Good as Gold

WHEN I GROW UP I want to be just like Sophie. She’s my idol. She knows it all, except how I feel about her. She’s tall, clever, talented, beautiful, stylish. At her age you know she’s been enjoying sex for a very, very long time and you can’t help, or I can’t help, imagining her at it. She knows it all, but I’m not sure she knows how amazing she is. And I never knew a totally red-blooded chick like me could feel like this about another, older, woman.

Anyway, she obviously loves me, too, because not long ago she asked me to undertake a very delicate assignment. Top secret. And fraught with danger. If I cocked it up, everything dear to us both could be blown out of the water.

‘I don’t care how you do it. Scramble across roof tops if you have to. I’ll lend you a camera.’ For now, though, she handed me a hammer. ‘Call it arty reconnaissance.’

‘Call it spying, you mean.’ I banged in the final nail and hung the last picture.

‘I can trust you, Suzanne.’ She wandered over to the over-sized cream sofa in the corner of her sitting room. I love her house almost as much as I love her. It’s all huge glass walls straight out of Grand Designs and they’ve both worked like dogs to get it. Everything is lush. Their bed is absolutely built for sex, right down to the mirrored wall opposite and the way the shadows flicker across the duvet. ‘After all, this time next year you’ll be married to my Jake. The little daughter I never had.’

‘And Martin will be my father-in-law.’

‘Whatever. I need to know what he’s up to while I’m away.’ Sophie crossed one long leg over the other and studied the way I’d hung her latest floral photographs. Their house was going to be used as exhibition space later in the year. ‘Our marriage is totally open. You knew that before you signed up to join this family. But lately it’s felt like it, he, is getting out of control. He seems more sexed up than ever. I can’t keep up. It’s like he’s addicted –’

‘Sort of like Michael Douglas, you mean? But he seems so – calm, always.’ The thrill of scandal rippled. ‘You think Martin needs therapy?’

‘Who can say, sweetie? Maybe.’ She shrugged. Her long diamond earrings swung against her shoulders. ‘Certainly he’ll go mad if he doesn’t get laid as often as possible. Or maybe it’s me, just getting old and paranoid –’

‘Never.’

She bit her lower lip. Little teeth marks dented the tender skin then started to fill out again, redder than before.

‘Your Jake the same? Permanently up for it? You know, permanently hard? Going at you morning, noon and night? I worry that he’s just like his dad.’

I giggled, shocked at the question, and hitched myself up on to her quartz worktop.

‘Oh, Christ, Sophie, stop it, no, not exactly morning, noon, and – Christ, I can’t talk to you about that –’

I crossed my legs. I was wearing spotty stockings that day. She looked straight at my crotch and I blushed. Was she imagining her son going at me, right in there, up that hidden hole? Did she catch the fact that my pussy was bare, damp lips spread open where later she’d be blending mangoes for Martin’s supper? My thighs felt hot as they stuck together. I turned her camera ignorantly upside down and pretended to study it.

She sighed, looking at my face now. ‘I just want to test Martin, that’s all. He promised he’d go easy while I’m in New York, to prove to me that he can.’

Sophie has endless legs, all taut and toned. She’s been working out recently so she’ll fit in with all those cougars across the Pond, but she’s always been gorgeous. A while ago she stopped wearing trousers, other than jeans, when she’s working, and now she wears these sensational fluid dresses and skirts which make her look sexy and young like a girl. Since Jake told me how he has a thing for Japanese anime schoolgirl cartoons I’ve ditched all my trousers, too, and now I only wear skirts. Except unlike Sophie’s mine are very short.

‘What about the age difference, though?’ I tipped more wine into my glass. ‘Won’t he suspect something if he catches me hanging round here?’

‘Come on, Suzanne. You’re not a baby. I’m instructing you to think of something to say or do so that Martin lets his guard down.’ Sophie smiled but looked sad. ‘And I’ll have you know we were childhood sweethearts. I was still a teenager when we had our Rick. Martin’s only just fifty.’

‘Yeah, but to a 22-year-old that’s pretty ancient, no matter how cool he is.’ I shrugged prettily to take away any edge of rudeness. ‘But what I mean is, I’m a baby to him. Wet behind the ears. Thick. He’s cleverer than me.’

