It was not the best of awakenings. The first thing I was really aware of was the cold, then the taste in my mouth, which was absolutely revolting. I was half under his coat, in just my top and panties, which had dried and stuck to my skin. The fat man was still asleep, snoring, with his trousers still undone and halfway down over his pasty white bottom, which reminded me of what I’d done.
I felt really ashamed of myself, but good too, in a way, because I’d realised my fantasy, which sometimes takes a lot of strength. Not only that, but I still didn’t know his name, or vice versa, let alone his number or address. It was clearly time to leave, as quietly as possible. That way I could put the experience behind me, something I could masturbate over from time to time, when I was in a dirty mood, but not something that was going to have any repercussions.
In any case I had managed to avoid either making a play for Gina or spilling my heart out to Gabrielle. I was fairly sure that if it hadn’t been for the fat man I’d have ended up going back to the hotel. After all, it had been a pretty wild night, and the little bit of concrete visible under the garage door was still wet, even though it now seemed to be blazing sunshine outside. If I had gone to the hotel, there would have still been a fair chance of fouling things up.
I began to dress, as quickly and quietly as I could. My bag was by the mattress, and for one horrible moment I had a vision of him rifling through it while I was asleep, but it hadn’t been touched. My clothes were damp, and dirty too, but I ignored the discomfort as I struggled into them, covering my boobs first and pulling off my soiled panties before putting on my jeans.
He was still asleep by the time I’d finished, and it occurred to me to leave him my panties as a souvenir, which I was sure he’d appreciate. I was even laying them on the mattress when I had an awful vision of him trying to get them on and changed my mind, balling them into my fist instead, for disposal in the first convenient litter bin.
The door was bent and rusty, creaking so loudly as I pushed at it that I was sure he’d wake up. He didn’t, but as I ducked out beneath it I discovered that we were not alone. There was a man sitting on the dirt bank opposite the garages, looking right at me. He was a mess, with filthy clothes and matted hair, one hand clutching an open beer can, with several more littered around him. I tried not to make eye contact, edging to the side and wondering if I ought to just run for it.
‘Bitch, fucking in my bed!’ he snarled suddenly and spat on the ground.
It was only then that I realised that that was exactly what I had done. I hadn’t really given it thought, assuming the garage was just somewhere the local boys brought their girlfriends for a fuck. Now that he said it I had no reason to doubt him. I hadn’t just let the fat man have me, I’d done it on a tramp’s bed. It was too much for me. I just ran, dropping my panties as I went.
‘Fucking bitch!’ he roared, and threw the beer can at me.
As I dodged it, my toe caught in a crack in the concrete and the next moment I was down on my knees as beer splashed over my top and into my hair. His laughter rang out behind me and I cursed as I scrambled up, rubbing at my right knee. It hurt, and I turned, intending to give him a piece of my mind and then run like crazy.
‘Bastard! Fucking your whore on my bed!’ he was yelling at the fat man, who had come out of the garage.
The fat man started towards me, and I was going to run, but there was beer dripping out of my hair and all down my top, and I badly needed someone to help me. He was the only choice.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ I answered. ‘He just threw beer all over me. Look, you’re local aren’t you? Because I really need to clean up.’
He laughed, and I nearly slapped him, but the vagrant had picked up a lump of concrete, so we beat a hasty retreat, up on to the road, from where we could see right along the coast. I hadn’t realised just how far we’d walked the night before. Even the West Pier seemed to be almost on the horizon.
‘Where do you live?’ I asked, praying it was going to be nearby.
‘In London,’ he answered. ‘I’m borrowing a mate’s flat for the weekend. We can go there. I’ll sort you out.’
The flat was in Peacehaven, miles away, and we took a bus. I started out feeling really embarrassed, but he wasn’t brash, as I’d expected him to be. In fact, he was seriously insecure about himself, and while he kept giving me funny looks, he seemed to be pretty grateful for the fact that I was with him. That was fine by me, because it put me in control of the situation. There’s nothing quite so easily led as a man frantic for sex.
He talked on the way, almost non-stop, as if he thought I was going to disappear if he stopped. I let him, and when I found out that he was a computer programmer and lived in Croydon I even told him my real name. After all, it wasn’t as if we moved in the same social circles. His own name was Monty, Monty Hartle, and he was younger than I’d imagined, in fact a year younger than me, at 26, which improved my authority even more.
