I got back pretty late on the Sunday night, after dropping Monty off at his house. All in all it had been good, but I’d had my fill of him, at least for the time being. My bum was sore, especially the hole, my boobs too. It was nice to have some marks to remind me of what we’d done, but I needed at least a week without being interfered with to get back to normal.
It wasn’t just my body either. My head didn’t feel straight, what with his ‘It’ game and doing really heavy things to me in public. It wasn’t easy to take and, perhaps more importantly, he never cuddled me afterwards. Percy always does, whatever he does to me and whatever I do to deserve it, and it is very rarely indeed that I’m not back to my usual bubbly self within a matter of minutes.
Both men made a strange contrast to Gabrielle, who was colder still, but so gentle. In fact, if anything, she was too gentle, not really taking charge of me in the way I like, while Monty was too rough, cruel, and not as caring as a good dominant should be. In fact, he wasn’t really caring at all, except when he was worried about scaring me off. Percy was the best, without doubt, but just then Percy was the one I couldn’t have. Not that I’d had Gabrielle, exactly, but she had given me an orgasm.
Sitting alone in my flat, I actually found I was missing Percy rather badly. I’d understood my need for discipline for a good while, and his ability to fulfil it, but until then I hadn’t fully understood how important it was to be comforted afterwards. Monty lacked Percy’s confidence, also his skill, and his understanding. In fact, just about everything except the basic desire to punish and humiliate girls.
I was also exhausted, and went to bed with a glass of Armagnac only to wake in the morning with it untouched on my bedside table. I made coffee and poured the Armagnac into it, sipping the hot mixture with a touch of guilty awareness that I was drinking not just first thing in the morning but alone. I felt I needed it though, because in my dreams I’d been back on Beachy Head, running in blind panic with a pound or so of dung swinging in my panties.
The answer was obvious: to come over the experience, which I hadn’t yet done. That was always Percy’s great thing, to overcome an erotic fear by making it a fantasy. Not that what Monty had made me do hadn’t been a fantasy anyway, but I needed that orgasm.
So I closed my eyes and slid further down the bed, letting my mind drift to the feel of hot sun on bare flesh, of hard cocks in my body, or my helpless despair and shame as I was spanked and to the yet stronger emotions of being given an enema in a public place.
I was in one of Percy’s big shirts, and that soon came off, then my panties. With my fingers burrowed in between my pussy lips I thought of how it had felt, on the hillside, crushed beneath Monty’s blubbery bulk as fake cream was forced up my anal passage. With that thought I rolled over, on to my side, sucking a finger and penetrating my bumhole, wiggling it about inside. I went back to the fantasy, thinking of my pain and angry consternation, struggling to hold myself, dizzy and helpless, then at last unable to hold it any more and expelling my enema into my nice clean white trousers. Worse still, on my knees, deliberately filling my panties with poo in front of half a dozen onlookers, or running in blind panic, as I had been in my dream, with it all sloshing and wobbling in my panty pouch, and even cleaning myself in the sea, filthy from the waist down, near nude, with so many people staring. The huge woman treating me like a baby, watching as I peeled down my soiled panties in front of her.
That was best, only she shouldn’t have been so nice. Instead, she should have dragged me out of the water by my ear, telling me I was a filthy little sloven, that I had no self-control. She should have made me change on the beach, no towel, pulling down my trousers to show off my soiled panties, then those too, exposing my filthy bum to the beach. She should have sluiced me down with buckets of sea water, then made me wash my clothes, still bare from the waist down, bent with my bottom and pussy lips showing, my bumhole still dirty. They would have watched, hundreds of people, all delighting in my utter humiliation, and then when I was wet and clean, the big woman would have quite calmly thrown me across her knee and given me the hardest, most painful spanking of my lifetime, in plain view, bare bottom, punished for my filthy behaviour as I kicked and screamed and struggled and blubbered . . .
I came, really screaming it out as the orgasm hit me, so loud that my neighbours were sure to hear. Not that I cared. Masturbation was no sin, neither was having lovers in, not like getting a kick out of filling my own panties with mess. Fortunately they had no way of knowing what I was thinking about, and they were welcome to think it was some slim young man from the city or some respectable, trendy profession.
