeks to brush together in the most restrained of greetings.
‘Well! I must say that’s a bloody feeble way for lovers to greet one another!’ Clio’s shrill laugh was counterpoint to Ant’s booming bass. ‘Christ! I thought you two had the hots for each other ever since Fat Mags paired you off in that porno play of hers. Though I must say, Marty, your yummy little Jan here has learnt a helluva lot about muff diving since Fat Mags got to grips with her. I always said my Marty had the fastest tongue both sides of the equator, but I swear she’d give you a good run for your money, Martina, sweety.’
Now the nude forms stood side by side, twisting and head hanging in a cruel parody of more innocent juvenile embarrassment. Clio’s rich, lilting laughter was like a scalpel. ‘There now! I’ve let out my secret, Marty! I’ve actually succumbed to your bashful little friend’s tongue wagging! Me, who swore I’d never let a dyke diddle me in a hundred years! Not when I had my faithful wee Marty to rootle for my truffles – and my savage Boer to stick me on the end of the biggest erection in Africa! How are the mighty fallen, thanks to this juicy little fruity!’ She had let go the chain by which she had been leading Jan, who was standing with that slender object of her humiliation hanging down between her breasts, and brushing against her thighs. Marty was by her side, and Clio now placed her hands on her slaves’ shoulders, drawing them in closer still, so that their hips jostled. ‘But I hope your latest little excursion hasn’t put you off real girls for good, Marty! You’re home again, and we’ve brought you sweet little Jan for your partner now. So you’d better get used to it, sugar, or your arse will be mighty sore and it won’t be from bumholing!’
Swiftly, she detached the end of the chain, which was clipped to the collar round Jan’s neck. ‘Leave the collar on, sweet pie. It suits you. We’ll have to put one on you too, Marty. For when we take you walkies! But right now you’re free as birds. You can go off into that little cubbyhole of yours and really get reacquainted. Or maybe I should just forget the rebit! I’ve a sneaky suspicion you never even got round to sniffing each other’s furry parts, in spite of all that necking you got up to in public.’ Her hands dropped from their shoulders to give them a valedictory pat on their bare rumps. ‘Off you go! We won’t need you till later. Run along!’ She clapped her hands, and they turned smartly and hastened along the corridor to their cell off the kitchen.
Clio moved over to Ant and twined her arms about his neck. She offered up her mouth and they clung together in a lingering kiss. ‘How was Marty? Was he devastated when you turned up? And how did Ramzan take to being prised off his cute new lover boy?’
Ant chuckled, and held on to Clio as they moved to sit on the loungers out on the veranda. ‘Not too pleased at all! I thought he was actually going to put up a fight. He was squaring up to have a go. But Marty had more sense. You know, he was actually dressed up? In proper clothes! Not the frillies you deck him out in. Shorts, shirt – even feckin’ underpants! I scarcely recognised him. But one word from me and he stripped off and was in the back of the Cruiser like the good little gobbler he always is.’ He rang the hand bell for Muriamu to come and fetch fresh coffee. ‘Mind you,’ he went on, with his rumbling laugh. ‘I don’t know how he’ll get on with his new little playmate. Poor Jan might have to get used to a few backdoor calls. I think our Marty was quite taken with the bachelor gay way of life!’
Clio gave a derisive snort. ‘No chance! Even if he didenjoy his spell of rum bum and buggery, Marty would always be on the receiving end. I doubt he could raise a hard-on to save his soul – or Jan’s pretty little hole either!’
Totally inappropriate as it was, their shyness was nevertheless genuine and evident, as the newly reunited couple entered their bare cell opening off the kitchen, and sat down awkwardly on the wide mattress, which covered most of the floor surface, and was the only furnishing of the narrow room. Their eyes still found it difficult to stay focused steadily on each other, yet they were agonisingly conscious of their naked bodies folded in such close proximity on the tangled sheet and covers. Their mutual embarrassment was profound, but so, too, was the undeniable, immensely thrilling fact of their nakedness, which drew their helpless, darting, covet glances. Their stilted opening phrases, so banal and stumbling, merely added to the incongruity of it all.
‘Jan! It’s – I’m so glad – I mean it’s so wonderful to see you like this.’ Marty’s face flamed even more. ‘I don’t mean – like this! I mean–’
‘I know – I mean – I know what you mean. It’s the same – for me ...’ It was Jan who made the first effort to break this agonising deadlock. She gave a cry, of anguish, desperation and need. ‘I had to come and find you, Marty! I heard what had happened. And then it happened to me! I mean – Patrick threw me out. He didn’t want me any more – just walked out. He got a transfer to Tendo. Just left m
e, with nothing, no one. I was going crazy. I could only think of you ... and ... and here I am!’
