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?’
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 small, 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?’
‘No,’ she admitted.
‘No? He’s based in Kayserberg, a few miles outside Colmar.’
‘Kayserberg I know.’
‘His wine is very much in the new style, delicate, with the emphasis on balance rather than power. Perfect for lunchtime.’
I ordered, feeling thoroughly pleased with myself for demonstrating my superior knowledge. Also my buying power, as the bottle cost thirty pounds, twice as much as the one she had suggested. If she thought she was going to play dominance games, she had picked the wrong woman.
‘I was there in the spring,’ I went on. ‘Have you been back recently?’
‘I was there last Christmas,’ she said, ‘but I do not go often. My family are very traditional. They do not like what I do.’
‘No? I’d have thought they’d be proud of you?’
‘It is not so. My mother is very religious. My father is in local politics. Both think I should have married by now, and be producing children to carry on the family. I am an only child.’
‘Me too, but Daddy’s not like that. He’d do anything for me . . .’
I trailed off, realising that she had already made me admit one of the most important things about me, along which lay the key to my sexuality. I’m spoiled, and it’s from there that I get my need for punishment. Not only that, but a lot of my confidence and security comes from being able to rely on Daddy, which I did not want her to know, especially as her own seemed to be innate.
‘They find my rejection of Catholicism difficult to accept,’ she went on. ‘Impossible, in fact. I have been an atheist since my adolescence, yet they still think I am going through a phase.’
She laughed, a very light, carefree sound. I smiled and shrugged, now cautious of her easy, intimate manner, not wanting to get pulled in again.
A waitress appeared with our bottle, in an ice bucket, and glasses. I sat back, deliberately letting Gabrielle pour for me, which she did without any sign of selfconsciousness. I sipped the wine, which was excellent, although it would have had Percy complaining about modern techniques, and she continued.
‘It was not easy to shake off the imprinting of my childhood, even though I understood it. Meaningless guilt, in particular, was difficult to overcome. You know, the guilt of breaching conventions and taboos, when there is no victim. In particular for sexual acts.’
I sat silent, aware of exactly where she was trying to lead me. She would convince me that I should feel no shame for what I did, and I’d tell her everything. Her manner was so confidential, almost conspiratorial, and it would have been easy to go along with her. It wasn’t going to happen.
‘In our culture there is a shame of femininity, deeply ingrained,’ she went on. ‘Woman is sin, as represented by Eve and, as such, if she is to even attempt to be pure, she must feel ashamed, merely for being female.’
‘I know, it’s disgusting,’ I agreed.
‘Disgusting, true, but a reality. One must face reality. To deny it because it is wrong is not a solution. In my work I seek to bring women above their ingrained shame, to an understanding of themselves as a rational animal, responsible to themselves, to society, but not a conceptual being, a principle function of which is their repression. By the way, Ami is all right. I have explained to her.’
‘You have?’
The question had slipped out before I knew I’d said it. She had been talking as if she was addressing a convention, then suddenly changed, to something very personal and very immediate.
‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘she came to see me yesterday. I explained her reaction to what you did, both physically and mentally. She understands now and, I think, has benefited from the experience. I didn’t know you took colonic hydrotherapy?’
‘I don’t . . . I mean, I do, obviously . . . not . . .’
‘Not as therapy?’
‘No . . . Yes . . .’
‘For pleasure?’
‘No! Yes, of course I do, you know I do. Ami told you everything, I suppose?’
It had come out in a rush and my temper had risen with it, until I had to choke myself back from telling her to mind her own business. I expected to see triumph in her eyes, maybe amusement, but she had put her wine glass to her lips, hiding her emotions, a trick I’ve used myself a thousand times. I was still trying to decide what to say when she put it down.
‘Do you also feel shame? You seem insecure about it.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I answered. ‘I’m fine about it. I don’t feel the need for help, or therapy, or anything. The feeling stimulates me sexually, and it did the same for Ami. It’s not a big deal. I’m in control, completely.’
‘Perfect,’ she said.
