By the age of seventeen Susie was a mature young woman living in the body of a teenage girl, and the frustrations that caused were sometimes difficult for her to understand – still less to control.
Her senior student friends had parents who seemed more relaxed than her own, and their clothes, make-up and freedom of movement at evenings and weekends meant they soon attracted the attention of boys. Dressed in a ‘suitable’ manner by her mother, Susie was usually left out, and grew used to watching the boys clustering around her older looking friends like bees around honey. But to begin with she didn’t feel too upset by the lack of attention. Not only was their behaviour so obvious as to be almost funny, but they appeared to have little idea about what had brought them salivating around the girls in the first place, and the girls certainly had no idea what to do with them once they’d arrived. The real joke was that Susie knew it all and was ready for it all too, and if the stupid boys had ever taken the time to talk to her, they’d have discovered that make-up, hair-dos and designer labels didn’t mean that much. And they would have found exactly what they didn’t know they wanted so badly lurking in a plain old school uniform.
In the showers after gym she’d look at these girls flaunting their bodies in the way that all women of all ages flaunt their latest trinkets at other women in order to assert status and wealth. In years to come they’d be doing the same thing with clothes, jewellery, cars and children, but right now it was tits, and they were busy feeling superior to poor Eileen Wilson.
‘She’s just a late developer,’ was the shower room standard. ‘It’s probably your diet,’ they’d say, eyeing her flat chest and proudly patting their own with a towel. ‘Or lack of it.’ They may have been pretending to joke but the remarks were always delivered in a tone of voice that indicated the purpose of the remark was not to make Eileen feel better, or even to sneer at the smallness of her breasts, but to underline the magnificence of their own.
It was not an activity Susie chose to join in with. Though her own breasts were full and firm, with the taut arrogance of youth, she was slightly embarrassed by her nipples, which were perfectly formed and a lovely cherry-red colour, but invariably erect. This had often provoked sniggering jokes in the past and so she chose to keep quiet when the girls were comparing breasts or laughing at Eileen.
‘Rub some cream into them,’ advised Cheryl one day, proudly massaging her impressive breasts with a fluffy towel, right under Eileen’s nose. Susie felt sorry for the poor girl, not for the first time.
‘That’s probably what made them all scrawny in the first place,’ said Joanne. ‘Rubbing herself too much.’
‘Come on you lot, get a move on,’ bellowed a strident voice.
Miss Piggy, as the gym mistress was unkindly known, was a large red-faced woman who favoured cropped hair and a tracksuit. From behind she looked like an old bloke with a fat bum. From in front she looked like an old bloke with a fat bum and fairly substantial tits. It was her habit to patrol the shower block after each lesson, presumably to keep order. Presumably, too, it was the steam from the showers that caused her face to get redder still, and her voice to grow harsher, her sentences shorter.
She was always stricter with some girls than others, and only recently had Susie realised they were the same ones the boys all clustered around after school and at Youth Club. And only recently Susie had found herself included in that group.
It started after the day she fell, bruising the inside of her thigh quite badly. Miss Piggy had rushed across and self-importantly done her first aid routine, checking the damaged limb for broken bones with large hands that were quite rough on Susie’s soft skin. Missy Piggy had grown redder in the face than usual as she squeezed and pulled the flesh from Susie’s knee to the top of her thigh, right inside Susie’s shorts so her stubby fingers were almost touching her panties.
‘No harm done,’ she boomed. ‘Back to it, you lot,’ and the class scattered.
She was still massaging Susie’s leg, her gaze returning swiftly to where her hand rested on the inside of her thigh. She seemed to be looking up the leg of Susie’s shorts for some reason, and Susie hoped her panties hadn’t slipped between her sex. On the other hand, the light white flimsies she always wore were virtually transparent anyway, so Miss Piggy could probably see more through them if they hadn’t slipped up. She felt naked and exposed.
‘Cut along then. Early shower.’ Miss Piggy patted Susie’s thigh surprisingly gently and rose swiftly to her feet, raising her whistle to her mouth as she brought the class back to order.