That brought my mind to Damon, who undoubtedly felt that I had stood him up. With luck it would be a rejection too many, even for him, and he would go his own way. Unfortunately I had a sneaking suspicion that he would do nothing of the kind.
Another person who needed to be considered was Gabrielle. Technically I owed her a body massage and detox, but I was unsure if I wanted to do it. I still felt certain that she had ulterior motives in being so friendly, although it was very hard to accept that she could be so callous as to frig me off if she didn’t fancy me, at least a bit.
In the end I decided that it was all too much for that time of the morning. Pouring myself more coffee, I began to get up, only for the doorbell to go before I was dressed. I threw on the first thing to hand, which happened to be the brilliant yellow beach shorts and Percy’s shirt, then stuck my head out of the window. It was Damon.
‘What are you doing?’ I demanded.
‘There you are,’ he answered. ‘Where have you been? You really showed me up at the weekend.’
‘How? What are you talking about?’
‘The weekend, the Independent Film Forum. You were supposed to come with me, right?’
‘No, I didn’t say I’d come. I was doing something else.’
‘I said I’d pick you up. You must remember. We agreed.’
‘No, Damon, you told me. I had other plans.’
‘Sure you did! Now will you let me in? We need to talk.’
‘No we don’t. Just go away. I don’t want to see you.’
‘You do. You know you do. Look, Natasha, I’ve had enough of these stupid games. You’re behaving like a teenager, with all this hard-to-get business . . .’
He trailed off, his head moving back to look past me. I glanced up, to see my friend Charlotte’s head sticking out of the attic-flat window, her hair dishevelled and her face set in a sleepy frown.
‘Sorry,’ I said automatically.
She gave me a cross look and her head disappeared.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ I hissed downwards. ‘Jesus, Damon!’
‘Let me come up then,’ he demanded.
‘No!’
‘We can do this two ways, Natasha. I can come up, or I can shout at your window. Which is it to be?’
‘OK, OK, come up!’
I pulled my head in and marched to the intercom, absolutely boiling inside as I pressed the button. I heard the click of the door opening and a moment later the clatter of Damon’s shoes on the stairs. Turning the catch to my own door I stalked back into the living room and threw myself down in a chair, my arms across my middle. Damon appeared a moment later.
‘So?’ I demanded.
‘So we need to sort this out,’ he answered. ‘Just listen, right? You really embarrassed me at the weekend, deeply, but I’m prepared to overlook that, and all the other girlish crap you’ve been giving me. You don’t need to do that to me, pretending you’re not interested and that modesty stuff. I’m a modern guy, I understand female sexuality.’
I tried to glare at him, but it just came out as a sulky look. I wanted to scream at him, to tell him to fuck off, but I just couldn’t find it in myself. It was too early, and my head wasn’t straight. Instead I just sat there, wondering what I could possibly say to put him off.
‘Right,’ he went on, ‘so from now on, we don’t need to get into that any more. I’m coming round tonight, seven o’clock. Put on something from a name, because I’m going to take you somewhere special, really special. It’ll amaze you.’
‘I don’t want to go out.’
‘No, Natasha, I’m not going there any more. I’m collecting you at seven, that’s it.’
‘Look . . . look, Damon, I don’t want to let you down, please believe me, but the truth is . . . the truth is I prefer girls.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll soon have you cured of that.’
‘No, really, I’m having an affair . . .’
I stopped myself just in time, remembering that Ami was his PR agent. It wouldn’t have been fair.
‘. . . Gabrielle Salinger,’ I finished. ‘Not any more, you’re not. You’re with me, right? You don’t need anybody else. I’ll tell her myself if you like.’
‘No!’
‘Then you must. I’ve got to run now, you’ve already made me late. Oh, and I love the Daddy’s girl look with the big shirt and the baggy shorts. You’re to wear it tonight, for your after-dinner treat. Think about it to get yourself ready. Ciao.’
He went, banging the door behind him to leave me sitting there feeling numb. I’d meant to argue, and normally I would have done. As it was he’d just browbeaten me into accepting the date. I had to go too, because he obviously wasn’t going to go away and I didn’t want him coming round shouting up at my window again.