She gave a sudden loud wail, like an abandoned child, and flung herself blindly into his arms, then they were both hugging and weeping, lying with their limbs around each other, their bodies pressing, their mouths kissing, their tears mingling. It was a long while before they came back to a sense of awareness of anything other than the glorious oblivion and excitement of warm, loving, cleaving flesh and its erotic joy, by which time it was too late to ignore or pretend. Marty’s penis, diminutive as it was, was nevertheless throbbingly erect, all squat three inches, and pressing fervently against the curls of Jan’s pubes and the yielding springiness of her lower belly, while her parted thighs were locked ecstatically about his thrusting hips. Their lips touched as they babbled their broken, hysterically thankful phrases of love and worship to each other, the pitifully inadequate language more than compensated by the intimately grinding flesh.
‘Whatever you want!’ they groaned simultaneously, but it was Jan who forced a hand down between their heaving bellies, sought that rampant little tube of his prick and brought its slippery head to the fissure of her sex, and even succeeded in lodging the swollen glans into her receptive, lubricated labia.
He rammed hard, crying out, sobbing, and for a few endless seconds he achieved penetration and they enjoyed coition, before, despite her frantic efforts to keep him within her narrow opening, she felt him slide out and, at the same instant, discharge his gummy fluid copiously over their still conjoined bellies. He gave a groan of utter despair and buried his wet face into the softness of her breasts, like a nuzzling infant. And indeed, she pressed him to her, exactly like a mother putting her newborn to suck at her.
‘Don’t cry, my love, don’t cry!’ She was almost frantic in her desire to comfort and reassure him. ‘It’s all fine! That was lovely! It’s best for me when it happens so quickly, and I can feel you come. That’s how I want it. Then later you can make it happen for me– the way I like it. You know. You heard Clio ... about me and Mags. That’s how I am. I can’t help it. But you – you can make it happen for me. You will, won’t you? I’ve never – I daren’t ever tell Patrick how I really am. What I really like! He’d never ... he wouldn’t understand. Oh, Marty!’ The tears were streaming down her face, but she pulled his head up from her breast, gazed at him with her great shining eyes, smiling through the tears. ‘This is how it can be for us now. Both of us! The truth, no more pretending, no bullshit! We can be true to each other. Do anything we want, sayanything. Just be here for one another ... and they’ll look after us. They’ll tell us ... we belong to them ... and we’ll belong to each other. We have nothing else to think about!’
Marty stared up at her, the dawning truth of her words lighting up his eyes too. Next minute they were kissing furiously once more, and Marty was wriggling down her clinging body, scrabbling with new, fervent determination, turning her on her back, parting her thighs, dipping his head to the sweetly pungent belly and the long divide of her cunt, the fleshy lips on which he could taste the crusted, salty deposits of his own come as he bent to lap and kiss and rootle worshipfully at her exquisite sex.
As they slowly recovered from their first joyous union, when both their urgent physical needs had been so splendidly satisfied, they remained closely entwined, equally enamoured of this new, tender intimacy, as their hands and lips rapturously explored each other’s inviting bodies. The taste of their partner’s secretions on willingly surrendered skin was in itself a dizzying aphrodisiac, and they drifted in a sensual, dreamy heaven, in a happiness each had scarcely known before. It put the seal on their servitude, their utter acceptance of it. Paradoxically, they had never known such complete freedom, and accord.
‘Bind her tight, mind! She’s a naughty little slut and she has to be punished.’
Marty’s stomach tightened at the thought of the punishment Jan was about to be subjected to under Clio’s cruelly skilful hand, or rather rod. For more extreme retribution, their mistress had taken to using a slender, springy bamboo cane. The familiar tortoise-shell-backed hairbrush had become almost an instrument of titillation, used only for brisk spankings, to ‘raise a rosy blush on your cheeks’, as Clio would say with a smile, before ordering one or other of them to lie across her knee. But the cane was a much more severe ordeal, one which left a line of thin, raised, dark welts that remained in evidence for days afterwards. And it was one which, to Marty’s extreme distress, was reserved almost solely to chastise Jan; not frequently, but at fairly regular intervals, when Clio would find some excuse to wield it. And always Marty would be on hand to witness it; indeed, to play the role of assistant, as now, when he was ordered to bind Jan’s wrists and ankles with broad, green adhesive tape.