In the shower Susie noticed a fine bruise appearing on the inside of her leg, and by the time she was drying off it had become pretty tender. Sitting in a cubicle, she put her heel up on a wooden bench and dried the bruised thigh carefully. Sure enough, it was high up on her leg, and must have gone up inside the leg of her shorts. In fact, another fraction and she’d have damaged the soft skin that rose from between her thighs to form the mound of her pussy. She pressed her fingertips into it gently to make sure, but all she felt was the familiar warmth as the movement pulled the outer lips slightly apart. She dabbled a fingertip lightly on the edge, just to be sure, the warm wetness already making her skin slippery with anticipation, and the fingertip just kept on sliding deeper, all by itself.
The sounds of the girls at work in the gym faded; the shouts and yells and the stampede of feet across the wooden floor receded into the distance. It was warm in the changing room, and the air was thick with the smells of sweaty bodies mingled with the scented steam of the shower room, but Susie was hardly aware of any of it. Indeed, she was hardly aware of anything outside the rippling waves of pleasure. One knee high, the other thrown wide, she added a second finger to the first, wriggling the two of them about inside herself; something that always brought the breath panting in her throat as she rose to her climax.
There was no noise, but something made her look up. There was Miss Piggy, five feet away, eyes popping from her head, mouth open, face a deep crimson flush. Fear churned in Susie’s belly, though she didn’t know why.
Yes she did.
It was because Miss Piggy hadn’t just arrived at that moment, as noisily and rapidly as usual. She had crept up, quietly and deliberately, and could have been watching for some time...
‘Susie.’ It was a hoarse whisper.
‘I was just, er, checking...’
She realised her hand was still there, two fingers actually inside...
‘As long as nothing’s broken and you haven’t pulled a muscle.’
Susie wondered if there wasn’t unnecessary emphasis on that last word. Muscle.
‘No... no, I don’t think so.’ She withdrew her fingers with a soft and embarrassing sucking sound.
There was a long pause while Miss Piggy stared at Susie with an expression that made the student feel deeply uncomfortable, and then the door to the changing rooms banged open as the other girls spilled noisily in from their lesson.
‘That’s fine, Wills, perfectly fine,’ said Miss Piggy, louder than was necessary. ‘Stop making such a fuss.’ She span on her heels and marched sternly away, and the matter was never mentioned again. But from that day onwards she was as strict with Susie as she was with the girls who normally got all the attention from the boys, as if she now grouped her with them. Susie didn’t like to think why, although she only had to remember the look in Miss Piggy’s eye, and that she had never once addressed her as Susie, before or since, to be pretty sure of the answer.
There was no doubt that Susie was pert and pretty, but the fact that her parents made her stick to the school uniform largely concealed the firmness of her lithe and shapely body. The white school blouse was always loose and full, and Susie had to wear it, unlike some of the other girls whose parents let them shop for well cut and tighter fitting blouses. The school skirt was a pleated affair that came down to her knees, while the others seemed to have tight skirts that hardly made it to mid-thigh. So while they got admiring glances for legs Susie privately thought too fat or skinny, her own long and slender thighs were seldom seen and always ignored.
The only way she could express her true self was in her choice of underwear, and she always wore pretty high-cut, high-fashion thongs and G-strings, tiny scraps of lace that she loved wearing. She knew attractive underwear was a vital part of her sexual armoury, and it made her feel rude and sexy.
Because she’d already decided on her future career as a journalist, Susie paid little attention in class to any subject other than English. She read and wrote with committed enthusiasm while ignoring everything else, and apart from the odd occasion when something mildly exciting was the subject of a history lesson, she would daydream her time away in almost every lesson.
Almost all of those daydreams ended up being about sex. She would find herself lost in a make-believe world in which she was rescued from a fate worse than death at the hands of an evil villain by a handsome hero. As soon as the rescue was dealt with, which never took long, she would then reward him with unlimited access to the very goodies she had earlier been willing to die to defend. As her tough but considerate rescuer laid her gently on the ground she’d feel the insistent heat growing between her legs, so that by the time his hand brushed lightly between them, his fingertips skimming the rounded softness of her knickers, they were already soaked with warm juice.
She seldom got much further than this in school; all else aside, it was simply too risky. Twice she had moaned softly but quite audibly in willing surrender. Once in geography and once during the dishy Mr Hancock’s history lesson, prompting him to ask if she was all right, little knowing that he bore a startling resemblance to the swashbuckling rescuer who had just thrust a finger deeply into her.