‘Ooh, but you’re going to make such a cute little honey trap.’

Sophie patted the sofa next to her and next minute I was cuddled up against the lovely soft breasts curving out of her caramel cashmere cardi as she wrapped her arm round my shoulders. Oh, God. That’s when I knew exactly what my problem was. Is. It was like when I had that monumental crush on Regina Sanchez at school. I couldn’t take my eyes off her in class, in games, at meal times. She was all flashing blood-red ringlets, Spanish swear words and silver bangles. I was all badly permed mousy hair, 10cc records and freckles. But I got to kiss her in a school play. Not quite the chaste kiss the nuns had in mind. God no. It made me wet my pants –

But Sophie? Do I have a crush on Mrs Epsom? I nudged myself up against her so that the curving side of my breast was touching hers. My nipples pricked. I could see them through my Hello Kitty tee shirt. I glanced to see if hers were hard, but I could only see a suggestion of her cleavage. I could smell her musky perfume and the tang of her lipstick where she’d bitten her lip. She’s my boyfriend’s mother, for Chrissake. So voluptuous and full and knowing and scented and unlike any other mother but so sweet as well and I wanted to touch and kiss her. Just like that time when I was pressed up, crotch to crotch, against Regina Sanchez. Then felt her tongue in my mouth.

‘But what the hell are your husband and I going to talk about?’ I couldn’t do what Sophie wanted. But she squeezed me tight, up into the scented warmth of her armpit.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ she said, in that low, ex-smoker’s voice of hers, ‘I’m not sending you on this assignment to talk!’

I thought spying would be the easy part. So I stalked Martin for the first two days after she’d gone. Mornings, lunch times, evenings, sometimes on the tube, sometimes hiding in their neighbour’s driveway, watching to see if he was with anyone. He wasn’t, but I took pictures anyway to study later for evidence. A mysterious woman lurking under the lamplight, maybe, or blowing kisses from a window. Actually I was really pleased with the way Martin looked in his suit, the way he sauntered with one hand in his trouser pocket groping for the house keys, his distinguished profile as he glanced up at the sky. The images were brilliant when I altered them to monochrome. Like stills for a film noir.

But on the third evening he wasn’t there. At work, or at home. I prowled round the house and even climbed onto the roof of Sophie’s studio in the garden to peer into their bedroom, but the lights were off.

‘Fuck this for a lark,’ I muttered to myself, stomping into the wine bar on the corner of their street. It was empty. A big-built girl in regulation tight black skirt and even tighter crisp white blouse, her white blonde hair coiled in Princess Leia plaits, was bending over the tables, lighting candles. Her hips thrust from side to side as she gyrated to the deep beat of the background music. I perched up on a bar stool and texted Sophie: Zero to report – M good as gold.

‘Yah?’ The fraulein glanced over her shoulder as if I’d said it out loud. She kept her bright blue eyes on me as she yawned, arched her spine, rotated her neck and stretched her arms above her head.

‘A bloody enormous white wine, please.’

‘Sure.’ She marched across the wooden floor towards the bar. Her shins bulged like a dancer’s. Her skirt slipped into the crack between her high, tight buttocks.

‘And some slippery, slimy olives.’

‘Good camera.’ She leaned over the counter with the hors d’oeuvres. ‘Can I see the pictures?’

‘There’s nothing to see!’ I tossed my phone down. ‘Just need a drink.’

She nodded sharply like an SS officer, reached a muscled arm up to get a glass down from the rack above our heads. Bent down to the wine cooler, big breasts pushing together to make a deep cleavage and tumbling like a sensuous log roll against the few tiny buttons. Her strong, impatient movements were strangely comforting. I fiddled about on the stool, my own spindly legs splayed wearily apart. Mission unaccomplished.

‘Bad day?’ she barked. Every part of her body was toned and taut, and yet her breasts had a different life of their own. Now she was upright they had bounced upwards too, hoisted and contained inside the crisp white cotton. They were too soft to be false, but they still had a jutting, cartoonish perfection. Body builder Barbie. I thought of Sophie’s breasts. I’d never seen them even half bare. She was far too sophisticated to flash her flesh. But she must have known how tantalising it was, the way the silk and cashmere she favoured clung to those promising outlines.