My feeble attempt to claim I was a lesbian had fallen flat as well. Worse in fact. I’d really dropped myself in it. He was arrogant enough to tell Gabrielle what I’d said, and I could just see her response, nodding thoughtfully as she wondered if I’d developed an obsession with her because of the detox episode or if I was just mad. There was only one thing for it. I was going to have to call her and explain.
I did, and she must have heard the emotion in my voice, because she suggested coming over to see her immediately. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I badly needed to talk to somebody, too badly to decline, and under an hour later I was at her clinic in Victoria, sprawled on the black leather sofa she used as a couch. It wasn’t technically a professional appointment, but that made it easier still to let go. I told her the whole Damon saga, from start to finish, and she listened, nodding and making the occasional note.
‘It seems,’ she said when I had finally finished, ‘that he has come to view you as a possession, something which it is his to control.’
‘Yes, I realise that,’ I told her.
‘Therefore, to him, you can no more reject him than a dog can reject its owner. Does he use the word ‘‘bitch’’, perhaps during sex?’
‘Yes, always when he’s coming. He likes to come down my throat, to make me gag.’
‘Again, this is typical. Both are common manifestations of male sexuality, the need to control the female. He wishes to see you as his bitch, implying both doglike loyalty and an inability to restrain your sexual desire for him, although this is unlikely to be entirely at a conscious level. The same is true of the need to make you gag, by which he exerts his control over a crucial life function – your breathing.’
‘I’d more or less worked all that out.’
‘It is simple, of course. The consequence is that you cannot reject him . . .’
‘I can try!’
‘No, that is not what I mean. In his own mind you cannot reject him. It is likely that in his mind he sees himself as a hunter, and therefore you as prey. Should you continue to reject him, it is possible that he may become compulsive, calling you at all hours, sending letters, emails, stalking you, making threats . . .’
‘I get the picture. So what am I supposed to do?’
‘Well, you have the choice of legal action of course . . .’
‘No, please. I just don’t want to make a big deal out of it all. Anyway, I’d feel he’d won.’
‘A common reaction, and in extreme cases legal action may prove counter-productive, increasing his sense of antagonism towards you. You would do better to try to make him reject you.’
‘I’d already thought of that one. That’s why I told him I was a lesbian. He said he’d cure me!’
‘No, this was the wrong choice. By claiming to be a lesbian you merely provide him with a reason to accept your rejection of him, on your terms. You provide only an added challenge. He needs to make the rejection himself, on his own terms.’
‘I see, but what can I do?’
‘Initially, you must discover what he finds unacceptable in women. For instance, many men have a strong need to feel that a woman is theirs alone, that she has been ‘pure’, ‘inviolate’ before. In their minds they are conquering a woman by taking her virginity, after which it is easier to view her as their possession.’
‘Not Damon, he gets off on me being a slut. Anyway, that’s another thing he used to call me when he was coming.’
‘It is a common alternative, taking pride in the possession of a highly sought-after woman. To further the analogy of hunter and prey, he sees you as a trophy.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Should you prove socially unacceptable you would cease to be a trophy. Yet you are slim, beautiful, educated, rich . . .’
‘Thanks, Gabrielle, you know how to cheer a girl up. Not rich though.’
‘No? You own a flat in Primrose Hill, a sports car. You have, I suspect, private means?’
‘Well, Daddy pays for a few things – the flat, the car.’
‘Wealth is relative. To Damon Maurschen you appear rich.’
‘Whatever. So what, I’ve got to put on ten stone to get rid of him, or give everything to charity? No way!’
‘No, this would only be seen as an attempt to evade him, to prevent your capture. In any case, it would be wrong to pay so high a cost.’
‘Dead right.’
‘No, it is essential that he does not realise you seek to escape . . .’
She went on, but I wasn’t really listening. An idea had occurred to me.
Damon picked me up at seven, by which time I was nearly ready. He had asked for designer clothes and I’d gone to town for him – shoes, stockings, suspenders, bra and panties all handmade by the best names, and topped off by a crimson Gaultier gown I’d bought in Paris, beautifully cut to show off my back and tummy, but high enough to cover the mess Monty had made of my boobs. The colour worked with my hair, which I’d put up in a gold fillet, Athenian style, along with jewellery set with rubies, including one for my tummy piercing. The moment I stepped from the front door Damon’s expression changed to smug satisfaction. He’d caught me.
