by Becky Bell
With her tongue describing tiny circles around Paula's clit, Angela snaked her other hand under Paula's thigh and saw her fingers emerge between the brunette's buttocks. She gently prodded them into the gaping mouth of Paula's vagina.
'Love that,' Paula breathed.
Angela loved it, too. The sticky wet flesh seemed to be sucking on her fingers eagerly, drawing them in. She thrust two fingers and then three deep inside, watching them disappear then re-emerge smeared with a slick of Paula's copious juices. She began to establish a rhythm, sawing her fingers in and out at the same tempo as she tapped at Paula's clit. But the extraordinary thing was, her own sex was responding as if it were being manipulated in the same way. Her clitoris was throbbing, trapped tightly between her labia, and every time she thrust her fingers deep into Paula's vagina her own contracted sharply. She could feel her juices begin to flow again, the walls of her vagina awash with them.
Paula's body was undulating now, echoing the rhythm Angela was using on her sex, and she was making little gasping noises that were slowly getting louder. She raised her arms high above her head, straining them out to the side, her muscles stretched as if on some imaginary rack. The noises she was making were rapidly reaching a crescendo.
'Oh, God,' she screamed.
Angela felt Paula's sex convulse and thrust her fingers as deep as they could go, pressing her clit down against her pubic bone and feeling it pulse violently too. She seemed to be able to sense every thrill and tremor of the orgasm that was shuddering through the other woman's body almost as acutely as if it were her own.
But the tension in Paula's body did not melt away. Instead, she sat up and gripped Angela's left leg, pulling it up and wriggling underneath it so Angela found herself straddling Paula's chest. The brunette wrapped her arms around Angela's thighs and levered herself up until her face was inches away from Angela's sex.
'Like this now,' she said breathily. 'Let's do it together.'
She raised her head and kissed Angela's labia, her tonguing darting out into her hot, wet cunt.
'Call for you, Angie.'
'Thanks. Hello?'
'Angie, it's Gregory.' His voice sounded weary and depressed. 'Can you talk?'
Angela was sitting at her desk in the window of Slaughter and Roe. It was a bright sunny day and several people were outside staring at the houses advertised for sale. A man was very obviously looking past the adverts and giving Angela admiring glances. She turned her back on him.
'Yes,' she said tentatively.
'Good. I had to talk to you. I just wanted to say how sorry I was about Sunday.'
'It wasn't your fault.' Angela didn't blame him for what had happened. He may have led her to believe that his wife was a different kind of person, but he had not lied to her. She didn't blame herself, either. She had talked it all out with Paula on Monday night and agreed with her that, if you played with fire, occasionally you were going to get burnt. As she had never been in love with Gregory, the burn was only a small one, a question of embarrassment rather than any real distress. There was still the question of the flat, however. She certainly couldn't afford to pay the mortgage on her own.
'I'd like to come and see you but...' He hesitated. 'Well, I've I promised Pamela I won't. We're going to make a new start. I'm taking her away on holiday.'
'That sounds like a good idea.' She wondered if Pamela was taking a riding crop with her.
'I'll never be able to forget you, though, Angie. It was great. Like nothing else.'
'I know. I was there, remember.'
'Look, this is difficult. It's about the flat. Pamela found all the papers. She's insisting that I stop the payments on the mortgage.'
'I thought she might.' Angela felt her heart lurch. After the luxury of the flat, returning to the miserable bedsit would be no joke.
'There's nothing else I can do, Angie. And she's got those photographs. If she were to show them to any of the guys I work with...'
'I understand. I'd better put the flat on the market.'
'No. I've got a better idea. Look, I'm sorry, this is really difficult over the phone.'
'What?'
'Does that telephonist listen in?'
'I don't think so.'
'Well, it's just that I had an idea. There's a friend of mine. You won't be offended, will you?'
'Offended at what?'
'It's just that if you wanted to keep the flat...'
'I do,' she interrupted.