‘Bloody awful, and frankly boring.’ I fiddled with the mobile phone. Why hadn’t she replied? ‘Can’t seem to do anything right.’

She took out a new bottle, beaded with jewels of condensation, and ran her hands up its cool green sides. She made it look like a sexy weapon, holding it like a policeman’s baton, nudging it between her breasts as she unwrapped the seal. The cold against her skin made her nipples stick out. They were massive. My own tits are smaller than hers but exquisitely, painfully sensitive. Jake calls them his puppies, which has started to irritate me. When we’re married I’ll have to train him out of it. He likes me to walk straight in to the room where he’s either working at his desk or sprawled on the sofa watching the rugby. He likes me to stand in front of him, lift my skirt like a lap dancer – always a skirt, like I said, for easy access, like a hooker – without a word, spread my legs to straddle him, and sit on his cock. I’m supple enough. I can still do the splits. I wrap my legs round his hips, grab him by the hair as he yanks up my shirt and grinds my tight nipples into his greedy young mouth, always wet with beer or the stinging juice from the grapefruit, or oranges, the citrus fruits he’s always peeling and eating and which make him so glossy and healthy.

I closed my eyes in the wine bar, sucking on an olive, and the leather seat of the stool squeaked under my bare thighs. I wriggled at the thought of my handsome, horny fiancé’s breast fetish. It was autumn, but I wasn’t ready for tights. I lifted one leg to hitch my woollen hold ups over my knees. They were really striped hockey socks like something out of St Trinian’s. I knew they were kinky, because men stared at them in the tube, the way they went over my knee and up my leg, just failing to meet my mini skirt.

I pulled the stocking up slowly, loving the scratch of the wool over my tender skin, then held my other leg up like a ballerina so the air circulating in the empty bar, no one looking, could tickle my bare snatch. Yeah. Commando Barbie. The habit started as a dare at school. Regina Sanchez of course. I’ll never forget her lifting her school skirt in choir practice and showing us the luxuriant black Spanish triangle between her legs as Mr Soames took us through the Faure Requiem –

‘Found the corkscrew.’ The barmaid’s voice sliced through the silence. I opened my eyes and saw her grasping the bottle between her knees and staring straight up my skirt. I kept my leg up and looked into her blue eyes then down at those huge breasts, squeezed tight together. She blinked slowly and looked down to fit the corkscrew into the bottle. I thought of my Jake grinning, licking his lips before taking in a nipple to suck but then suddenly it was Sophie’s nipple he was sucking. In my tired mind’s eye I saw her holding up her shirt or jumper in front of him, letting her nipples, surely they would be pale and elegant, grow hard and red in the cold air. Then weighing one breast in her hand, taking Jake’s head tenderly with the other, she was pushing her nipples into his grown man’s mouth.

The cork shot out of the bottle with a delicious pop, and as I thought about Sophie suckling her son my pussy popped, too. I lowered my leg and came, quickly and secretly with a tiny moan, right there on the bar stool.

‘Now isn’t that just music to the ears! And Christ, my little pashka, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes in that twisted school ma’am dominatrix get-up.’ The door banged shut behind the newcomer and he started to tug at his tie. His other hand reached across the bar to flick undone one of Olga’s over-exercised buttons. ‘Your boss ask you to dress like that to give us punters stiff ones?’

My lips had gone dry. I could only wriggle my damp pussy, and watch.

‘No. I choose how I dress.’ The fraulein leaned low towards him, her mouth glistening and open. Her finger trailed into her cleavage. ‘And I dress only for you, Marty –’

‘Hello! Stop! It’s me!’ I banged my knees closed. There was a loud squeak of flesh on leather as I tried to stand up, but I was stuck to the seat. Creamy wetness lined my sex lips, slicked inside my thighs. Under my warm bottom the seeping juices were like glue.

Martin turned sharply, his cheeks ashen beneath the dark shadows of encroaching beard. His eyes flared with shock, then anger. I’d never seen that look before, and it scared me. But just as violently it was gone, his face smoothed back into its easy urbane lines. ‘Suzanne! Christ! What are you doing here?’

