Sweet Submissions II

by Kim Knight

  I thought how sad and lonely she looked and, being alone myself and on the lookout for something interesting, I pushed my way through the crowded bar to join her.

  “Your friends have left?” I said raising my eyebrows to see if she minded me sitting down.

  “Mine?” she looked quizzical but nodded that I could sit beside her on the hard wooden bench of the cubicle. “My friends? No, I have never met them before,” she said sipping her drink slowly.

  Her thin white blouse, the top three buttons undone so that the shape of her firm breasts could easily be seen, was tucked neatly into a short black skirt. She had stockings on and, because one of her shapely legs was crossed over the other, I could see, beneath the tight-pulled material of the clinging skirt, the outline of the clasps of her suspenders pressing against her taut thigh. She wore plain black, high-heeled leather shoes one of which she dangled loosely on her toe.

  “Oh,” I said a little confused. “I imagined you knew them.”

  “No,” she said wistfully as if acknowledging the fact was somehow a disappointment.

  I called to the waiter and he brought two drinks without me ordering them. He placed them carefully on the table, bowed, stepped back and left.

  I looked at this young woman, her pale, unblemished skin and her full lips spoke of youth but her practised certainty and dreamy eyes were the time-gained attributes of an older, more experienced woman. This mature air combined with her soft unaffected youthfulness were captivating. I asked where she was from and, as if I had turned a key in a lock, she started, in a soft, easy manner, talking about her life. Her name was Zandra, she was Portuguese but spoke only slightly accented and otherwise perfect English. Her father had been in the diplomatic service in Venezuela and because her parents were always at, or giving, parties for various foreign visitors she had been sent away to a private school until the age of eighteen.

  “I went to a catholic convent run by nuns,” she said, throwing back her head and laughing. “Corny I know but there are plenty of us you know, daughters of God.” She smiled and sucked at the end of her forefinger for a moment. When she removed it her fingertip glistened with her spit. “That’s where it all started, in that ‘House of God’. The day I left there for good I found a note in my satchel. ‘Go to the summerhouse and wait for me’, she mouthed in a mock deep voice that lit up an undisguised childishness in her face as though her youthful simplicity had, for a moment, been set free. “I thought it was a joke,” she continued, “a prank, there were lots of them going on during that last week or so of the final summer term.”

  “Did you have to wear a uniform?” I asked and felt embarrassed as soon as I had spoken. My question sounded so crass, so ridiculous. It was gratuitous, of course, she had opened up the fantasy of a beautiful virgin trapped with other girls in a finishing school and I wanted the whole picture. She did not judge my question and went straight to an answer.

  “Of course,” she replied first biting on then licking her well shaped, full and youthful lips. Biting them reddened them naturally and the swishing lick of the tip of her tongue covered them with a glistening gloss. “The skirt was always too short for comfort,” she said looking down at her own short skirt and smiling. “I was always pulling at the hem. Always worrying about showing too much of my legs or worse! Too many prayers I suppose. Too much guilt. And habits die hard.”

  “What was it like having nuns to teach you?” I asked, listening to the inanity of my second question and blushing uncontrollably.

  “Not bad. They were good teachers but they were also very strict. Just like the ones you read about! Frustrated and prim and keen on young girls’ bottoms! They used to cane us if we did anything against their rules. On our bare bottoms. Can you imagine what it was like? Having to bend over and have your panties pulled down around your ankles. Just think of it. The exposure. I could feel my flesh squeezed tight between the insides of my thighs, I could feel its shape. You had to stay there, bent over like that, until they had finished with you. You weren’t allowed to move until you were dismissed. They used to look at you for ages, rubbing their hands across your bottom before the caning began and afterwards they made you stay there for even longer until they decided you could go. They wanted to look at the red stripes they had made. They wanted to see how straight they were, how they stood out against the paleness of your bottom. They liked to touch them and see how much you flinched. ‘You may pull your panties up and leave now,’ they would say in the end and you were expected to bend over even more to do it. And if you flinched again when you pulled them up over your reddened bottom you could expect another helping. The prefects used to make us bend over in the prefects’ room but they were not allowed to use a cane, they spanked us with a slipper or their hand. That was worse really. Some of those older girls did not stop at a spanking. Watching our buttocks reddening under their repeated blows was only a prelude to what they really wanted. And they got it, often as not, exactly what they wanted. Cows!“

  “But the note,” I said keenly, reminding myself of how she had begun her story. “What happened after you got the note?”

  “Oh, the note. Yes, the note,” she said wistfully as though thinking about her punishment in the convent had made her lose the thread of her story. As though the memory was both a horror and a delight, I could not tell which.

  “Yes, ‘Go to the summerhouse and wait for me’,” I mimicked in the hope that my imitation would again release that naive simplicity I had seen before. But no, it had gone, perhaps lost forever or at least for the time being, locked away in some dark corner of her careworn mind.