'Well, there may be a way. This friend of mine, he's a bit like me. He's got certain... ideas that he finds it hard to express. I just thought that if I introduced you...'
Angela didn't need all the i's dotted and the t's crossed. 'So introduce me, Gregory,' she said in the imperious voice she had used with him in the treatment room. 'What are you waiting for?'
'I wasn't sure if you'd agree. Do you know a man called Sir Archibald Clarke?'
'He's always in the papers.' Archibald Clarke was the chairman of some large financial institution in the city. Almost every time there was an economic crisis - which seemed to be every week - he was pictured coming out of 11 Downing Street, having given the Chancellor the benefit of his advice. He was a tall man in his late fifties with a shock of white and apparently ungroomable hair.
'What do you think?'
'You mean, would I go to bed with him?'
'I think that's the last thing that would be involved.'
'What, then?'
'He has a few peculiarities. If you were prepared to... indulge him, then I think he would be as grateful as I was.'
Angela thought for a moment. What she'd done with Gregory was entirely different from what Gregory was suggesting now. Sir Archibald Clarke was a total stranger. Getting involved with him would be the equivalent of being a whore. But then letting Gregory pay for her flat and her wardrobe had been prostitution of a kind. The difference was only marginal. Did she really care, if it meant keeping her flat?
'What do I have to do?'
'Have you got a pen?'
'Of course.'
'Write this down then.'
Angela got out of the taxi. It was still sunny, and wearing the black PVC mac was making her feet hot. She paid the driver and turned to face the large brick house. It was Victorian, with a small driveway and a wooden porch protecting the front door. The wrought-iron gate to the driveway was open.
Tottering slightly on her four-inch stiletto heels Angela walked up to the front door, her shoes crunching noisily on the gravel. There was an old-fashioned doorbell pull set in a circular and highly polished brass plate and she pulled it once. A bell rang deep inside the house. Almost immediately she heard footsteps.
'Yes, madam?'
The door was opened by a tall lanky man in his early sixties. He wore striped grey trousers, a yellow waistcoat and a black tailcoat. His shoes were polished so highly she could see her reflection in them.
'Angela Strickland,' she said.
'Oh, yes, Ms Strickland, you're expected. Follow me, please. May I take your bag?'
Angela was carrying a big black leather doctor's bag. It had a special order from Mrs Beatty, who had arranged to have it delivered in a plain box to the offices of Slaughter and Roe. The black bag and the PVC mac were apparently essential elements of Archibald Clarke's requirements.
'No, thank you.'
The butler let her in, then closed the door behind her. The house was decorated sombrely, with heavy velvet drapes over the windows and dark green walls. He marched across the large vestibule, its floor scattered with fine Oriental rugs. There was a straight staircase leading to a gallery on the first floor.
The butler led the way up the stairs, then along the gallery to a wide corridor. There were oil paintings of hunting scenes on the walls, foxes leaping over hedges being pursued by packs of hounds.
There was a large door at the end of the corridor, with a lancet arch. The butler knocked on it.
'Ms Strickland has arrived, sir.'
; 'Thank you,' said a disembodied voice.
'He will see you in a moment, madam,' the butler said, turning and walking back from whence he had come.
Angela stood looking at the door. She ran her fingers through her hair and wiped the film of sweat from her brow.
'Come in,' the voice said.
She opened the door and walked into a vast room with a vaulted ceiling traversed by large oak beams. The room was as drab and gloomy as the rest of the house, furnished entirely with antiques, including a large four-poster bed, the posts thick and decoratively carved.
'Ms Strickland. Archibald Clarke.'
The man was even taller than he looked in his photograph and had a craggy, weather-beaten face. His white hair was wiry and wild. He was wearing a heavy scarlet velvet robe, edged in silk cord, and matching carpet slippers, their toes embossed with a family crest. He had got up from a leather wing chair at the side of the bed and came over to her with his hand extended. She shook it briefly.
'Good evening Sir Archibald,' she said.