As he talked I realised that he didn’t see himself as fat. He was aware of it, obviously, he could hardly not have been, but it was rather like the way that I’m aware that I’ve got brown hair but I don’t see myself as a brunette. To me, words like ‘brunette’ and ‘blonde’ just objectify women, and he clearly viewed being fat in the same way, although to me it was the overridingly important thing about him.
By the time we got to the flat I was feeling a lot better about myself, mentally anyway. Physically I was both exhausted and uncomfortable. The more friendly I’d been to him the more in awe of me he had become, and I could see no reason not to take advantage of the fact. So I told him to run me a bath, and pinched his mate’s dressing gown before stuffing my clothes into the washing machine.
He had hovered outside the bedroom door as I undressed, obviously wanting to look, but not daring to. His sheer desperation put a smile on my face, and I deliberately left the robe loose at the front so that he got a teasing slice of bare boob when I came out. At my suggestion he started to get a coffee together, which I needed badly, and I sat down at the kitchen table while the bath ran. He’d gone silent, but spoke as he poured boiling water into the mugs.
‘You know last night . . . it was all right, yeah?’
‘I was so drunk I don’t really remember,’ I lied. ‘But, yes, it was all right. I don’t mind, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Great,’ he answered, and there was so much feeling in that word.
I was beginning to enjoy myself. He was a bit like Percy in a way, really attentive, but, where Percy keeps me under quite strict discipline and won’t stand too much nonsense, Monty really seemed to worship me.
The bath was full and I took my mug into the bathroom, sipping at it before shrugging the robe off. With some coffee inside me I felt better still, and I left the door slightly open, as much to tease him as to allow us to continue talking. Getting into the water was lovely, sheer bliss as I relaxed into it and all my stiffness and discomfort began to fade away. As Percy says, to really appreciate a pleasure you have to experience the reverse, and it was certainly true about that bath.
I put my head back, letting my hair soak to get rid of the spunk and beer, with my ears underwater so that I couldn’t hear. Taking the soap, I began to wash, my tummy first, which is always so soothing, then the caked mess between my bumcheeks and pussy lips. When I finally lifted my head I realised that Monty had said something, a question.
‘Sorry, what was that?’ I asked.
‘I said, may I watch?’ he answered.
‘Watch me in the bath?’
‘Yes.’
I hesitated. He sounded really insecure, urgent too, as if just seeing my naked body was a really big deal. Obviously it was.
‘Do you have to?’ I demanded.
‘We fucked last night,’ he said, his voice mixing resentment and longing.
‘Oh, all right,’ I said. ‘If you have to.’
I was enjoying his discomfort, his lust too, and as his owlish face appeared around the door I gave him a dirty look. His guilt was plainly written on his face, but he came in, sitting down on the loo with his fat hands folded in his lap. I began to soap my legs.
‘You’re a real pervert,’ I told him. ‘A peeping Tom.’
He coloured and shifted uneasily, but his eyes were fixed on my body, flicking between my legs and where my boobs showed above the surface of the water. There was so much lust in his face, which had started to go red.
‘You’re just a dirty little boy,’ I went on. ‘Aren’t you? A filthy, dirty little boy. Honestly, wanting to watch a girl in her bath.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he said, now defensive.
I just laughed, because that wasn’t what I wanted, not to make him feel bad. Anyway, not so bad it stopped him getting off over me.
‘You can wank if you like,’ I offered. ‘That’s what you’d really like to do, isn’t it?’
He nodded, the colour of his face growing suddenly richer as he reached down for his fly.
‘Uh, uh, not yet,’ I chided him. ‘First you’re to wash my hair, but no touching anywhere else.’
He swallowed, the lump clearly rising in his throat. It was great. I had total control over him. Why he put up with it after the sluttish way I’d behaved the night before I don’t know. If I’d treated Percy the same way he’d have spanked me with the bath brush.
I sat up a little and put my head back as he reached for a bottle of shampoo. His hands were trembling, and he was really clumsy, squirting out so much that it ran over the side of his palm. He got down on his knees and I shut my eyes as his hand went to my head, smearing the shampoo liberally over it.
‘Rub it in well,’ I ordered, ‘with your fingertips.’
He complied, clumsy, but effective, with his big, podgy fingers actually just about ideal for the job. It was soothing too, and he didn’t seem in any rush to stop, while I knew full well that his eyes would be fixed on my body. I was enjoying myself more and more, and I wanted to drive him crazy with lust and make him feel really guilty at the same time.
‘Now rinse,’ I said and arched my back to dip my hair into the water and incidentally stick my boobs up high. ‘In the water first, then from the tap.’