She was going to continue, but at that moment somebody called out my name and I turned to see Damon coming towards us. Gabrielle immediately stopped talking, and I caught the look of irritation on her face for an instant before she buried it behind her glass.
‘Let me join you?’ he said, pulling a chair up to our table.
‘Do,’ Gabrielle answered, although I’d been hoping she’d tell him he wasn’t welcome.
I couldn’t, because I’d already made too much of trying to bring our relationship to a close and I didn’t want him to think that he was that important to me. For the next half hour we made small talk, with Damon trying to ingratiate himself with me. Eventually Gabrielle went, and I made an excuse not long after, gaining some small satisfaction from leaving him to pay the bill.
I needed to think, and I was feeling just faintly tipsy, so I walked home. I felt I’d managed quite well with Gabrielle, being friendly but firm. What I wasn’t sure of was where the conversation had been going when Damon had interrupted us. Once she’d got me to admit I got a sexual kick out of taking enemas I’d expected her to become detached, analytical. She hadn’t, and she had said just one word before stopping – ‘perfect’.
As always with her it had been impossible to gain much from her tone of voice, but it certainly hadn’t been analytical. It hadn’t been gloating either, which in any case would have been far too obvious a reaction for her. If anything it had seemed very genuine, as if she was happy that I took such perverse enjoyment. That seemed possible, after the way she had been going on about getting rid of shame and guilt, but it didn’t really make sense. Anyway, she had been so open and friendly when I knew perfectly well it was all carefully staged to draw me into an admission that I wasn’t going to trust anything she said anyway.
She had managed to lead me though, for all my efforts at resistance, a piece of knowledge that gave me the same familiar shiver I’d felt after putting the phone down the night before. It was impossible not to think about it. She was a manipulative bitch, but the same skills could have been put to much better use to dominate me sexually, if only she’d been a slut. Not just that, but she had the look too, with her short cropped hair and her steel-grey eyes. The way she held herself was good too, very straight, so that she seemed really tall despite being perhaps an inch above me, no more. It was certainly easy to imagine her giving me orders.
I resisted a bit at first, not really wanting to make a fantasy figure of her, in the circumstances. Unfortunately it was just too good to hold back, and by the time I reached Regent’s Park I was wondering what sort of role she’d fit best. My first thought was a wardress in an old-fashioned prison, picking on me by forcing me to perform the most menial tasks. Inevitably I’d fail to complete them to her satisfaction, which would give her the perfect excuse to punish me. It would be done publicly, in the exercise yard. I’d be dragged out, screaming and kicking, but to no avail. There would be six or seven other wardresses, enough to control me easily, and I’d be stripped, stark naked, my clothes torn off despite my pathetic struggles.
My beating would be really popular, because I’d be a tell-tale, a grass, or whatever the term would be. There would be other prisoners watching, hundreds of them, thoroughly enjoying themselves at my expense as I was strapped, nude, over a trestle, still kicking and screaming, pleading for mercy. I would already be blubbering my eyes out as I was forced down, bum high, legs wide, with my pussy gaping to the crowd, bumhole on show, bare boobs hanging down.
I’d be thrashed, really hard, by Gabrielle, with her standing over me with a really vicious switch, slashing it down across my bottom, over and over, until I was screaming with pain, until I wet myself all over her, in front of all of them, until there was blood running down my poor ruined bottom, until I passed out. They’d bring me round with a bucket of cold water, right in my face, and the first thing I’d see was Gabrielle, her skirts lifted, her pussy bare, so that I could lick her to climax in a gesture of beaten, defeated submission.
It was good, but it lacked the element of realism that I like. Anyway, I could hardly sit down on a bench and frig myself off, however much I wanted to. For a moment I considered her in the role of traffic warden, only to abandon it. The role might be authoritarian, but to a confirmed car addict like myself it was much better to imagine a warden in a submissive role, getting a bare bottom spanking from some angry motorist. I had actually been made to dress up as a traffic warden before, and punished, but it was such a lower-middle-class role, not really me at all.