'A pleasure to meet you my dear,' Archibald added. She could see his large steel-blue eyes taking in every detail of the black PVC mac.
'Mr Wilmott tells me you've been having problems,' she said crisply.
'Yes, that's true. He said you might be able to help.'
Gregory had told Angela exactly what to do and say. Sir Archibald Clarke had been divorced three times and had once confessed to Gregory the reason his marriages had not been successful.
'We'll have to see about that,' she said haughtily. Sir Archibald was not the most attractive man she had ever seen and it had occurred to her that, if her reaction to him was too negative, she would not be able to go through with Gregory's plan. But now she was here, his looks seemed unimportant. She was already beginning to feel the little tingles of arousal in anticipation of what she was about to do. 'You'd better let me examine you.'
'Yes, that would be a good idea.'
'Take your robe off.' Angela strode off to the wing chair and put her doctor's bag down on the small occasional table at the side of it. She sat down and crossed her legs, the black PVC crackling.
Archibald had pulled off his robe. His body was in good shape for his age and he certainly wasn't fat. He was wearing a pair of black briefs. She could see a bulge distending the front of the material but it was obvious that he was not yet erect.
'Are you totally unaware of the correct position to assume?' Angela said, in her sternest voice.
He looked puzzled.
'Well?' she snapped. She was enjoying playing the dominant role again.
'Yes.'
'You appear to be unaware of the way to address me too. You will address me as "Ms Strickland". Is that understood?'
'Yes, Ms Strickland,' he said quickly.
'That's better. Now, get on your knees. If I consent to help you and you ever see me again, you will always be required to drop to your knees. Is that understood? You will then crawl over to me and kiss my feet.'
'Oh yes, Ms Strickland,' Archibald said. Archibald's whole body appeared to quiver. Angela saw the bulge in his briefs jerk upward.
'Do it then,' she snapped.
Sir Archibald Clarke, a prime mover and shaker in the banking world, controlling vast sums of money and influencing government policy, sank to his knees, crawled over to the leather wing chair and began licking Angela's black leather shoes. It would never cease to amaze her how a rich and powerful man could be reduced to a whimpering wretch by a few simple words.
'Suck the heel,' she said.
He lowered his head and sucked on the sharp metal-tipped heel.
'That's enough,' she said, pulling her foot away. 'Straighten up.'
She stood up so the black PVC brushed against his face, deliberately pressing her body forward. She heard him inhaling the strong aroma of the mac.
'Well so far it's been a very poor performance, hasn't it?'
'Yes, Ms Strickland,' he said, without taking his face away from the mac.
'You'll have to do a lot better than that.' She turned to her side and opened the doctor's bag. 'Put your wrists out in front of you.'
He obeyed immediately.
Angela took a pair of metal handcuffs out of the bag and snapped them around his wrists.
'Go and lie on the bed, face down.'
'Yes, Ms Strickland.'
Archibald scrambled to his feet and lay on the bed. It had a dark-blue counterpane. He turned his face towards her.
'I said face down, you idiot. And stretch your hands up over your head.'
Stung by the words, he pulled his arms out from under him and buried his face in the counterpane.
Angela took a short leather tawse from the bag, a two-foot long length of thick leather shaped into a handle at one end and split in two at the other. She walked over to the bed, unbuckled the belt of the mac and took it off, throwing it onto the counterpane beside him. She was wearing a red leather waspie with long suspenders clipped into sheer black stockings. Her breasts and her pussy were bare.
'Do you want me to begin my examination?'
'Yes, Ms Strickland.'
Angela raised the tawse. She was excited now, her body responding to the stimulation of being totally in control again. It appeared that it did not matter who was the object of her attentions, as long as they were prepared to be her slave.
Thwack. The leather slashed down on the black briefs that were stretched across his rather lean buttocks.
Not satisfied with that, Angela pulled the waistband of the briefs down until they banded his thighs, then aimed a second blow. Thwack. The sound of leather on flesh was far more satisfying. She felt a sharp pang of pleasure as her clit throbbed.