I could hear his breathing as he washed the shampoo out of my hair, and I was wishing there had been some conditioner so that I could make him go through the whole thing again. My nipples were hard, and it was as if I could feel his eyes on my chest. I let him do my hair, until his hands began to sneak lower, massaging my neck. It was nice, but it wasn’t what I wanted, and I sat up.
‘Uh, uh, don’t get dirty with me,’ I chided. ‘Now out with your little cock and I think you’d better wank it off.’
I needed a towel to dry the water off my forehead, and by the time I opened my eyes he was back on the toilet seat, with his fat thighs wide apart and his cock and balls hanging out of his trousers. It looked really obscene, just the way I had imagined it the night before, and my dirty feelings started to rise again, urging me to crawl over to him and lick and suck at his gross genitals, but I held myself back.
‘Soap your knockers, please,’ he rasped as he began to stroke at his cock.
‘Dirty bastard!’ I answered, but took my boobs in my hands, with the soap bar as well, smoothing it over them in circles as his cock grew in his hand.
‘That’s great,’ he moaned. ‘Oh you’ve got gorgeous knockers, Natasha, really gorgeous ones.’
‘You like them do you?’ I taunted. ‘You like to wank over girls’ boobs, I suppose. I bet you go down to the beach to watch.’
He nodded, now tugging hard at a fully erect cock. It looked perfect, so utterly obscene, with the great thick shaft straining up over his ball sac and his free hand holding his gross belly out of the way. I wanted to laugh at him, but I wanted to suck on his cock at the same time. He was getting frantic, and I went on soaping my boobs, which were covered in lather, with the nipples poking up through the froth, rock hard and very sensitive. I thought he was going to come, but he slowed suddenly, panting, obviously unable to make it so fast.
I laughed, I couldn’t stop myself, just from his desperate, urgent lust, and all because I’d let him jerk his dirty cock over the sight of my body. He swallowed, struggling to regain his breath, then began to wank again, more slowly now, stroking his balls as he did it, then gradually faster as he feasted his eyes on me.
‘What do you like to do?’ he urged. ‘I bet it’s something grubby, something really grubby. Come on, you can tell me.’
‘You just want me to talk dirty, don’t you?’
‘Whatever turns you on.’
‘It doesn’t turn me on, Monty, it turns you on, you pervert.’
I was lying, but I was getting so high on tormenting him that I didn’t want to stop. He was red in the face, with sweat running down his cheeks as he hammered at his cock, all the while with his eyes glued to my body. I could sense his guilt and shame, just like my own for what I’d had him do to me, and it was great, revenge and sadistic delight at the same time.
‘You love this, don’t you,’ I went on. ‘I bet you do it all the time, over porn, you dirty bastard, in your bedroom, wanking over some poor girl’s tits and bottom. Imagine it, Monty, some poor girl who’s so hard up for money she has to pose in a dirty magazine, hating every minute of it, and what are you doing? You’re wanking over her, aren’t you, you filthy little pervert, wanking your cock over her bare body, just like you’re wanking it over mine. Jesus you’re dirty. Look at you, with your cock out and your eyes fixed on my tits. Do you want more? How about some pussy, with my legs apart? How about some bum, with my cheeks nice and wide so you can see the hole? That’s what you’d like best, isn’t it? I bet it is, jerking off your filthy little cock over the sight of my bumhole, isn’t it?’
It was what I wanted, badly, and I rolled in the bath as I spoke, sticking my bum up out of the water and pulling my back in to make my cheeks part and show my hole, the rear of my pussy too. I was looking back, and I could see his face, bright red and wet with sweat, while his hand was jerking frantically at his cock. He was staring at my bum, his eyes fixed on my most intimate details, and at last it was too much for him and a spurt of white fluid jumped from the tip of his cock, then another, to splash across his belly and run down over his fingers.
‘Pervert,’ I told him one last time as he slumped back against the toilet. ‘Now get out.’
I wanted him out because I needed to come myself, and having taken charge it didn’t seem right to let him watch. He went, not even stopping to clean up, but waddling out of the room with his cock still hanging out of his fly. My hand went straight to my pussy as I rolled on to my back, my eyes closing in bliss. I was grinning as I masturbated, imagining his shame and confusion as he brought himself to orgasm over the sight of my body. I’d made up the bit about glamour models hating it, and it was probably rubbish, but I’d guessed it would make him feel worse, so much worse. He’d come though, and I was sure he’d felt as much of the guilt and shame he’d made me suffer for two long weeks.