‘Hi,’ I greeted him. ‘Do you like it?’
‘You look beautiful,’ he answered. ‘As a woman should for her man.’
I smiled, simpered really, and slid myself into his car, which was some Japanese four-wheel drive thing. He started off, turning south, then west on the Euston Road and out on to the flyover. I’d expected somewhere in central London, and was wondering what he was doing, until we passed the M25. It seemed certain that he’d decided to take me to Le Beaunois, which was even better than I’d expected. Perfect in fact, because Percy had known the owner since before I was born.
Not that I said anything, allowing Damon to have his moment of glory as he finally turned off an Oxfordshire lane and parked in front of the long Cotswold stone building with its great gnarled vine twisting up around the windows. I oohed and aahed a bit to show how grateful I was, and allowed him to take my arm.
‘The vine is supposed to be nearly a hundred years old,’ he said, as we approached the door.
‘Eighty-three,’ I answered. ‘It’s a Pinot-Noir, supposedly grown from a cutting stolen from la Romanée-Conti itself at the end of the First World War.’
‘Your subject, of course,’ he said. ‘Natasha!’
The grapes were showing full colour, and I’d picked one, popping it into my mouth in full view of the man coming to meet us at the door. He was tall, grey haired, with an air of absolute propriety, sending Damon into immediate stumbling apologies for my behaviour, which were ignored.
‘Nearly ripe,’ I pronounced. ‘Not bad for an English summer. Good evening, Louis.’
‘Miss Linnet, good evening,’ Louis answered. ‘A pleasure to see you again. Sir.’
He finished with a polite but minimal bow to Damon, then ushered us inside, still talking.
‘Your usual table is taken I fear. Had I known, of course . . . yet there is another within the conservatory, if you care to take it?’
I nodded, following him past the main dining room to the glass and iron space of the conservatory, where he showed us to a table that looked out over the countryside, with the lights of Oxford in the distance.
‘An aperitif, perhaps?’ Louis suggested, sliding my chair in beneath me. ‘Cristal, perhaps?’
‘Mineral water, please,’ Damon put in.
‘Poor Damon’s driving,’ I said. ‘I will though, a half of that Vaudésir ninety-nine if you have it?’
‘Certainly, Miss Linnet.’
Louis left, beaming and I picked up the menu to hide my smile.
‘You’ve been here before?’ Damon asked.
‘Once or twice,’ I admitted. ‘My uncle likes to bring me here. I’m sorry you can’t drink, the wine list is spectacular. The house used to belong to a Major Allens, the man who pinched the vine cutting. When he died and Charles bought the place they took over the cellar. There are things you wouldn’t see outside an Oxford college.’
‘I thought you said that man was called Louis?’
‘Louis is the cellerman, the manager too. Charles is the owner. Now, what shall we have? Foie gras of course. They have the La Seigneurie.’
‘I don’t see that.’
‘Oh don’t worry, they’ve always got some. Louis will dig it out for me. We’ll have it pan fried, with an Yquem. I do hope they’ve got some of the ’sixty-seven left. First though, oysters, which will go nicely with the Chablis. Oh, and there’s grouse, we can’t miss that, and they have the most wonderful chocolate dessert, which means we’ll have to have Banyuls. I will anyway. I’m really sorry you can’t too. Couldn’t we get a cab back or something?’
‘To London?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘No, don’t worry. I’m happy with mineral water.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Damon was going to say something, but went quiet as Charles himself appeared with my half bottle of Chablis. He was his normal unctuous self, full of flattery for me and ignoring Damon almost completely. I was sure the only reason he’d never made a pass at me was out of respect for Percy, and I could tell from his questions that he was trying to find out if we were still together. It was rather fun, but I answered evasively, not wanting to make Damon jealous.
When Louis returned along with a waiter I gave our order, everything I had planned, including the ’sixty-seven Yquem, of which Damon obviously had no idea of the price. Damon added his, going for much lighter choices and declining the foie gras. Louis waited, the ancient notebook that contained the Major’s original stock list in his hand.