Olga glanced sharply from him to me. There was a high flush on her cheekbones as she splashed the wine into my glass. ‘She wants to drink, of course.’

‘I was – hoping you’d let me in to the house,’ I stammered, spilling wine down my chin as I drank. Sophie would never swig like she was on the lash in Falaraki. I swallowed, and coughed, and my eyes watered.

‘I’ll have a Sauvignon, please, Olga.’ He smiled at the bar maid. She poured him a glass and glared back. He held her china blue eyes for a moment as if he was taming her, and she did that slow blinking thing with her eyelashes.

Then he turned back to me and I wriggled uncomfortably, the stool suddenly too small, too high. And too wet. I realised I hardly knew the man. In the few months I’d been dating Jake, his father was mostly away on business. We’d certainly never been alone together. There was always Jake, and his brothers, and Sophie, and our friends, always celebrating something at their home or in a restaurant or in the gallery. I had never, for example, noticed he had a livid white scar across one eyebrow. Or how dark his eyes were, like slate.

‘Jake wanted me to get a couple of things to send to him –’

‘Touching. But they’re in New York, Suzanne, not the North Pole. There are shops. Surely Sophie could have taken some stuff out with her?’

I sipped this time. The wine was singing nicely in my head. I wanted more. ‘OK. I confess. It was an excuse.’

The mobile phone lay idle on the bar between us.

‘You don’t need an excuse, Suzy. You’ll be family soon.’

‘I’m lonely without him, Martin!’ Christ, where did that come from? Martin was watching me so intently, I found myself doing the eyelashes thing, too. The heat of embarrassment crept up my body. ‘You know. I’m so frustrated at night.’

I crossed my leg, too late remembering that my fanny was bare, but he didn’t flinch. Just kept looking straight at me like a very handsome, rather stern headmaster. I even felt a warm tear trickling down my cheek. It was like I was melting. Eyes. Yes, nose sniffling. Pussy still leaking –

‘You miss sex with my randy son?’ Martin drank some wine slowly and glanced very briefly down at my legs, crossed demurely now. I flushed hotter, wondering if the strip of thigh above my stripy socks made me look like a tart. ‘Don’t blame you. If he’s anything like me he’ll need it at least three times a night. But I’m still not sure why you came to me.’

‘I think she was watching for you.’ Olga had one hand on her hip, her Slavic eyes lasering us both. Her tongue ran slowly across her lower lip as if she was about to take a bite of a very tasty meal. ‘She is in this street every day, like a little spy.’

‘You’d better come home with me and sort yourself out,’ Martin said, smile fading. He stood and took my hand. His fingers were warm but strong as a vice round mine, which felt tiny. He laid a tenner beside his already empty glass. Payment for my assignment, I thought giddily. ‘Can’t have my future daughter–in-law wandering the streets in this state.’

‘Before you go, Marty.’

Olga pushed the camera over to him and slowly, calmly, he started to scroll through the display. I gripped the edge of the counter, whimpering. My heart hammered in panic. I was in deep shit. It was all there. Pictures of him calling goodbye to the security guys at his office, crossing roads, buying newspapers, paying taxis, pulling off his shoes in the sitting room at home, gazing out at the twilight before the electric blinds slid across the double height glass wall –

Martin slipped the camera into his trouser pocket, leaned his elbow on the bar, and rolled his sleeves up casually. ‘Perhaps we’ll stay for another one, dumpling.’ He winked at Olga. ‘While I work out what to do next.’

My body shuddered with relief. But my mini orgasm earlier had left me edgy and unsatisfied, and now my bladder was pulsing with urgency. ‘I need to piss. Where’s the ladies?’ I had to work out how to get the camera back and me the hell out of there.

Olga opened her mouth to tell me but Martin put his hands on my shoulders, sitting me down again.

‘Not so fast, young lady.’ His arms were strong and muscled, like Jake’s, and streaked with dark hair. ‘You have some explaining to do.’

I went weak under his hands. ‘Can I have the camera back now, Martin? Sophie leant it to me to – to practice some techniques she’s been showing me. You know how much I admire her. Everything about her.’

He frowned and tapped his fingers on the bar.

‘All pictures of you, Marty,’ hissed Olga, her fingers touching his.