That was what got me to orgasm, as much as the feel of my soapy body and the thought of what an exhibition I’d made of myself: sheer sexual revenge. When I opened my eyes it was to find him peeping in at the door, so I threw a sponge at him and called him a pervert again as he beat a hasty retreat.
What was left of my coffee was cold, but I drank it anyway, and finished washing before climbing out of the bath and putting on the robe. Monty was in the kitchen, stuffing his fat face with jam sandwiches. I made toast for myself, not really sure what I should say, until he broke the silence.
‘You liked that, didn’t you?’ he asked.
‘Of course I did,’ I answered. It seemed pretty pointless to deny it.
‘You’re a dirty girl, aren’t you?’
There was something about the way he said it, ‘dirty girl’, as if it was something clear cut, classified, and my mind went back to my thoughts of brunettes and blondes. There was something really smutty about the concept, humiliating too, as if it gave him the right to use me, because I was dirty, soiled goods.
‘I can be,’ I answered cautiously.
‘You are,’ he said with certainty. ‘You asked to kiss my arse last night, you did, and you call me a pervert.’
‘You are,’ I replied. ‘Peeping Tom. I was drunk last night.’
I’d said it, but without much conviction in my voice. He knew.
‘Drink brings out the truth,’ he said. ‘Come on, dirty stuff turns you on, doesn’t it? What do you like best, that, kissing a man’s arse?’
‘No.’
‘What then? Come on, tell me, please. I want to know what really turns you on.’
‘Oh, all right, it is that, sort of, sexual submission anyway. You really got to me when you threatened to sit on my head, if you must know. That’s why I went with you, why I wanted to kiss you like that.’
‘Hang on, it was you who asked me to do it!’
‘No, before that. The first time.’
‘First time?’
‘You know. In the Borscht.’
‘The what?’
‘The Polish restaurant in Lamb’s Conduit Street, you know.’
He shrugged.
‘Stop messing about! You were there. I called you a . . . something nasty and you threatened to sit on my head to teach me my manners.’
‘You must have been there, you must have!’
I was pleading, I could hear the tone in my own voice, but I knew he was telling the truth. He wasn’t the original fat man at all.
All the way back to London I thought about what I’d done. I kept telling myself that I could handle it, that it was no worse than many of the other things I’d done. After all, I’d kissed Percy’s anus often enough. He liked me to do it to him to say thank you for beatings, and he was fat enough, and more than twice my age into the bargain. It didn’t matter, there was just something irrevocably obscene about Monty Hartle. There was also something funny about him, almost clownlike, with his great wobbling body and fat face. That made the thought of sex with him yet more humiliating, and it also made him seem safe, completely unthreatening.
I was doing over a hundred most of the way up the M23, until I saw the flashing blue light of a police car on one of the bridges, which sobered me up considerably. After that I was careful, and when I got to the M25 I turned west for Dorking and Box Hill, which seemed the ideal place to be alone to just think.
I’d spent most of the day with him, waiting for my clothes to dry, in nothing but one of his T-shirts, although that covered me completely. I was still knickerless under my trousers, because I hadn’t been able to face the offer of one of his pairs of underpants, which I’d have had to tie off at both sides in any case.
He’d given me his address, plus his landline, mobile and email, really eager that I should see him again. I’d taken them, but declined to give mine in return, although I had a sneaking suspicion he’d gone through my bag at some point. He’d even asked me out, in his inept way, using words I hadn’t heard since I was a teenager. Naturally I’d refused, but I had said I might get in touch with him, which was as far as I was prepared to go. Really I needed to get my head round the whole thing first.
Box Hill itself was quite crowded, with dog walkers and families out for a Sunday stroll. I needed to be alone, and struck off on a footpath, off the National Trust land to a bit of woodland that looked lonely enough for my purposes. I knew I was going to masturbate, I had no illusions about that, or shame. The problem was what I was going to masturbate over.
I would have liked to strip nude, and it was just about warm enough for it, but I didn’t really feel secure. Anyway, if I stripped I was likely to come just over the exhibitionist thrill of being naked in the open air, and I had a reason for masturbating other than simple self-indulgence. What I wanted to do was let my mind drift and see what I came over, then I would know if I ought to take the thing with Monty any further, or drop it.
Not that the practical reasons for what I was doing stopped me having fun with it and, as I looked for a safe place, a deliciously naughty feeling was growing inside me. I’d done it quite a lot in France, where it’s so much easier to find lonely places, but nearly always with Percy watching, to stand guard as well as to enjoy the view. Now I was alone, and vulnerable, and excited.