‘Would you care to?’ he queried, holding it up to me with a smile as the waiter left.
‘Naturally,’ I answered, and turned to Damon. ‘You don’t mind, do you, darling?’
‘You go ahead,’ he assured me, smiling back.
‘With grouse then,’ Louis said, ‘perhaps the Clos Vougeot ’sixty-four from Jean Gros? Or Louis Remy’s Chambertin ’fifty-nine, which is truly superb.’
‘Thanks but no,’ I answered. ‘I almost never get the whole bottle to myself, and Damon’s spoiling me. I’ll have Chambertin, but the Leroy ’forty-nine.’
‘Magnificent, of course,’ he answered, casting a quick glance towards Damon.
Damon gave no outward sign of having understood, which made it pretty certain that he hadn’t. Soon afterwards the oysters arrived, and I tucked in, enjoying myself immensely, filling the shells with Chablis and pouring the contents into my mouth, which drew an indulgent look from Charles and one of disapproval from Damon.
I began to flirt with him after that, as the alcohol slowly warmed me up. With two and a half bottles to drink I was going to be almost under the table by the end, but that was fine, and I soon had my shoe off so that I could stroke Damon’s leg under the table, and even press my toes to his crotch so that I could feel the soft mass of his cock and balls beneath.
That left him smiling, and half erect by the time I took my foot away, pretty agitated too. I could just imagine what he was thinking, of stopping in a lane on the way back, making me suck him until I gagged on his cock, maybe fucking me over the back seat. I didn’t want to hurry though, and lingered over the meal.
The combination of foie gras and ’sixty-seven Yquem was exquisite, the grouse and Chambertin ’forty-nine better still, with the wine everything it was supposed to be and maybe even the finest I had ever tasted. Naturally I had to let Charles and Louis have a glass each, but the rest went down me. By the end of the bottle I was feeling mellow to say the least, even a bit mean. The ice that followed to break the meal cleared my head a little, but only until the arrival of the chocolate pudding and a ’seventy-eight Banyuls Grand Cru, which left my head spinning and my pussy so wet I was wondering if I’d leave a damp patch on the chair, a thought which just made me giggle. I still managed a glass of Armagnac, after which I was wondering how I was going to manage to stand up.
Damon was stone cold sober, but seriously randy. He could see how drunk I was, and he knew I’d be grateful, and up for anything. I was too, even though I was wishing my companion had been Percy, or Monty, so that they could give me a bloody good spanking for my behaviour. It was what I needed, and it was at that point, completely drunk, that I realised why I hadn’t been able to get my head around what Monty had done to me. He should have punished me for it, or somebody should have done anyway.
The appearance of the waiter with the bill drove the thought from my head and I sat back, watching Damon’s face and sipping my Armagnac. He took the folder, opened it, scanned down the list of items with a little mean frown, then stopped, his mouth coming slowly open.
‘I think there’s some mistake,’ he said.
‘Sir?’ the waiter enquired.
‘Here,’ he answered, pointing to the bill.
‘No, sir,’ the waiter responded. ‘I believe that to be correct.’
‘Eight thousand, five hundred pounds? For a bottle of wine?’
‘The Chambertin ’forty-nine, sir, yes.’
‘Is that all right?’ I asked sweetly. ‘I’m sorry, Damon, darling. You did say it was OK. It was really special.’
He didn’t answer, just staring at the bill. I bit my lip, trying to look concerned and not to giggle as with leaden motions Damon drew a credit card from his wallet. He was white in the face, and his hand was trembling as he tucked it into the folder. It was time to play my ace.
‘Sorry, darling,’ I whispered as the waiter withdrew. ‘I didn’t realise it was a problem.’
‘Didn’t realise?’ he said weakly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really am. That was so thoughtless of me. Would you like me to get it? I don’t mind. You can treat me another time, to the Borscht maybe, that was nice.’
He shook his head, staring after the waiter like a man watching the bailiffs drive his car away. At that point I actually felt sorry for him, he looked so grief-stricken, and I told myself it would only be fair to give him his blow job, or whatever he wanted.