‘Just a headache,’ she’d muttered, blushing furiously and looking down into her lap, her action and demeanour prompting everyone to believe she was suffering period pains and embarrassing poor Mr Hancock into blushing even more deeply. Luckily her classmates were sufficiently amused by his plight not to notice Susie withdraw the hand which had been under her skirt at the time and caused all the trouble. It had found its own way there while she daydreamed, and as her fingertips wriggled into her pants and one slim finger slipped easily into her yearning body and drawn forth the moan that had alerted the others.
But inevitably the day came when she was seriously found out. It had to be a maths lesson, when she was more bored than usual with a subject in which she had virtually no interest and even less ability, and might never have happened if she had not read a story in the previous day’s Sunday newspaper.
The Sultan of somewhere unpronounceable had been assassinated on a golf course, according to ace reporter Harry Anderson. The killing took place on the seventeenth hole, and his country rejoiced at the end of a tyrannical rule. His behaviour – and this is where the newspaper started to go into much more detail – had also been characterised by his habit, while out shopping, of dragging any woman he fancied the look of into his limousine and ravishing her while the chauffeur drove on. Almost always they were white women, mostly tourists, their accusations denied by the Royal Palace and hushed up by a British Foreign Office anxious to buy more oil at a preferential price and sell more armaments at an extortionate one.
The story had grabbed her attention, especially the graphic descriptions of the ordeals allegedly suffered by the three women brave enough to voice their accusations.
Safely tucked up in bed that Sunday night, she was relaxing gently, still glowing after a prolonged bout of rewarding yet another handsome rescuer. Her fingertips had brought her to a first soothing climax, and then her faithful hairbrush had given her a muscle-wrenching series of spasms that jerked her knees high and wide as her teenage body had clenched and unclenched around its stubby wooden handle, while her mind saw images of an altogether more human nature. Deep inside, her body ached for the feel of something hard and warm; something alive, that moved with a life of its own. She wanted that feeling, whatever it was. She wanted to feel it and experience it for herself, more and more every day, especially more and more every night, when she brought the hairbrush to bed with her and became increasingly aware of its limitations. She just wanted the real thing now, and given that she was never likely to be rescued by a handsome hero, she wasn’t really too bothered who it was attached to as long as it worked.
Relaxed, but still somehow not satisfied, she struggled to fall asleep. When sleep did come it was light and fitful, her dreams unusual and unusually realistic, her body active under the quilt as her arms and legs moved as if she really was living through everything her mind had conjured up. One part of her really was burning up in anticipation as the swarthy and moustached Prince forced her back against the soft leather of the stretch Mercedes’ rear seat, trapping her arms together behind her back with one hand as he forced her knees apart with the other.
Fear gripped her body, bringing with it the sudden rush of wetness and warmth, and she felt the petals of flesh unfolding, felt the juices begin to exude, and didn’t want him to find her like that and mistake the effects of fear for those of desire.
She struggled against him, but he was too strong; the dancing light of battle in his deep brown eyes told her he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and they glinted in triumph just before he bent his head and seized her erect nipple between his teeth. The sensation of pleasure was heightened by the rasp of cotton from the material of her thin dress, trapped in his mouth at the same time.
She gasped as his teeth nibbled, and the movement slackened the muscles in her thighs so his hand was there, between her legs, grasping her firmly, fingers sliding easily past the flimsy knickers and then burying themselves deeper and deeper into her body.
She woke up with a start to find herself sweaty and dishevelled, as if she had indeed been fighting off an attacker, and burning with arousal, as if two fingers had just this moment been withdrawn from inside her. Touching experimentally she found herself so close to orgasm that finishing was not an idea but an instinct, and she began sliding two fingers into a body that was desperately ready to accommodate them and responded with a pulsating relief of pressure almost at once.