Gabrielle needed to be something grander than either role, something to suit her intelligence. It came to me suddenly, a fantasy so obvious and so cruel that I knew I would have to masturbate over it the moment I got back to my flat. It involved her as she was, a therapist, but running a sort of perverts’ equivalent to Alcoholics Anonymous, where dirty-minded sluts like myself could go to rid themselves of their nasty little habits.
The humiliation would be agonising. I’d have to stand up in front of a group of other women, maybe men too, and admit I liked my bottom spanked. Most of them would be nearly cured, and guilty of lesser perversions anyway, so they’d look down on me, full of satisfaction and piety because I was about to get it. I would get it too, because the cure would be for Gabrielle to bring home to me just what physical punishment is really about.
I’d have made my confession in the nude, to show proper contrition, and I’d have stayed nude as I was lectured by Gabrielle, told how I was a disgrace to women, and how awful I was for enjoying having my bottom smacked. They’d tie me to a chair, strapped up really tight so that I couldn’t move an inch, with my bare bum stuck out and everything showing. They wouldn’t be cruel at all, but smug, full of self-righteousness as they lashed my hands tight up behind my back and forced me to spread my knees.
It would be Gabrielle who did the beating, really hard, with a thick, knobbly cane. I’d scream and struggle in my bonds, whimpering and begging, but nothing would make her stop, because she would know it was for my own good, to cure me. She’d make a real mess of my bottom and, when she’d finished and I was snivelling brokenly and mumbling apologies with spittle running from my mouth, she’d tell one of the men to fuck me, not for his fun, but because it was necessary to complete my lesson. He’d do it, and they’d all watch with smug satisfaction, faces set in solemn approval as my beaten bottom was fucked from the rear and spunked over.
When I reached my door I was so urgent I couldn’t get the key into the lock. In the end I managed, tumbling inside, up the stairs, into my flat and on to the bed, pulling up my skirt one-handed as I scrabbled in my bedside table for the vibrator. I got it, and twisted it on, sticking it down the front of my panties without preliminaries. The sensation was glorious, and I was on the way to orgasm immediately. For one thing I could feel the bruises Monty had given me with the spoon, and imagine them inflicted by Gabrielle, in that awful, cold room, grey painted, soulless, with me strapped down on a chair, howling and thrashing my way through my punishment with every eye on me and Gabrielle above me, beautiful and stern . . .
As I came I got the most wonderful image of her face, with all calm, confident strength, stern and dominant, the face of a woman to whom I ought to be grovelling naked as she thrashed my bare bottom.
When I’d finished I just lay on the bed, with my skirt still up and the vibrator sticking out of the top of my panties. It had been a good orgasm and, if I felt a little cross with myself for coming over Gabrielle, then I had to admit that it had been worth it.
Masturbating over Gabrielle was all very well, but it didn’t alter the fact that our conversation had been inconclusive. I needed to see her again, and hammer things out. I might even tell her a little, if she was prepared to treat me as a rational human being and not some sort of loony. With luck that would satisfy her and, after all, if she felt that getting excited over taking enemas was OK, then maybe she felt the same over spanking. After all, as a psychologist, presumably with some sort of degree, she had to know about endorphins. Whether she could handle what went on in my head was a different matter, but I didn’t have to go there.
That was clearly the most sensible thing to do. Explain to her how I enjoyed the physical sensations, and leave out my feelings. With luck she’d swallow it and that would be that.
I intended to call her that evening, but she beat me to it, saying that she was going for a detox at Haven and inviting me to join her. It seemed as good a place as any, besides which, after my fantasy, the chance to be naked in front of her was too good to pass up. So I accepted, arriving shortly after eight to find that she had booked one of the private rooms.
I went up, to find her stark naked, piling up huge pots of what looked like some sort of preparation on a bench, beside several rolls of cling film. I’d seen her nude before, but not close up, and it was impossible not to admire the smoothness of her skin, which was very pale and pretty well flawless, like polished ivory.