Jan began to snivel quietly, but obeyed Clio’s command to stand with her front pressed against the stout wooden post on the veranda. She felt the hard rectangular edges of the wood cutting into her breasts, and her belly and upper thighs, as she embraced the upright, and lifted her wrists for Marty to bind them securely. He squatted and wound the tape round the slender ankles, securing them to the post. He knew better than to try to avoid Clio’s command to “bind tight”. But he did allow his face to brush with surreptitious swiftness against Jan’s already clenching bottom, in order to let her know his sympathetic dismay for what she was about to receive. He was disgusted at the sudden spasm of excitement that pulsed through his penis at the contact, and that odious spark of arousal at the prospect of the caning of that beautiful flesh.
He stood back, folded his hands over his prick, partly to hide the stirring of his blood, which might even become visible in its effect on his diminutive member. Clio took her time, extracting the maximum of sadistic pleasure from the deliberate preliminaries she indulged in before delivering the first whistling stroke. Marty knew fine well by now that these ordeals for Jan inevitably followed close on the heels of those protracted sessions of sexual play which culminated in Jan’s dark hair spread over Clio’s belly and thighs as she brought her mistress to a shattering climax after a prolonged bout of cunnilingus.
It was strange how this way of achieving orgasm was becoming less and less rare, given Clio’s initial unwillingness to allow it to be carried out on her surrendered frame. At first it had been largely at Ant’s instigation, when all four of them were assembled in the master bedroom. He seemed to take an almost puerile delight in watching his lover roused and finally fulfilled by Jan’s dedicated attentions, after Clio’s oft professed reluctance to indulge in “girls only” pleasures. His one abiding disappointment was her resolute determination to refuse to play an active role in the lesbian sex play, but even he, forceful macho man that he was, acknowledged the fact that there were certain boundaries beyond which she would not stray. Perhaps that was why he made a point of making such rampant use of an exhausted Jan, as she lay gasping, with her streaming face still resting on Clio’s belly, in the hope that Clio’s jealousy might inspire her to reverse roles. It had not worked so far, but Marty was well aware that these vindictively sharp canings occurred within a few days of such hectic pleasurings. It pained him more and more deeply to have to attend these chastisements, and not only to witness them but to play a more active part, as he did now in binding Jan to the post. He also knew that Clio took malicious satisfaction in recognising how much it disturbed him to do so.
He stood impotently now, his own limbs trembling as he watched Clio’s sadistic delay before wielding the cane. Instead she caressed Jan’s clenching buttocks with a cupped palm as gentle as a lover’s caress, tracing their contours, the deeply hollowed surface in each delicate cheek at the incongruously gentle touch.
‘Such a skinny little rabbit’s arse!’ Clio gurgled. Wickedly she raised the thin point of the cane and inserted it between the cheeks, pushing gently until the tip had disappeared. She turned her head towards Marty, standing silently to one side. ‘Does it take your fancy, Marty? Can you find your way in there? Must
be like threading a needle! Still, I expect you manage, eh? Just a little prick, as the nurse said when she gave the injection.’
She was still laughing as she stepped back and laid the cane across the quivering behind to mark the spot where the first blow would fall. Marty flinched and gave a soft gasp as, with a whistle of air, the flexible cane swept back and cut into the cheeks of Jan’s bottom with a crack like a pistol shot. The frame jerked, and Jan gave a scream of pain, at the flash of hot agony. A thin red line, darkening and already beginning to swell, rose on the curves of flesh, neatly criss-crossing the natural vertical divide of the buttocks.
Jan gave an abandoned, childlike howl, and wriggled, her raised arms and her upright legs jerking as though by such squirming she might ease or spread the stinging burn and dissipate its fierce centre. It was a natural enough reaction, but the sobbing figure also knew well by now that her screams and sobs and pleas for mercy thrilled her mistress almost as much as the caning itself, and that any effort at stoical bravery would only add to the severity of the punishment.
There was a sadistic pause before the second stroke, long enough for Jan’s weeping to subside to a soft whimpering. It fell with an identical crack, and left its thin furrow, a neat parallel two inches below the first, and the shrill howl and writhing agony against the rough hardness of the post began again.
‘Please, Clio!’ Marty was startled by the two words which escaped from his throat in a soft cry of involuntary protest.
Clio spun round, stared at him for what seemed a long interval. His bare toes curled on the warm, dusty wooden floorboards. He felt the hot flood of colour mount up through his neck to enflame his face. She smiled at his confusion and fear. ‘What is it, Marty, sweety? You want to say something? Permission to speak. You want to have a go? It’s fun, isn’t it?’ She held out the thin bamboo, offering it. ‘Come on then. But make sure you lay it on nice and thick. Otherwise she’ll get it twice as bad.’