For the second time that night she settled herself for sleep, only to be woken again by exactly the same cause. This time the Prince wasted no time with niceties and ripped the clothes from her body, laughing satanically and pointing out the finer points of her anatomy in some foreign tongue to a dark and evil-smelling monster of a man she assumed was some sort of bodyguard. Roughly manhandling her onto her back, the Prince leaned over, grasping for her nipples with both hands, his face close to hers so she could smell the spiciness of some oriental perfume on his skin and in his hair. Suddenly another pair of hands seized her ankles in an iron grip and jerked her legs apart. In horror she saw the Prince’s bodyguard was no longer just a spectator – though he was looking, the vile monster grinning with a mouthful of blackened teeth as he stared between her legs where her tender young pussy gaped, pink and glistening. The Prince smiled harshly when he saw her dismay and ostentatiously made sure his bodyguard had a perfect view as he spread her with two Royal fingers before sliding them into her body.
She awoke to find she had one hand between her thighs, clutching herself tightly, and again instinct took over, so that her fingers slid in at once, moving back and forth before she was fully awake. This time she kept the dream image in her head as she stirred, allowing the Prince to pluck a well-formed shaft of creamy brown from his robes, climaxing as it slid inside her like a rod of fire.
Within minutes she was drifting off to sleep again, but it was still disturbed and restless and the dream replayed itself again – only this time when the bodyguard pulled her legs apart the Prince grasped one knee, pulling it wider, and smiled an invitation.
The huge creature leaned forward, its gappy grin becoming an obscene leer as his stubby fingers dabbled between her legs, flickering across her tender lips and sending spikes of unwanted response up into her body. He leered even wider when he saw how taut and sensitive she was, and then raised the intruding hand to his pockmarked face, sniffing his glistening fingertips appreciatively. Then a thick dark snake wriggled from his mouth, a shiny coiling thing like no tongue she had ever seen before. He licked the ends of his fingers, savouring her taste from each one.
Then he snarled, like a wild beast that has tasted blood, and leaned swiftly forward, pushing his large and oily head between her legs, snuffling in triumph as his thick lips tasted and kissed her and his wildly writhing tongue slithered across her opening before burying itself between the delicate pink lips that opened so hungrily to let it in, deeper and deeper, hot and wriggling, flexible and firm.
She climaxed in her sleep, calling out in a series of soft moans that woke her, flat on her back, knees high and wide, both hands crammed between her legs, fingers probing and stroking.
But that final orgasm must have been the relief her aching pussy had craved, for it finally allowed her to sleep in peace for the rest of the night, waking the next morning drained, still needing a good night’s sleep before she could face a day at school. It had all been so vivid and detailed that she felt as if she’d lived through it all in real life; a feeling given extra realism by the puffiness of her pussy, which felt extra sensitive, tender and used. As well it might, she thought, gently exploring with experienced fingers. Almost at once she discovered she was neither too tired nor too tender to ignore her morning ritual, and spread her legs a little wider so she could reach every part of herself.
But this morning it wasn’t the same. Though her rescue was dramatic and her rescuer suitably rugged and handsome, she found his polite and gentle manner less arousing than usual, and the feel of his lips on hers was soft and inconclusive. He touched her breast with sensitive fingers when she wanted him to pinch her nipples harshly, and he trailed a knowing hand lightly between her legs, almost asking permission before he continued, right at the very moment when he should have been masterful, commanding and certain. He should have known she was ready to be taken.
Which was all a bit strange, since he was entirely a figment of her own imagination and ought to have been whatever she wanted. How could a dream figure have a personality of its own, especially one she couldn’t control?
But he did, and he was exerting his will over her right now. As his fingers peeled back the pink folds and traced unasked around her nut-hard little button, she felt her body respond, her actions dictated by the throbbing centre of sensation between her legs. She watched as her own hand reached brazenly out to undo his trousers, pushing them down and then resting where he rose hard and thick inside crisp white boxer shorts that contrasted with the dusty scruffiness of his outer garments. She grabbed him through the cotton and pulled him towards her, spreading her legs wider and arching her back as her unusually wanton behaviour finally brought her to the peak of arousal and allowed her body to gain its release.
And so that afternoon, bored stupid in a double period maths lesson, Susie found her daydream taking the shape of the nightmares which had kept her awake, and she found the mixture of fear and helplessness to be incredibly arousing, creating sensations in her lithe body which were far more powerful than those she had experienced that morning, or could remember feeling in her daydreams before. But she was very sure of how she felt now, and of the fiery gush in her knickers as the Prince pushed her roughly back, pinning her to the leather seat with a powerful hand, driving her thighs apart with one irresistible shove of his knee and reaching down into the valley he had forced open, grasping firmly between her legs, squeezing her tender pussy as if he was testing a ripe fruit on a market stall.