‘Can you shut up and mind your own business? Olga?’ I snapped, sliding off the stool. I turned my back to her so that I was between Martin and the bar. ‘This is about my father-in-law and me.’

‘Yeah. Give us a minute, strudel.’

A surge of anger boiled in my chest. He kept winking at Olga over my head as if I was some kind of minor irritation. She goose stepped or whatever across to the door and I heard her lock it. I pushed up against him. His body was big and warm and didn’t budge. I started playfully to push my hands into his pockets.

‘Oh, come on Daddy, give it back! Pretty please?’

He looked down at me with a strange, hot look, but this time it wasn’t anger or shock. I froze, with my hands still grappling about on his hips. It was lust.

‘Say that again.’ His voice had gone really deep and rough.

I giggled. ‘What?’

‘Ask me again.’

What must we look like? Me, petite and cute in a chaotic Pixie Geldof kind of way. Dishevelled bleached hair on end, mascara smudged, tartan box jacket falling off my shoulder – and my arms wrapped round my fiancé’s scary pin-striped father.

‘Can I have the camera back?’

‘Say all of it again. Say Daddy again.’

I took a deep breath and out came this little girlie whisper. ‘Can I have the camera back, Daddy? Pretty please?’

He smiled and lifted his arms out sideways as if I was a copper about to frisk him. I reached inside his trousers, fumbling about awkwardly, aware in a flash like a hot rod shoved up my bum that I was in danger of touching his cock.

He swallowed, but kept his arms up. ‘Keep looking.’

This time I did touch him through the fabric lining. His cock was rock hard. I felt like I’d been burned. The camera, in his pocket, rested against it. I wrapped my fingers round the camera but couldn’t resist, really I couldn’t resist, running my thumb up that long hard shape, just to make sure. I felt it pulse in response. Martin was very still. I rubbed my thumb up again. His cock was huge. It extended up to his waist band. Excitement swelled in my throat. There was no thought of who I was any more, or whose cock it was. I was down to basics. Just a horny female touching a big, hard, male cock. It made me ready to copulate. Fuck like a bunny. A ball of desire twisted and rolled in my stomach as I rubbed the shape a third time and felt it shift.

And yeah, the fact that it belonged to someone so totally forbidden made it doubly, triply sexy.

I stared at the buttons on Martin’s shirt as I forced myself to pull the camera, warmed up by his body, slowly out of his pocket.

‘You’ve been a naughty girl, Suzanne.’

‘I was bored.’ I tried to give a nonchalant laugh, difficult while still squeezed up between him and the bar. ‘Just a bit of fun.’

He took the camera easily out of my hand and scrolled through the pictures again. ‘Very intense. Moody. But this wasn’t a photographic exercise. Sophie asked you to spy on me.’

I shook my head violently from side to side like a child telling a lie. Now this really was like being in the headmaster’s office. And now I really needed a piss.

‘I just wanted pictures of you, Martin. You’re lovely. I think I’ve got a crush on you.’

He lifted my face towards him. His fingers pinched my cheeks in painfully so that my mouth was squashed into a pout. Saliva trickled from one corner. Then he bent and kissed me, hard. My whole body gasped. He was practically lifting me off the floor by my face, and I was electrified by the way his lips, barely moving, still kind of took hold of me.

Then he spat me out, turned me round, and bent me double over the stool.

‘It won’t do, Suzanne. For God’s sake, you’re engaged to my son.’

‘But I love you all!’ I whimpered, struggling to get upright. ‘I love Sophie, too –’

‘Touching. But let’s leave her out of this.’ He laughed and pushed me down again between the shoulder blades so that my stomach was squashed flat against the seat of the stool. ‘Olga! Come here and hold the little pest down!’

Olga clicked back across the floor. She took my arms and stretched them across a second stool, so that my stomach was pressed down on one and my chest and head supported by the other.

‘Lovely. Oh, look at this, Olga. Such a lovely bottom.’ Martin flipped my skirt up over my bottom. ‘And Christ, how dirty is she? No knickers!’ He pushed my legs further apart. My sex lips kissed stickily. He stroked my thighs above my woollen stockings, hands moving higher. ‘Jake know you go about like a little whore?’