  “Of course. Well, I just went there,” she continued, smoothing her hand across the top of her exposed thighs. “I sat on the circular seat in its centre and waited. It was one of those slatted seats you find built around big trees. It was a beautiful hot day and I stretched my legs out and there was no one around so I pulled my skirt up until I could see my underwear. It was as if I was daring myself to do something outrageous. A moment of release I suppose. After all those years of discipline I imagined being free, being able to do anything I wanted.”

  “What happened? Who came?” I asked thinking that she was going to tell me about her first liaison with a boy.

  “No one came. But waiting there, doing what the note said, simply following the instruction had excited me. It was a weird feeling, I had never felt like it before.”

  “So nobody came,” I said with undisguised impatience and missing the point she was making. “That was it.”

  “Well, not exactly. I lay back on the slatted wooden bench and rested my hands on the tops of my hips. The flat of my stomach dipped between them and beyond that was the creased-up edge of my skirt. I raised my hips slightly and the white of my panties came fully into view. The image struck me as if for the first time, that beautiful union of line, that delectable joining of material and flesh. It was different than being naked in the showers - and God, I’d seen enough of that - it was the excitement of the unseen, the exquisite delight of that which is merely hinted at. I knew what was beneath my panties but the fact that my panties covered it, the shape and contour of my flesh, was itself the excitement. The more I looked the more it thrilled me. The raised profile of my pubic bone pressing beneath the white cotton sent fluttering thrills through my stomach. The slight creases at the side as the material strained and the dipping slit that outlined the crevice of my flesh beneath made me tingle all over. The more I stared, the more I saw, the more I became excited. It flooded through me in waves. Thinking about it now still excites me just as much.”

  She looked down at the hem of her tight-pulled skirt and wriggled it a little higher. I saw the wedged-shaped delta of pale pink material that covered her flesh and I watched her squirm slightly against its pressure.

  “I could not resist it,” she continued. “And I let my fingers slide into the waistband of my pant
ies. It was as if I crossed over into another zone of consciousness, like discovering a different world, every touch was a new sensation. I was electrified. I could feel every bit of the contact between my fingertips and my warm, wet flesh. Every pore seemed to fill me with a specific sensation. Every bead of sweat sent me its own message of joy. I remember it all so well, so precisely. I inhaled deeply, so deeply, and drew in the fresh fragrance of my wetness. I closed my eyes and let my head drop back. I felt the hairs at the base of my stomach, light, soft, easily parted, and then my trembling fingertips touched the upper part of my slit. It opened for me, welcoming, yearning. The parting of flesh that, when I made contact with it, opened like an oyster, revealing the wet inner petals, making them available, inviting me to slip my fingertips further along its sweet, moist valley. I raised my hips higher and touched the tip of my clitoris as it swelled to find my finger and I finished instantly, suddenly, as if struck by lightning. My jolting convulsion overcame me in a dazzling blaze of light. I yelped out like a squealing puppy and shivered all over, uncontrollably, like a leaf. I yelled again as another sudden burst hit me and in its jarring wake a second wave of joy swept over me like a hurricane.”

  She paused and swallowed hard before taking a sip of her drink. I felt my own excitement tightening my chest. I looked at her slender neck as the liquid went down her throat and my eyes dropped down again to the pink material of her panties, now even more visible between her slightly uncrossed legs. For a moment I wanted her to slip her fingertips beneath the material and show me how she had done it. I wanted to watch as her fingertips discovered the tip of her aching clitoris and I wanted to see her finish, so suddenly, so emphatically and I wanted my head filled with her screeching delight. I leant back and stretched to ease my tension. It was obvious what I was thinking.

  “Was that the first time you had felt yourself?” I asked, pretending to be calm and objective.

  “No, but it was the first time I had done it while thinking that someone must be watching. That was it you see. I was showing him what I was doing. I was slipping my fingers into my moist flesh so he could see. I was yelling out so he could hear. I was doing it all for him. My pleasure was for him.”

  “But you said no one came. You never saw the person who had written the note?”

  “No, but it did not matter. I knew he was there you see, watching, listening.”

  She paused for a moment and bit on her lips. They whitened slightly against the pressure.

  “The same day I left the school for good,” she continued. “It had been arranged for me to go to a ‘finishing’ school in Switzerland. I had to fly to Geneva then travel by train to Chur where I was to be met. It was a long plane journey so I settled back, closed my eyes and listened to my Walkman. A steward brought my meal and when I lifted the plastic drinking cup from the tray there was a note beneath it. I looked around in amazement but saw no one suspicious or anyone taking any particular interest in me. The note told me to take the eye mask from my goodie bag, go into the loo behind me, but not lock the door. Inside, I was to stand facing the mirror, unbutton my shirt, drop my panties, pulling them no further down than my knees, put on the mask and wait. I could not believe it! For a few minutes I sat shivering, wondering what to do. The plane was full. It seemed ridiculous. How could I, how could anybody do that?”

  I leant forward and took a drink from my glass. “Go on, go on,” I urged, enthralled by her openness and now captivated by her exciting tale.