Far in the background she heard a distant voice droning on about Pythagoras.
‘Perfect,’ the Prince hissed over his shoulder in foreign dialect to the monstrous bodyguard, whose tiny eyes glittered as he stared greedily between Susie’s legs, watching his master squeeze and feel her. ‘Young, fresh, and ripe for the plucking.’
Somewhere far away her conscious mind made a firm decision, and immediately all hopes of rescue faded into the distance. Susie placed herself willingly at the disposal of the evil Prince, and the creamy brown erection she knew was straining to burst from his robes and penetrate her...
‘So shall you be plucked!’ he roared, and laughed his satanic laugh.
Susie squirmed in fear, but that only made her body vibrate in his hand like the fluttering of a trapped bird, which roused him to greater heights of passion.
‘Ah yes, my sweet, you are ready now, and you won’t have to wait any longer.’ He drew a small but wickedly sharp knife from under his loose gown and deftly cut her panties away with one sweeping movement.
Bared to his gaze, Susie’s fear made her wetter than ever, and the bodyguard leaned forward, waggling his hooked nose as if he’d caught the scent of her in his nostrils, but his eyes never moved and his stare was fixed on her groin.
‘You want her too, my fine Igor, I see you do.’ The Prince smiled encouragement and Igor raised his head and nodded, still staring intently at the object of his desire. ‘And why not, eh, why not? A cat may look at a King, and a King’s bodyguard may look at a pussy.’ He laughed uproariously at his own wit and cleverness, but Igor only wetted his mouth with the tip of his tongue.
Susie lay perfectly still, waiting...
‘Take her, then, my faithful Igor, take her. And, I charge you, use her harshly.’
The piggy little eyes flickered away to look at his master for just a fraction of a second, and then fastened again on the trembling body beneath him.
‘I don’t give away sweetmeats like this one very often, so ensure that you cause me to feel it a worthy gift, as delightful in the giving as in the taking.’ Maintaining his grip and keeping her hands raised together above her head, the Prince eased aside to make room for the bulk of his creature, to which he had made a present of the firm young body that lay between them.
Susie was indeed a teenage beauty; slim, lithe and pretty, pert breasts tipped with cherry-red nipples, firm thighs long and slender, joining together to frame her succulent pink pussy beneath a frizz of golden hair.
Igor was a huge and ugly creature, well past forty years and well past forty inches at the waist. Worse still, he was swarthy, greasy and sour-smelling, with a pockmarked face, rotten teeth, bad breath, and dirty fingernails. He undoubtedly intended to treat Susie roughly, penetrating her with a penis she imagined to be like the rest of him; big, ugly and misshapen, perhaps like a twisted and knotted piece of old wood.
The very idea made the delicate pink lips of her pussy twitch in frightened anticipation, and brought new floods of warm moisture seeping from between them to dribble onto the leather seat.
Igor’s stubby fingers were thick and brutal, forcing her apart when they could have slid between the two halves of her peach so very easily, sending the breath hissing from her nose. ‘She’s ready for me,’ he growled in guttural dialect.
‘Then take her. And be sure you make her suffering please me.’
Igor grinned, showing off his black teeth, while his other hand released a thick leather belt from beneath his baggy blouse. He pushed his trousers down, and up sprung a great club-headed shaft, longer and thicker than Susie’s forearm, brown and mottled all the way up, with a pink and purple tip that glistened in the light and dribbled sticky strands of fluid onto her thighs.
She could see it was too big for her, but as Igor shuffled forward with the huge thing swaying about in front of him, there was no doubt he was going to push it into her and equally no doubt it would kill her when he did. But his fingers were still toying with her, producing sensations she had never felt before. They made her open wider as she arched her hips towards the monstrous thing, unaware that the Prince had released her hands and was teasing her nipples with his fingertips, creating waves of pleasure that flowed from each breast and down into her groin, where it reached the little bud Igor was so artfully teasing. It was some oriental trick or other, but it was so nice, and it made her body crave to be filled. As Igor fitted himself between her thighs she arched her back and raised her hips, offering her fragile opening. He grasped the thick shaft and tilted it until its slimy purple tip pressed against her, spreading her wider and wider as Igor leant forward and, putting the weight of his massive body behind it, urging it irresistibly into her.