‘Never mind then,’ I said, reaching out to take his hand and dropping my voice to a whisper. ‘I’ll make up for it in the car, properly.’
‘For nearly ten thousand pounds?’ he said.
‘Aren’t I worth it?’ I asked.
I never discovered if he thought I was, or rather if he was prepared to lie, because at that moment the waiter came back to say that Damon’s card had been rejected. Damon went red, stammering apologies as he leafed frantically through his wallet, taking out a second card, and a third.
‘This might cover it, just about,’ he said. ‘Look, Natasha, you might have to lend me some.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I chided. ‘I don’t expect you to pay if you can’t. Here, take it off my card, and ten per cent, of course. Make it a round eleven thousand.’
‘Thank you, Miss Linnet,’ the waiter answered, taking my card.
He went back to the reception area, where I saw him speak briefly to Charles, whose eyebrows rose a fraction. Louis appeared and took my card, passing from sight as I turned back to Damon, who looked as if he was about to be sick.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I assured him. ‘That was so thoughtless. I’ve had my eye on that Chambertin for ages, and they’ve only got two bottles left from the original case. I had to have it, or some overpaid footballer would have drunk it and not appreciated it at all. I’m sorry, Damon.’
Louis returned my card in person, with Charles too, helping me with my coat and fussing round me as we left. I was fairly sure they wouldn’t have taken the full amount for the wine, and even if they had I knew my card would stand it, even if it was going to mean some serious grovelling to Daddy. Not that it would be the first time, and he always forgave me. Damon never said a word, climbing into the car and starting it as I waved a giggly goodbye.
‘That was glorious,’ I said, stretching to push out my boobs. ‘Now you can drive somewhere quiet and I’m going to give you the longest, nicest suck you’ve ever had, to say sorry. You can do it right down my throat too, so I choke on your lovely big cock. You like that, don’t you?’
He didn’t answer, his face set as the lights from the restaurant swung across it, then in darkness as we moved out into the lane. I reached out to squeeze his cock, nuzzling his arm with my face at the same time.
‘Careful!’ he snapped.
‘Don’t be sulky,’ I wheedled, pulling at his fly. ‘Come on, pull him out. I want to suck him and swallow your spunk.’
‘Look, stop it, you’ll cause an accident!’ he said urgently. ‘Look, I’m not sure I feel like sex. Let’s just drive back.’
‘Oh come on!’ I pleaded. ‘I won’t touch, I promise, not until you can pull over. The old A40’s the place. Hardly anyone uses it, and there are lay-bys where you can get right off the road.’
‘Well, yeah. You’re not the first, you know.’
‘I thought you said your uncle took you there?’
‘Oh no, not uncle James! I don’t go down on him! What a thought! That is so funny! I bet he’d let me if I offered though, eh, Damon? No, not uncle James, silly, but I did do his son, not Anthony, the younger one, Richard. Wasn’t that naughty of me, sucking my own cousin’s cock? Or was it, I can’t remember if you’re supposed to or not. Then there was Eustace what’s-hisname, you know, his father’s an Earl or something, and that black guy, the rapper, you know, with the funny hats. Actually, that was a bit of a let-down, because his cock wasn’t all that big, not as big as I expected anyway, from what he said. He was good though, he really knew how to handle me. He made me suck him for just ages, and when he came he did it all over my face and made me lick it up off his fingers. Would you like to do that, Damon, darling? Would you like to spunk in my face and watch me lick up your lovely thick come?’
‘Right!’ he shouted and jammed on the brakes.
I jerked forwards against my safety belt, crying out in shock, even as his hand locked in my hair. My head was wrenched down, into his crotch, as he struggled to get his fly down. It came, and my mouth was filled with soft, salty flesh, his cock and balls jammed in, hard. He was cursing, calling me a slut and a bitch as I mouthed at his cock, trying to suck properly. His hand was twisted hard in my hair, really rough, which was just what I needed – to be forced to suck cock until he spunked in my mouth, then made to swallow.
Only I didn’t get it, because for all his urgency and all my efforts I couldn’t get him hard. I tried, nibbling on him, licking the underside, rolling his foreskin back to suckle on the head. Nothing worked, while he was getting more and more angry, until the grip in my hair had become more painful than sexy. He turned the interior light on so that he could watch me suck, and popped my boobs out of my dress, groping them really hard, but it made no difference.