For a while we made small talk, mainly with her explaining the basis of whole-being therapy and how it was intended to blend physical and mental techniques to give an all-round sense of well-being. It made sense, in a way, although like so many of these things it basically boiled down to putting yourself first. I’ve always done that anyway.
In due course she got on to the subject of enemas which, as I knew, she didn’t see as a purely physical technique.
‘Physical and mental processes are inextricably linked,’ she was saying as I finished stowing my clothes in the locker. ‘To cleanse the body is to cleanse the mind.’
‘Mens sana in corpore sano,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that a bit old-fashioned for you? Victorian, almost.’
‘The truth holds,’ she replied. ‘What has changed is society’s definition of sane. Take Dr Kellogg, for instance, who was obsessed with the repression of natural sexual feelings, yet gave himself regular enemas. Did he use them as a substitute for sex? If he did, was he aware of it? Certainly he never admitted it. The same is true of other common Victorian practices: flagellation, electrotherapy . . .’
‘Flagellation?’
‘Undoubtedly. It can be an experience both cathartic and stimulating. You know, I think?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, really quite boldly. After all, there was no point in denying it. Not with the spoon bruises still on my bottom.
‘You possess unusual self-awareness,’ she went. ‘You should treasure that, as a quality. Indeed, self-awareness is a central consideration of whole-being therapy.’
‘Thank you,’ I answered, cautiously.
She had wrapped a towel around herself, but I stayed nude, enjoying the feeling of being naked while she was covered. From what she had said I could finally be sure that Jo Warren had told her about my love of being spanked, and she seemed to approve, which had made my desire to be dominated by her stronger still. I knew I was going to have to admit to it soon enough, yet I was determined to be firm, and not to have a case study made of me. She could lie with the best of them, I was sure of it, and I wondered if she might even say she liked it herself, even offer me a spanking, to gain my trust. If she did, it was going to be hard to resist.
‘Sex and shame have no place together,’ she went on. ‘Feelings of shame should be for acts that harm others, not for acts that bring pleasure.’
I didn’t agree, but I wasn’t saying anything. Certainly I didn’t want to try to explain that, for me, a good deal of pleasure actually came from shame.
‘To admit the pleasure you find in acts we are taught to think shameful is a great liberation,’ she was saying. ‘Not that we should assume that all those who use such techniques for their physical benefits necessarily find them sexual, or even pleasant. Take the case of enemas. In many cases an enema may be used simply to provide more direct access to the internal system than straightforward ingestion. Coffee enemas, for instance . . .’
‘Coffee enemas?’
‘Yes, they are particularly effective in cleansing the liver. Some also take them as a precaution against bowel cancer, although the evidence is not clear. Red wine, again, for the absorption of resveratrol, although one must be careful in the case of alcoholic solutions. Alcohol is absorbed very rapidly through the lining of the lower gut and can be potentially dangerous. I imagine you’d rather just drink it.’
I smiled, trying not to blush at the memory of the not infrequent wine enemas applied by Percy, more than one of which I’d been made to taste.
‘My own choice is for a combined preparation,’ she went on. ‘It is an essential element of my detoxification regime . . .’
‘You’re going to do it, now?’
‘Certainly I am. Will you not do so too? It is easier with assistance.’
‘Well I might. What do you do?’
‘Apply the preparation to the skin,’ she answered, gesturing to the pots on the bench, ‘with a little taken internally.’
‘And the cling film?’
‘To hold the preparation in place. As I say, it is easier with assistance.’
She was pretty keen for me to help her, and again I wondered if she wasn’t trying to lull me into a false sense of security. Not that it mattered, so long as I was careful. It seemed harmless enough, so long as I kept my feelings to myself. Besides, I’d be helpless, so I wouldn’t be able to get carried away and try to jump on her. Afterwards, back in my flat, I could work the whole experience up into a nice submissive fantasy.
‘What’s in the preparation?’ I asked.
‘It is complex,’ she answered. ‘A formula I devised myself, and which I call Balanced Mud. It includes natural exfoliants and several essential oils.’