Without warning Susie climaxed, suddenly and loudly.
Both hands were gripping the edge of the desk, her back was arched and her thighs tensed as the spasms swept through her body. She knew everyone had turned to look, but there was nothing she could do until her body was released from the contractions that were gradually easing and getting further apart. Ordinarily she liked this bit the best; the longer slower waves of relaxation that seemed to bring her more relief than those first few seconds of hectic pulses. But now she tried to conquer them, and act as if they weren’t happening, trying to judge from the expressions of those around her whether she’d been quick enough getting hold of the desktop, or whether the whole class had seen her with her hand in her knickers.
‘Sorry,’ she gasped feebly, hoping to play the period pain card again.
Miss Piggy – who taught maths as well as gymnastics – looked at her for several very long seconds. Susie’s life hung in the balance.
‘Would you like to see nurse, for some aspirin?’ she asked considerately, a knowing look in her eyes.
Susie shook her head, and looked down at her open book.
‘Right, we’ll carry on then, where we left off. If we’re all paying attention?’
The lesson began again and Susie breathed a long sigh of relief; she’d had the narrowest of escapes. And although she was pretty sure Miss Piggy had understood what was going on, she was equally certain that the other girls hadn’t been able to turn around quickly enough, and she’d been able to pull her hand free in time. As her breathing and pulse steadied, she picked up a pen and began writing furiously, racing to fill several pages with notes and hieroglyphics so it would seem she’d been paying attention all along. Finally the torment ended as the bell signalled the end of the lesson, and the school day.
‘Right, that’s it, off you go,’ announced Miss Piggy. ‘Homework by Wednesday morning please, on my desk. Make sure you remember, because I won’t be coming to find you to ask for it.’
The class packed its briefcases and rose noisily to depart.
‘Behave yourselves on the way out of school, not too much noise.’
They streamed noisily out through the door, jostling at the exit.
‘I’d like to see you for a moment, Wills.
Susie’s heart leapt out of her chest and then crashed back inside, hammering furiously.
Miss Piggy continued stacking paper neatly into her briefcase, ignoring Susie until the room was empty.
‘Shut the door, please. I think this will be better in private, don’t you?’
She was trying to be friendly, but brusque and curt was still what she did best, and her attempts at relaxation made her seem awkward.
‘Now, about this afternoon.’ She shuffled some things on her desk. ‘Young ladies all have, ahem, hormones, and that, er, can make life difficult, even surprising, for you. Them. Us.’
She attempted a smile and must have seen from Susie’s expression that it served only to make her look grotesque instead of welcoming and confidential.
‘I know it’s sometimes difficult to, um, control, and I sympathise. We all do.’
She gave up trying to be confiding and reverted to type.
‘But you can’t carry on like that all the time. It’s bad for discipline and bad for you. What do you think lessons would be like if the whole class was doing something under the desk that was far more interesting than whatever work they’d got on top of it?’
She must have been watching for some time, Susie realised with a shock.
‘The rest of the girls manage to control themselves, and they’ve got exactly the same hormones as you have.’
Privately, Susie doubted this was true, but wisely said nothing.
‘I could report you to the headmistress. In fact I probably should. That would be the proper course of action. Then she’d tell your parents, get the school doctor to see you, and perhaps arrange some counselling. That would be the normal way to handle it.’
There was silence while Susie considered the enormity of such a course of action.
‘But I don’t always believe the proper way is the right way. Too much mollycoddling these days. Too much wet-nursing and namby-pambying. What you girls need is two years’ National Service. If you lot were in the army under my command I’d soon sort you out.’ She cleared her throat before continuing.
‘I’m offering you a choice. Either I shall report the disruption in my class to the headmistress in the proper fashion, or...’ the pause was a long one ‘...or you can choose to have it dealt with here and now, by me.’
Susie realised she was on the brink of something, that Miss Piggy had led them both to a precipice, and that a fall from here would damage both of them. This was as vital and difficult a moment for Miss Piggy as it was for her, except that Susie knew she didn’t have a choice, and Miss Piggy knew it too.
‘Okay,’ she whispered.