There is always that thrill of wondering what would happen if I got caught when I masturbate outdoors, but I make very, very sure it never happens. After about half an hour of trying to choose a place, and all the while growing more edgy and more aroused, I settled on a bank of fern right at the edge of the wood. It was perfect really, because I could sit with my back to a big beech tree and see down the slope through the fronds, although there was no chance of anyone seeing me.
I still felt seriously nervous as I undid my fly and eased my trousers down over my hips. Being knickerless gave me a nice hit of pleasure, with my pussy immediately bare, only to discover that the beech leaves I was sitting on tickled my bum. So I made myself a little seat of fern leaves, forcing myself to do it with my trousers still down to add to the thrill. It was a lot more comfortable sitting on them, and I relaxed back against the tree, with my legs wide and my jeans down around my ankles.
It felt very good indeed, and I began to stroke myself, concentrating on my belly and thighs and deliberately avoiding my pussy. After a while I pulled my boobs out, which felt ruder still, especially when I remembered that was how I’d been while he licked me out in the garage.
I had been drunk, very drunk, but I’d done it, and at heart I knew it was what I’d wanted to do anyway. Lying to myself was futile, especially as I’d been perfectly sober when I’d been fantasising about it before, and when I’d masturbated in front of him in the bath. Watching him had been good too, as well as making me feel a lot better about myself. He was obscene, so fat, with his great greasy cock and huge balls, all hanging out beneath his massive belly.
It was getting too much for me to hold back, and I began to stroke my boobs, cupping them, one in each hand, and running my thumbs over the nipples. I was near naked outdoors and it felt really nice, and I was going to come, over one of the rudest things I’d done in my life. I’d been right not to strip too. It felt better half-dressed, dirtier, less decent, with everything that mattered showing, with my boobs in my hands so that it was quite obvious that I was no sunbather, but a slut, playing with herself for the pleasure of it.
For a while I just toyed with my boobs, letting the arousal build up slowly inside me. I knew that if I really needed more sex with Monty I’d come over it, but there was no point in forcing the issue. Instead I tried to think of something else, Damon and the way he liked to force me to swallow his spunk, but it was no good, that was past and I’d had my fill.
I tried Gina next, thinking of how much fun it would have been to turn her over my lap in the club, to flip up her little floaty dress and pull down her panties, to spank her bare bottom in front of all those hundreds of women and men. It was good, especially imagining how she would have kicked and struggled, squealing out her protests as I exposed her and punished her for being such a little flirt. Unfortunately it was impossible not to imagine Amy’s reaction. She’s taller than me and fitter than me, and it would have been me who ended up getting punished.
Not that that was so bad either. A bare bottom spanking in front of several hundred leering watchers is just my thing, at least in fantasy. Amy would have done it hard too, really making me kick and thrash, showing off my pussy and bumhole as I was beaten, then making me grovel on the floor to kiss her feet in abject apology, with my bare red bum stuck up in the air for everyone to see.
She would have made me apologise to Gina too, kissing her little white pumps. Gina would have giggled and pulled up her dress, pointing to her pussy and ordering me to lick it. I’d have done it, in front of everybody, with my tongue well in as Amy watched in delight, Isabel and Ami in shock, Gabrielle with a detached, scientific interest. That would have been the worst of it, Gabrielle Salinger, cool and aloof, watching me lick pussy. I’d have masturbated too, unable to hold back, just as I was now.
I’d closed my eyes and my hand had gone to my pussy, stroking and kneading, still clear of my clitty, but close enough. I was wet, and as I pushed two fingers to the mouth of my vagina they slid up easily, into the warm, moist mouth, feeling the wet, bumpy tube within, then out, and to my mouth, to suck up my own juices just the way I’d licked them off Monty’s balls.
That was too much, and my fingers went to my clitty as I thought of the taste of his balls, sticky with my own juice from where he’d fucked me, doggy style, on all fours like a bitch on heat. It had got worse though, so much worse, with his fat, blubbery bottom in my face, right in my face, smothering me, making me kick and writhe underneath him, forcing me to kiss it, to kiss his anus, his arsehole . . .
I really screamed as I came, choking it back only when I remembered where I was. That broke the orgasm before it was really over, and I hastily covered myself and scrambled up, retreating through the wood instead of down the slope. Fortunately, nobody seemed to be about, and I returned to the car without incident.
It was nearly dark by the time I got back to my flat in Primrose Hill, to find the doorway piled up with red roses, bunch upon bunch of the things.