She opened a pot, revealing a thick brown paste, very like mud. I dipped a finger into it and sniffed. The scent was intensely herbal, like a very rustic vermouth, also rich and fruity, with a touch of earth.’
‘Pineapple juice is an important constituent,’ she admitted. ‘Also tea-tree oil.’
‘So you’d smear me with it and wrap me in cling film?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Except for your face,’ she replied. ‘In all therapy involving enclosure it is crucial to keep the airways free. Always.’
She sounded absolutely serious, absolutely formal, not at all giggly, as I would have been if doing something with such obviously sexual implications. Yet she knew what enemas did to me.
‘So it’s a mental therapy as well?’ I asked.
‘Certainly,’ she said, ‘there may be a sense of return to the womb while enclosed, and of birth when released, in addition to the mental aspects of the cleansing effect.’
‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘Shall I go first?’
‘That would be most sensible. Put your hair up. Stand over the drain and place your arms to your sides. Relax yourself.’
After piling my hair high and wrapping a towel around it, I stepped to where she was indicating, a grill at the centre of the floor, as she picked up the open tub. It was easy for her to suggest that I relax, but she was about to rub the mud preparation into my body, which meant putting her hands on my neck, my boobs, my bottom, even my pussy. Some women genuinely seem to be able to enjoy touching without any erotic implication. Not me, unless I don’t want it at all. It’s either sexy or has the potential to become sexy.
She dipped her hand into the pot, bringing up a good handful of the thick paste, which she slapped on to my shoulder, smearing it across my back. It was cool, and felt pleasantly slimy, until, as she added a second handful, it began to tingle, ever so slightly. A third handful went on and she began to rub it in, across my shoulders and around my neck, her long finger pressing gently to my skin. She certainly knew how to massage, and I could feel the tension draining out of my body as she worked on me, more tension than I’d realised I had.
I was quickly feeling pleasantly drowsy, horny too, in an easy-going sort of way, wanting sexual things done to me but without any real urgency. The feel of her fingers on my flesh was just so nice, particularly at the nape of my neck, which she kept coming back to. Her hands were soon on my breasts, cupping them and smearing the mud upwards, which made my nipples pop up under her fingers. I was hoping she’d enjoy a good feel, but she gave them no special attention and moved lower, doing my belly and sides, then my lower back, and at last my bottom. That really was glorious, slow and sensual, with her hands spread wide, making slow, circular motions that made my cheeks lift and part.
If she didn’t concentrate on my erogenous zones, then she didn’t hold back either. With my bottom cheeks well smeared with the mud, her hands went down between them, quite casually, as if touching another woman between her buttocks was of no great significance at all. Her finger even touched my anus, pushing a little mud into the opening before moving lower to coat the insides of my thighs. Her treatment of my bottom left me aroused, if still strangely at ease – in fact, more so than ever – and I was wondering exactly what was in the mud, or if the feeling simply came from her skill at massage. Not that I really cared, as I was more than ready for her to touch me, in any way she wanted.
I’d thought she would leave my pussy until last, maybe even touch me off, which wouldn’t have been difficult. I knew she considered orgasm therapeutic in itself, and was hoping that it was included in her treatment. After all, it wouldn’t be as if I asked for it. Unfortunately she simply smoothed her hand once over my pubic mound, smearing on a good handful of mud, and briefly dipped lower, to coat my sex lips, although she did briefly enter my vagina and stroke mud on to my perineum. My arms came next, my legs last, leaving me coated from neck to toe in the stuff, with the herbal smell thick in my nostrils. My whole body felt enervated, my skin tingling gently, slightly hot, but not unpleasantly so, and while I wasn’t sleepy, I was very, very relaxed and equally horny.
‘Is that good, yes?’ she asked.
‘Yes, beautiful,’ I admitted. ‘You’re great at massage.’
She gave a little tut of acknowledgement, nothing more, and stepped across to the sink to wash her hands. As I waited, the mud was running very slowly down my body, and I realised why she had put more high up. The tingling sensation was growing stronger too on the more sensitive areas of my flesh: my armpit and breasts, particularly my nipples, but also between my bottom cheeks too and most of all my pussy and bumhole.