‘Okay, what?’ Miss Piggy’s voice was almost as hushed and tremulous.
‘I’d rather deal with it now.’
‘Just the two of us?’
Susie nodded.
‘It goes no further than this room.’
Susie nodded again.
‘Wise choice. You won’t regret it. Doctors: waste of time. Counselling: bigger waste of time. Quick reminder, that’s all it takes. Short, sharp, shock.’
Susie wondered what she’d agreed to.
‘Lift your skirt up.’
She thought her eyes might pop out of her head; deep down she’d been expecting something like this, but the sudden bluntness of the command was a shock.
Miss Piggy was watching closely, and Susie did as she was told, gripping the hem in each hand and lifting the skirt a few inches, exposing her thighs.
Miss Piggy nodded. ‘Properly,’ she said firmly. ‘Right up.’
Susie took a deep breath and raised her hands some more, bunching the pleated black material around her waist, exposing her slim thighs and the vivid slash of white cotton that dipped between them in a neat V.
Miss Piggy swallowed, twice, apparently finding it difficult. Her voice was harsher, almost hoarse, when she spoke again.
‘Over the desk,’ she instructed, nodding towards the row of desks across the front of the classroom. ‘Bend over the desk.’
Bend over? Susie must have looked blank. Certainly she felt blank, and more than a little confused. Deep down she’d suspected Miss Piggy wanted to grope her like she had in the changing rooms, and she’d been prepared for that to happen. If she was honest, she’d been mildly curious. But bend over? That could only mean...
Her heart jumped again as she realised what Miss Piggy had in mind. Fear made her body react in its usual way, and she felt herself getting wet again. Her knickers were already damp, she knew, and this would only make it more obvious. She really didn’t want to bend over and let Miss Piggy see her like that. But the mistress pointed sternly at the nearest desk and looked Susie in the eye. ‘Across that one, please,’ she said, her voice thick and heavy.
Slowly, reluctantly, Susie turned her back on Miss Piggy and shuffled the few feet to the front row of desks, feeling self-conscious and exposed with her skirt hiked up around her waist. She stopped in front of the desk, still wondering how to get out of this, but not finding an answer.
The chair scraped noisily as Miss Piggy stood up; two strides and Susie could sense the heavy bulk behind her. A large hand pressed gently but irresistibly between her shoulder-blades, bending her forward. Instinctively she bent her knees as well, as if about to crouch, but a light tap across her thighs made her stop and look down. Miss Piggy was holding a thin bamboo switch in one hand, and she was tapping it across the front of Susie’s thighs as she pushed into her back with the other hand. Her intention was clear, and Susie obediently straightened her legs so she was bending forward from the waist in a pose that thrust her bottom back and up.
‘You may hold on to the desk.’ Miss Piggy’s voice was low and sibilant, and she was breathing through her nose.
Susie let go of her skirt, but it didn’t fall now she was bent over. The desktop was uncomfortable as she rested her forearms on it, fingers curled over the lip, trying not to think of what she looked like to Miss Piggy, standing close behind her with a perfect view of her bottom and the white knickers stretched across its smooth curves.
‘Feet apart.’
She shuffled them an inch or two.
‘Further... And again.’ The bamboo switch rattled from side to side between her knees until they were planted a couple of feet apart. She knew the posture had tensed the cheeks of her bottom, and separated them too. She’d looked at herself in the mirror often enough, as she knelt on the bed copying the poses of the girls she saw in the Sunday papers, and she was well aware that in this position there was a prominent swelling between her thighs, a very sexy swelling, where the white of her panties was pulled taut across her opening. She was also aware that when her body had responded to the excitement of the pose, she’d been able to watch the material darkening as her juices soaked into it, until it was wet and opaque, framing and outlining the swollen lips, almost more revealing than nakedness. Today she was already aroused, her panties already wet from her earlier excitement, and as she felt the trickle begin again she knew Miss Piggy was looking into the heart of her private body.
She risked a look back over her shoulder and knew she was right; Miss Piggy’s face was almost purple, her mouth open and her tongue lolling out. The effect was of someone concentrating very hard on something. Following the direction of her eyes, Susie knew exactly what.
Maybe the mistress saw the movement of her head and it took a few seconds to penetrate her preoccupied mind, or maybe Susie just happened to look round a couple of seconds before Miss Piggy was ready to continue. Whatever the truth, she lifted her eyes and looked at Susie.