‘That’s how he likes it,’ I groaned. I couldn’t breathe very easily, lying on those two hard stools. Olga kept hold of my wrists and started to stroke them. My eyes were on a level with her crotch. Her black skirt was stretched tight over the mound of her pussy.

‘Well, he needs to know how naughty you are.’ Martin’s big hands reached my bottom and started kneading my cheeks, fingers spread wide as if to measure me, pinching and squeezing the plump white flesh and making me feel utterly stupid. I squirmed about, but all that did was raise my bottom higher in the air and put pressure on my bursting bladder.

‘You can’t do this to me!’ I yelped. ‘Not allowed!’

‘We agreed we don’t need excuses, didn’t we, Suzanne? I can do what I like. And so you are going to get a bloody good spanking.’

‘Don’t be silly, Martin! You sound like a dirty old man!’

‘Oh, you have no idea, sweetheart!’ His drawl was as soothing as a snake’s. ‘Under this Jermyn Street tailoring I’m totally perverted, especially when it comes to naughty girls and their bare bottoms.’

Olga laughed, too, and it was an attractive, rattly sound. She bent down, still holding my wrists, and pushed her face close to mine.

‘So sophisticated, isn’t he? So charming on the top. But underneath he likes it dirty, Suzanne. Really dirty.’

My stomach twisted with excitement as her big red lips blew smoky air into my face before she ran her tongue over my mouth. But I had to keep fighting. ‘I still don’t deserve a stupid spanking. Come on, Martin! It’s me, Suzanne! Not some little scrubber! I’ll be wearing ivory lace in six months’ time, making vows to your son –’

‘And I’m giving the little orphan girl away, remember? So I’m the boss.’ Behind me, Martin kicked his knee between mine so that they collapsed apart. He went on smoothing the tender skin on my bottom as if flattening a bed sheet. I could feel little goose bumps coming up on my skin as he stroked, and shivers deep inside my pussy. ‘And if you want this wedding to go ahead, and this to be our secret, you’ll keep very still for me. And if you’re good, we can do this again. And again. Even in the church vestry, poppet, how about that? You in your ivory lace, all hitched up so I can spank you before I walk you up the aisle.’

I really did struggle then. His voice sounded harsh and rough like a stranger. Suddenly he slapped my bottom and I yelped with fury. It didn’t hurt, but I could feel my butt cheek wobbling under the strike like jelly, hear the humiliating smacking sound reverberating in the air, and I wanted to die of shock and shame.

‘Bastard!’

‘Language, Suzanne. This is your fault for sneaking around.’

I made a pleading face at Olga, but she moved away as if I repelled her. Martin’s tie whipped through the air over my head and she caught hold of it and lashed my wrist to the foot rest of the stool.

‘Now, say it, Suzanne.’ Martin’s hands had stopped stroking. ‘You’re naughty, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, yes, I’m naughty.’ My eyelids fluttered as I gasped for air. When I opened them again Olga had taken her skirt and knickers off and her snatch was inches from my face. Her lips were totally hairless, her snatch waxed so completely that everything was blue-white, almost see-through. I jerked in astonishment and the tie bit into my wrist. The sharp pain flashed a weird excitement through me.

‘And now I want you to say sorry!’

‘This is silly, Martin!’ I twisted about, trying to lift my ribcage off the stool so I could breathe better, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Martin’s arm lift in the air, palm flat. I opened my mouth to scream, but there was just a puff of hot breath against the leather seat. And then his hand came down really hard this time, the sting instant and sharp on my bottom. I jumped and squealed as the punishment burned.

‘Stop it, Martin!’

‘He told you to say sorry, bitch!’ Olga pushed her crotch against my face and I breathed in her aroma of sex and piss and some kind of flowery soap. ‘And when you’ve done that, you’re going to lick my cunt. Can she lick me, Marty?’

‘Oh, she can lick you, pumpkin. Just wait until I’ve punished her some more. I’ve got my own pleasure to come, don’t forget.’

I twisted about frantically as they discussed me. I needed to breathe. The sting of the smack was fading. I was getting light-headed with the lack of air, the wine, and now the increasing urge to pee.

‘Sorry. You asked me to say sorry.’