  “There was something irresistible about it,” she went on. “It had to be from the same person as before; I knew it. I was already certain he had watched me on the bench in the summerhouse, that he had heard me when I had screamed out in ecstasy and now, this same man was following me, watching my every move, thinking of things he could order me to do, planning out my life, prescribing my actions. I realised I no longer controlled my own destiny. All I could do was follow his instructions, take his orders and carry them out. I knew I could not resist. He had taken control of me.

  “It was pretty scary, what he was telling me to do, and I was really frightened - all those people, the risk of being seen by them, of being discovered, found out, embarrassed - but the image which the note had put into my mind was all I could think about. I just had to do what I was told.”

  “So, you went to the loo and did what he said, undid your blouse, pulled your panties down, faced the mirror then put on the mask?”

  “Yes. As soon as I could. I had to queue for ages to get in and several men pushed against me as I waited. I wondered if any of them was him but there was nothing to give me a clue. By the time I got in I was dying for a pee. I didn’t know whether or not to lock the door while I went. I decided not to and I could hardly go for fear of someone opening the door. After I finished, I did what he said, got ready as he had instructed. I stood there for what seemed an age, all the time I was thinking of someone coming in and hauling me out, taking me to the captain or something ridiculous.”

  “You must have been terrified.”

  “I was shaking all over but I waited in exactly the way he had ordered. I had opened my blouse enough to see the tops of my breasts and I had my panties down precisely to where he had said. I leant forward slightly against the back of the loo, allowing my bottom to stick out a bit, hoping that it would be right. It seemed mad, worrying about exact details, but already I felt obsessed with doing precisely what he said. Then I heard the handle of the door being turned. It was as much as I could do to stay where I was. I bit my lips and waited for someone to start shouting, to drag me out, but all I heard was the door closing again as I felt the touch of a smooth hand on my exposed bottom.”

  “What happened? What did he do?”

  “I was gasping as he touched me. It was as though the whole world was filled with nothing but his caress. My bottom seemed on fire as he slowly stroked it, first rubbing each cheek in a circular motion then letting his fingers drift up and down the cleft between them. I leant forward a little more and opened myself to him but he did not take advantage. So much I wanted him to delve his finger into my anus, or to open the labia of my sex, to thrust his fingers in, to squeeze my clitoris, whatever he wanted, but I could tell that what he wanted was none of those things. I realised my mouth was open and a dribble of spit was running over my bottom lip as his hand pulled away. I felt suddenly more exposed, exposed now to his gaze. I knew he was watching me, watching my excitement, witnessing my frustration. I wished he would spin me around and tear off my mask, rip my panties down over my ankles then grasp me around the thighs and lift me up, hold me above his stiffened cock and drop me onto it. Yes, I wanted to be seared by its heat, punished by its thrusting venous mass, and I wanted to drop heavily onto it in ecstasy as I felt the flow of his hot semen spurting deeply inside me, but all I heard was silence, all I felt was his stare. Then the door opened again but this time I did not hear it close, all I heard was the noise from the cabin beyond and I knew that he was exposing me to everyone out there. I bit my lips hard, it was so difficult to stay there, to do as he had instructed when I knew that he was showing me to everyone, degrading me, exposing me to public humiliation. I did not know how long I stayed there, I did not know how long he expected me to wait but, when I felt the hand of a stewardess on my shoulder I knew that I had done enough, done what he expected.”

  I looked at Zandra’s blue eyes. They had lost their dreamy look. Now they were filled with brightness and clarity. The recollection of the incident had filled her again with excitement. It was sparking off her like electricity.

  “What did you feel?” I asked expecting her to say how ashamed she had been, how embarrassed, how degraded.

  “As I was taken back to my seat, with all those eyes on me, knowing that everyone had seen me like that, masked and semi-naked in the loo, I could not stop the rush of my orgasm. It would not end, it was like a flowing river. When I sat down and squeezed my bu
ttocks together my flesh felt as if it had taken me over. I was completely consumed by it. It just would not stop. Tears ran down my cheeks and I shook for ages until, finally, it ebbed and I could close my eyes and relax.”

  “Did you see the man who had sent the note?”

  “No,” she said as though that confirmation itself filled her with a fresh burst of joy. “Everyone on the plane kept turning to look at me for the rest of the journey but their glares only thrilled me the more. The staff made me wait in the plane until everyone else had got off, I’m not sure why. Perhaps they thought I was a security risk! Everyone that got off took the chance to stare at me up close: women threw up their eyes, men grinned, someone even pulled at my hair. I slept on the train from Geneva and dreamed of what had happened. I woke up with my fingers deep inside my cunt. At Chur I was met by one of the older girls at the ‘finishing“ school, Greta. She was waiting at the end of the platform sitting on an old bicycle, her one leg stretched down to the pavement, the other bent up as she braced her foot on the pedal. She supported another bicycle with an extended hand that reached over lazily to the upswept handlebars. She was tall and blonde with full lips, beautiful white teeth and large blue eyes. She had square shoulders, slender arms and shapely legs and she wore a tightly buttoned pink vest tucked into a short, black, pleated sports skirt. On her feet were white trainers from one of which the laces dangled free. She threw her long hair back onto her bare, slightly freckled shoulders and waved her hand high as I got down from the train.