Washed, she took the cling film, an industrial-sized roll a good two feet long and thick as well. I put my hands to my sides as she approached, thinking of the domination fantasies she had inspired and wanting to be as helpless as possible. Not that she was going to be cruel to me, but she was going to give me an enema of sorts, which was close enough.
Pulling the end loose, she pressed it gently to my back, smoothing it on one-handed as she unrolled it, trapping my arm. Pulling it out across the front of my chest, she trapped the other, squeezing my breasts in as she did it. That alone was enough to trigger my feelings of restriction, with my boobs bound up tight, and it became stronger as she wound more around me, quite hard, encasing my upper body until I couldn’t move my arms at all. My hips followed, then my legs, leaving me standing but unable to take so much as a step, with the cling film wound tight, right down to my ankles. The restriction had become genuine, and quite severe, with the soft flesh of my bottom and belly squashed out beneath the cling film and the mud oozing into whatever cavities were left, including my cleavage and between my thighs.
‘And now, to the table,’ Gabrielle said as she tore the roll free.
I’d always imagined her as strong, but she lifted me really easily, certainly more easily than I’d have been able to lift her, on to the massage table, full length and face down. Helpless in my cocoon, and bottom up, it was getting hard not to show my reaction, and my domination fantasies were running wild. She could do anything to me, anything she wanted to, explore my body, spank me, indulge herself on my mouth, rub herself off over the slick film that encased my breasts. What she actually intended to do was nearly as good.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘a little applied internally, in both the vaginal and rectal chambers, and you are done.’
I twisted my head around, watching as she went to a box of plastic gloves and pulled on a pair. As she moved the box it revealed a small tray, with a big syringe on it, maybe holding half a litre, with a long nozzle ending in a bulblike tip. Just looking at the thing had me biting my lip, but she was as cool as ever, sticking the end into the pot of mud and drawing the plunger up to fill the syringe with glutinous brown muck, glutinous brown muck that was about to be squirted up my pussy and bottom.
With the syringe full she took up a pair of scissors, coming behind me. I felt her fingers on my bottom, where the mud had pooled between my cheeks and thighs. I felt the tension go as she cut the cling film, and there was a little squashy noise as some of the mud pushed out of the hole. Her fingers went in, between my cheeks, opening them, and she was touching my bumhole. I was gritting my teeth, struggling not to show my emotion as she greased my hole, her rubber-covered fingers working the mud into my ring, opening me, probing and slipping inside, up into my rectum. It was already stinging my anus, really burning, making me tense my cheeks and wiggle my toes in reaction.
She made a thorough job of it, smearing the inside of my gut with the mud, before reaching for the syringe, still with two fingers holding my bumhole open. Just thinking of her actually peering up my bum was too much, and I let out a sigh, closing my eyes against the senses of exposure and helplessness, of shame and indignity. Then the nozzle was at my hole, pushing up as her fingers withdrew. She stuck it well up, deep into my rectum, until my anus was stretched taut and I could feel the weight of the horrible thing up my bottom, before depressing the plunger, and with that my self-control went completely.
I moaned loudly as I felt my rectum start to fill with mud. It felt heavy, solid, very different from a water enema, although I knew it was no more than a thick paste. In no time I had begun to feel bloated, with a desperate, urgent need to go to the loo building up inside me. It was going right up too, and I could feel my belly beginning to swell and the pressure rising as it pushed against my bladder.
She put it all up, the whole half litre, before pulling the syringe from my bumhole. I could hardly hold it in and I was panting, really showing my feelings. She took no notice, calmly cleaning the nozzle and refilling the syringe before once more coming behind me. Again I felt the nozzle poke in between my thighs, but lower, aiming for my pussy. It went up, deep, and then she had begun to depress the plunger and my pussy was bulging with mud, stinging too, a hot, almost burning sensation that added to the pain in my anus and the bloated feeling in my rectum.