Thwack. Archibald let out a high-pitched yelp and reared his head up from the bed. He buried his head back down again.
'Keep silent,' she ordered.
Casually, she rubbed her palm against her right nipple. It was so hard it felt cold to the touch. She opened her legs slightly and felt a smear of wetness leaking onto her thigh.
Thwack. Thwack. She aimed one stroke at each buttock.
Archibald yelped again but muffled the sound by pressing his mouth into the counterpane.
Very gently, Angela trailed the tip of the tawse across the now reddened flesh.
'All right, get up.'
Archibald scrambled to his feet. His cock had pushed its way out of the top of the black briefs. It was quite large and uncircumcised, the foreskin still covering much of the glans. He was staring at her body, his eyes following the hour-glass shape of her figure.
Angela wanted to try a little experiment with herself. She put one leg up on the bed. 'I want you to run your finger along my pussy. Not inside it, just along the outside. Do you understand?' She was curious to know what her reaction would be to this man's touch. He was, after all, a total stranger, whom she had only met a few minutes before.
'Yes, Ms Strickland.'
Archibald raised his hand. It was shaking. He extended a finger and stroked it against Angela's soft furry pussy. Angela felt a lovely tingling sensation and her clitoris pulsed. Apparently, her body made no distinction between strangers and carefully selected friends. Her arousal gave her a licence to behave like a whore.
'That's enough,' she snapped. 'Now, listen carefully. I want you to stand with your back against this post.' She tapped the nearest bedpost at the foot of the bed. 'Facing inward. Do you understand?'
This whole scenario, from the black PVC mac to the doctor's bag to the implement with which he had been beaten, had been Archibald Clarke's well-worn fantasy. The way Angela was dressed and what she intended to do now were her own idea.
Archibald stepped over one corner of the mattress so he was straddling it and stood with his back pressed against the carved oak post.
Angela went back to the bag. She took out three wide leather straps. Archibald's eyes had followed her every movement.
'Did I say you could look at me?' she barked.
'No, Ms Strickland.' He dropped his head, staring down at the bed.
'I can see you've got a lot to learn about the way to treat a woman,' she told him. 'Put your hands up over your head.'
He raised his hands, the handcuffs clinking against the metal post.
Angela stepped up onto the mattress and wound one of the leather straps around his wrists, tying them to the post. She secured another one around his waist and the third around his thighs. He winced as the latter forced his stinging buttocks against the bedpost.
She pulled the front of the black briefs down and hooked the elasticated waistband under his balls. She felt a surge of pleasure in her own sex. It appeared that the sight of a man completely in her power never failed to excite her.
'That's much better,' she said, sinking down to her knees in front of him. She caught hold of the PVC mac and pulled it across the bed. 'Open your mouth.'
Archibald obeyed. She could see him sniffing the strong scent of the PVC again.
Taking the collar of the mac, she reversed it, so the shiny side was against his body, then pushed the collar into his mouth. 'Hold it there,' she ordered. 'And don't drop it.'
He clamped his teeth into the material. She could see the excitement dancing in his eyes. According to the scenario Gregory had given her it was not supposed to end like this, but Archibald seemed just as entranced by her improvisations.
Angela turned her back on him and dropped on to all fours, spreading her knees apart. He would get a good view of the wide plain of her sex, from the puckered crater of her anus to the long channel of her labia. The mouth of her vagina was probably open and he would be able to see the dark hole of her sex, its outer rim of scarlet flesh ragged and irregular. She knew that, whatever he could see, it would be wet, her soft pubic hair plastered back by her juices, a little trail of them running down her left thigh.
Exposing herself to him like this was exciting her even more. She raised a hand and ran it between her legs, using her fingers to separate her labia, then let him watch as she delved into her vagina, two fingers inserted right up to the knuckle. She gave an exaggerated moan of pleasure.