‘Good. What are you sorry for, Suzanne?’

Martin stroked the spot where he had slapped me, lightly with his fingertips as if tracing his hand print. His voice was soft, hissing almost. I relaxed a bit, found myself staring at Olga’s snatch as her fingers slowly opened the lips to show me the wet slit, and the plum dark frill nestling inside.

‘For following you around –’ I croaked at last.

‘Good. Yes. And what else are you getting a spanking for?’

Martin’s stroking continued, so gentle I could barely feel it. The sting of the slap had melted into a warm glow and I realised I wanted another one.

‘For taking those pictures, Martin.’

‘Yes, you naughty, naughty girl!’

Martin lifted his arm again, and there was a second slap, much harder. The stinging went deeper still, radiated further, on the already tender spot. I jerked wildly, unable to control myself, humiliation gnawing at first and making me feel like a little worm but then as the sharp heat spread through me the whole smacking thing started to make some kind of warped sense. The way it made me struggle helplessly, and squeal and wriggle. The way it made my supposedly sophisticated father-in-law grunt with warped satisfaction. The way it burned me, and hurt.

My pussy scraped against the seat as he smacked me again, and a vicious flare of excitement seared through me.

‘Very good. Now you’re being a good girl. But you still deserve more punishment for being a lippy little mare.’ Martin slapped the other butt cheek, hard, and I couldn’t deny it. Oh, yes. The slap felt good. The hot, vicious slap making me struggle and squeal, then the warmth spreading through me, felt so weirdly good.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Martin!’ I yelped, rubbing myself against the seat, turning myself on. ‘Smack me again, Martin! I’m so dirty, and naughty! Please slap me again!’

‘Oh, giving orders are we?’ Martin chuckled, and pulled my bottom cheeks wide open. I could feel the hot, screaming sensation as the flesh split apart. ‘Time to shut her up, Olga.’

Olga pushed herself into my face, burying my nose in the folds of her snatch, burying me in her smell. She smeared herself across my face. She was sopping wet. ‘Lick me, bitch,’ she whispered.

‘Such a lovely white bottom, all sore now with my red hand prints all over it.’ Martin crooned behind me. My head was spinning now. Their voices were like soft hissing spells weaving around me. ‘I’m going to fuck it.’

He ran his finger up my butt crack and poked at the neat, tight hole. I went rigid with horror. I’d reckoned I was pretty street wise until then, hot stuff that Jake was lucky to have. But I had never been tied up or slapped before, and unlike the rest of me, my little arse was still virgin.

Martin was almost reading my thoughts. He slapped my buttocks again, and each time he did so Olga thrust herself into my face, holding her lips open round my mouth, and weakly I stuck my tongue out and took a tentative lick. Yes. Licking out another woman added to my list of never-befores.

Martin slapped me so hard this time that the shock and pain prodded right up my cunt. It was opening, twitching, and my bladder was swelling painfully, too, and oh God it was slackening, and now Martin was opening up my bottom with his fingers. Fingers I’d seen holding Sophie’s hand. Peeling an orange. Steering a car.

Now I heard his zipper go, such a sexy sound, a pause, then it wasn’t fingers but the round tip of his cock nudging at my hole, trying to ease open the little ring. I gasped. A good girl would have said no, no, no. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t move now. I wanted to feel more of it. More of everything.

The first drops of piss jostled, waiting to rain. Martin pushed his cock further inside. It was stiff as a rod. I moaned loudly. My little hole instinctively tried to close and push him out again and he smacked me hard, shoving me up the stool with the force of it. He thrust his cock harder inside until it bumped over the ridge of muscle and I was open, and he was in. That virgin passage felt packed tight with his rigid cock, strained to bursting, and I was pinned down like a butterfly.

He smacked me again and again as his cock went on swelling inside me, filling me, his balls slapping under me as the hot piss started to dribble.