Finally he pulled me off, and that was when he saw my whipped breasts. The expression on his face immediately set hard, scaring me into babbling a string of apologies and accusations. He put his cock away, his jaw set and his eyes tight. I really thought he was going to hit me, and put my hands up to protect my face, but his hand went to my safety belt catch.
‘Out,’ he said.
‘Out? Here?’ I demanded.
‘Out,’ he repeated, ‘before I really lose my temper with you, and believe me, you wouldn’t like that.’
‘But . . .’
‘Just . . . just get out!’ he yelled, jerking at my door handle. ‘Fuck off out of my life you drunken slut!’
‘Jesus, Damon!’ I managed, but the door was opening and he was shoving at my shoulder, really hard.
I went, tumbling out of the door, just managing to get one foot on the ground, only to stumble and sit down hard. Something hit my legs, the door slammed and I was left sprawled on the ground, staring after the departing tail lights of his car. I hadn’t expected him to react so badly, and for a moment I was too shocked to do anything but lie there with the stars spinning slowly around my head, and then I started to laugh.
It had worked beautifully – the one thing that I had been certain his ego would be unable to tolerate. I’d made him feel inferior, in a way that no amount of tantrums and long letters of rejection could ever have done. He knew he was good looking, and clever, and more together than any silly little girl. Nothing I did would ever disabuse him of his arrogant self-confidence. He also knew he couldn’t afford ten thousand pounds for dinner, and he hadn’t imagined I could either. Then I’d paid, casually, easily, with a thousand-pound tip for good measure. It wouldn’t have worked with Monty. He’d have probably spanked me in front of everybody and made me pay the bill as well. Percy would never even have let me. With Damon it had worked, perfectly. In fact it had worked too well. I’d expected him to have his fun with me, even spank me, or at least fuck me really hard. After all, I deserved a spanking, surely?
It was just so funny. It was pitch black and my head was reeling with drink, but I didn’t care. I was in the best possible mood, drunk, horny and seriously pleased with myself. I could not stop smiling, or giggling, and it wasn’t until a car passed that I realised my boobs were still out of my dress. The car stopped, not surprisingly, and a head appeared at a window, looking back at me.
‘Are you all right?’ a male voice asked.
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I’m not. Help.’
After that it was a blur. Eager hands helped me into the back of the car as I babbled thanks, and I think I offered to suck all their cocks for them. I certainly asked for a spanking, because I remember their delighted laughter at the idea and pats on my bottom. They were well-off students, some dining society, who’d been at the restaurant, and seen what had happened, which they thought really funny. They were drunk too, except the driver, who I only had a vague impression of, and who may even have been a cabbie.
They were pretty sneaky about it at first, but the two in the back with me had a good feel of my boobs in the darkness. They were shy too, or at least reluctant, but I wasn’t going to let them get away with it, and I soon had their cocks out, one in each hand, wanking them. I remember the guy in the front looking back, his bow-tie undone and his mouth open, demanding his turn. I remember the driver grumbling about them taking advantage of me and me telling him not to be a prat. I remember my boobs being pulled out again, and the flash of a camera. I remember the first one coming, and I think I sucked his spunk up as he told me I was a good girl. If the other man came, I don’t remember.
Suddenly we were among houses, then stopping, and I was vaguely aware of stumbling from the car, being helped through a wicket gate, up a stone staircase, into a big room panelled in oak, pulling off my clothes, sitting giggling on the floor. There was a man in a dinner jacket and shirt-tails, no trousers, watching me and tugging at his cock. It was the guy who’d been in the front, I think. Whoever he was, he thoroughly took advantage of me: malt whisky and sex, for hours.
I got spanked across his knee, in just my suspenders and stockings, kicking a bit but giggling like anything. I vaguely think that went on for ages, but then it was cock-sucking, and having my cleavage fucked, before it went up my pussy, and finally my bumhole, at my own request, I think. I know I got made to suck it afterwards, because I came like that, frigging off with his dirty cock in my mouth, which was just the perfect end to the evening. After that came oblivion.