‘There we are,’ she said as the nozzle pulled from my pussy. ‘The tingling will soon die down. Let me put some fresh cling film on and then you may expel when you are ready.’
‘Certainly. You will find it cathartic, I think.’
I wasn’t sure if I’d find it cathartic or not, but I knew I’d find it rude, deliciously, wantonly rude. I said nothing though, waiting with my bumhole clamped tight against the mounting pressure as she wrapped fresh cling film around me, from my waist down to my knees, sealing the hole. I had to lift my bottom to let her get the roll under me, and I nearly let go. It came out of my pussy anyway, squeezing into the cavity between my thighs and up between my sex lips.
Gabrielle was watching, smiling down at me in my helplessness, quite clearly enjoying the state she had put me in. She looked so dominant, tall and cool and aloof, amusing herself by making me expel my muddy enema into the cling film cocoon. I wanted her to enjoy it, and what was going on in my head too, but I still didn’t dare tell her. I was wishing I could though, badly, and that she would then make good use of my helpless body to get her kicks, perhaps sitting on my face with my tongue well up her bottomhole.
I was still holding the enema, tight, enjoying the rising pain and helplessness, also the humiliation of knowing it would come out in the end, and that she would see. My bumhole was still stinging too, and my breath was coming ever deeper, my cheeks clenching, my thigh muscles twitching, and suddenly it was too much. It was coming out, thick and slow, oozing between my bumcheeks and into the cling film. I’d shut my eyes, my face screwed up to the gloriously disgusting feeling as it began to bulge out in the cling film over my bum, squashing up between my cheeks, down too, over my pussy, then up it.
I moaned aloud as my vagina filled, unable to hold my reaction back. It was all so lewd, so wonderfully filthy, with the mud still oozing out of my bumhole, my pussy full of it and the pressure building around my bum. I wanted to pee, and I just let it come, bubbling out into the cling film to mix with the mud and pool around my pussy mound, warm and wet.
‘You are peeing?’ Gabrielle asked. ‘Good. Let your body empty, everything. It is good, yes?’
‘Yes,’ I sighed.
‘You are aroused?’
I nodded miserably, unable to deny it, hoping she’d say she was too, and then just use me. She said nothing, just nodding to herself as if to confirm her suspicions and returning to the inspection of my bottom. I knew it must have looked obscene, and that there was a big bulge where my cheeks met my thighs, because I could feel the weight of it. I wanted Gabrielle to slap it, to spank me for what I’d done, to treat me as if it was wrong, naughty.
The mud was still coming, but I was having to push, and I wasn’t sure it was all mud, which made it yet more humiliating. I was soaked in pee too, all over my tummy and thighs, even up between my boobs, which felt tight and slimy under the film, and badly needed to be touched. Then Gabrielle’s hand had settled on to the bulge behind my bottom.
‘Is it all out?’ she asked.
Again I nodded.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then I roll you over.’
Her hands went under my hip and shoulder and I was flipped over on to my front, really easily. I shut my eyes, knowing she could see the pee flowing down over the contours of my flesh beneath the cling film, then grimaced as the squashy mess around my bottom settled beneath me.
I had no idea what she was going to do, but there were still visions of her sitting on my face running through my head. I’d have gladly licked her pussy for her, even her bumhole. In fact it would have been a privilege to stick my tongue right up that rude little hole while she masturbated in my face.
What she did was less intimate, less delightfully rude, in fact cold and clinical. Yet that seemed right – the calm, methodical manipulation of my body as she coolly pressed a ridge of cling film down into the slimy cleft of my pussy and quite simply frigged me off. It took seconds, her finger finding my clit, rubbing as my mouth came open in surprise and ecstasy, harder, all the while looking down at my body in the most extraordinarily calm, detached way, and then I was there. I cried out as I came, naturally, but when she removed her hand it was hard to believe she had masturbated me like that. There were no kisses either, and she had turned her back before I’d sat up, walking to the sink to pull off her plastic gloves and drop them into a bin.