‘You dirty little girl, pissing yourself!’ He growled in my ear, starting to fuck me. I could feel the shape of his cock ramming in so close to my cunt, just a few thin layers of skin away, and the excitement made me lick harder at Olga, who was suffocating me. The strange new taste of the other woman made me gag at first, but then I started to savour her dirty saltiness. I lapped harder and faster, locating the nub of her clit with my tongue and nibbling and sucking at it, and the more she pushed and the harder I licked, the hotter and wetter was the pleasure pulsating far away in my own cunt. She took my hair and yanked my head with it till it hurt, her big hips grinding into my face, forcing me to keep licking, and I knew I was doing it right.

Somehow as he fucked me Martin was smacking me at the same time and now the pain on my sore, red skin didn’t get a chance to fade. There was no time between blows. He was smacking as if he was really, really angry, punishing my badness, but Christ, I was really getting it now, this whole perverted idea of smacking, the image of me tied across the bar stools with my bottom in the air, little skirt flipped up, woollen stockings up over my knees, red streaks on my cheeks, God knows what it was doing to him but me? Every part of me, cunt, arse, mouth, was being invaded and punished and every slap and smack from him and push and shove and yank of the hair from Olga was driving me faster to the end.

Olga was rubbing faster and faster over my nose and mouth, and I was licking and lapping faster. She was tilting her hips wildly and her flimsy white sex lips flapped at my cheeks, my mouth, my nose. Everything with Olga was about eating and swallowing and devouring and yes, now she was feeding me.

As the piss came faster, making my cunt clench desperately to stop it, I thrust my tongue up into Olga and felt her cunt tighten and grip. Olga groaned and writhed as my tongue pushed up her, smearing her juice against my face as she came. That triggered my piss which shot a hot spray over Martin’s cock and balls as he went on and on fucking me. The piss sprayed over the seat and stung down my legs, but the release and relaxing inside me was like a mini orgasm.

Olga staggered back against the bar, her fingers still stroking and poking inside her as she shook with dying pleasure. I’d done that to her. Licked the dominatrix until she came. Christ. Her panting mouth was open as if ready to suck cock but for now she pushed her sex-soaked fingers in to keep the climax coming.

Martin’s cock swelled inside my bottom so that my body was impaled and stretched to ripping point. The brief distraction of Olga’s climax over, he got to it again, grunting like some gorilla in a nature programme. The filthiness of his fucking my backside was crazy and exhilarating. I tried to get my free hand between my legs to finger myself like Olga was doing but there was no time and no need because I was coming now, rubbing against the seat, salty piss stinging my sore cunt.

Martin lifted my bottom in the air so he could pump harder and deeper into me, still slapping me viciously like a cowboy whipping his mount. I gasped for air as he shuddered inside me at last and I came in a short violent burst, climax shivering through me as I collapsed on the stool, my breath creaking in my chest.

Olga hummed a tune under her breath as if nothing had happened and swayed across to open the wine bar door and let in the world.

‘What am I going to do?’ I whimpered, collapsed on the stool, legs buckling like Bambi’s as reality hit. My arse pulsed heavily after its brutal invasion. ‘What am I going to tell Sophie? Oh God, and Jake?’

‘You love them, don’t you? So you tell them precisely nothing, Suzanne.’ Martin’s voice was soft as he untied me. I felt his fingers swiping at my piss soaked pussy before he tugged my skirt down. ‘You want to do this again?’

‘I don’t know. Yes.’ I watched as he slowly licked my juice off his fingers. Of course I wanted to do this again. ‘But it’s so wrong. We’ve been unfaithful!’

Olga came up behind Martin and took his ear lobe between her teeth, moving her hands down his shirt front. A group of people pushed into the bar, demanding to know why it had been closed, and she just kept right on rubbing her palms over his softening cock before barking ‘Yah?’ over her shoulder and casually going to serve them.

‘Touching,’ Martin scoffed, handing me back the camera. ‘But taking my future daughter-in-law up the arse doesn’t count.

‘Sophie know you’re such a bastard?’

‘Not the half of it, and she never will.’ He yanked me to my feet, almost a gentleman again. ‘You can tell her that we all behaved ourselves impeccably tonight.’

My mobile buzzed, right on cue, vibrating on the counter and making us jump. Just finished private view. In Gramercy with boys. All well your end?

I glanced at Martin. At his slate grey eyes. I looked at his hands, his fingers tapping the bar.

Like I said, I texted back, bottom stinging, stockings drooping round my ankles. Good as gold.