‘Face the front,’ she said curtly, a new and commanding tone in her voice, as if uncertainty had passed and Miss Piggy was now in complete charge of herself, as well as the situation.
Susie did as she was told. Almost at once she felt a hand on her back... low on her back, below where the skirt was bunched up around her waist. Heavy fingers rummaged and then Susie realised they had slipped under the waistband of her knickers – and they were beginning to pull!
She gasped aloud in horror as Miss Piggy slowly and surely started to tug them down over her bottom.
‘Quiet girl,’ hissed Miss Piggy, as if she was suddenly angry about something. ‘No talking.’
Susie didn’t dare disobey, and began to tremble as Miss Piggy tugged the panties over her bottom until they were stretched between her widespread thighs and her soft pinkness was exposed to the teacher’s gaze. Unsure of what was going to happen next, Susie felt the cold bite of fear in her stomach and accompanying warm gush inside her. Her pink lips puckered, and small pearls of moisture dribbled out of her. Miss Piggy could hardly have missed seeing it.
‘Touch yourself... here,’ commanded Miss Piggy, and the tip of the cane rested lightly on the tender flesh between Susie’s legs. ‘Do what you were doing earlier in class. In my class.’ The voice was thick with emotion again, as Miss Piggy alternated rapidly between moods.
Susie could hardly believe her ears, and she turned her head to peer at Miss Piggy. ‘But I...’ She never got any further.
‘Now!’ snapped Miss Piggy, and the cane rapped across the soft skin of Susie’s bottom.
‘Ow!’ she squealed, and the cane struck again at once.
‘Silence, I said,’ the angry Miss Piggy commanded. ‘And do as I tell you. At once.’
Susie hesitated only a fraction of a second before unclasping the fingers of one hand from the rim of the desk and reaching down between her legs until her fingertips brushed the fine strands of short blonde hair.
‘Do it,’ hissed Miss Piggy. ‘I saw you. I know what you were doing. Now do it again.’ The cane smacked firmly across her bottom, a smarting blow that made her squeak in shock and pain.
There was no choice. Awkwardly, Susie reached a little further back, until she could feel the wet sheen of her flesh sliding under her fingertips. She moved them slightly, and was surprised to feel the familiar electric frizz of excitement in response, as if that part of her body was still functioning as normal regardless of what was happening elsewhere.
‘Continue.’ There was a slight warning swish before the cane stung her once more.
She didn’t realise she’d stopped moving, and immediately waggled her fingertips to prove she was doing as she was told. The movement released a burst of sensation between her thighs, and she felt the warm juices trickling onto her fingers.
‘More.’ The cane zipped through the air, and the sharp slash on her bottom brought tears to her eyes. She was already working her fingers between the parted folds of flesh, and didn’t know what else to do. So she worked them wider and faster, knowing she was spreading her body for Miss Piggy to stare at, and shocked to find herself responding with pleasure at the knowing touch of her own fingers. She would have thought that fear and embarrassment would have prevented that from happening, but the warm wetness between her legs proved otherwise.
‘Faster.’
Susie knew there would be a stroke of the cane no matter how fast she followed that instruction. Zap! went the bamboo, leaving another throbbing stripe across her bottom, and faster went her fingers, slipping and sliding around in the warm wetness they knew so well.
‘In,’ commanded Miss Piggy, and Zap! went the cane again. But Susie had already done as she was told; one dainty finger delving into the darkness and making her shiver with delight as it rotated inside her body.
‘More!’ shouted Miss Piggy, and the cane slashed down as Susie eased a second finger in alongside the first.
‘More!’ she yelled again, and Susie began to slide the two fingers in and out as the bamboo stung her again.
‘More!’ insisted Miss Piggy as she again swept the cane down, and Susie began to push harder and faster, sending heavier and heavier waves of pleasure rolling through the softness she was pummelling.
‘More! More! More!’ urged Miss Piggy, punctuating each command with another sharp slash of the cane across poor Susie’s buttocks, so close to where her fingers plunged in and out that pain and pleasure seemed to mingle together.
Her hand was curled beneath her body as her fingers rippled in and out, spreading wetly as she pulled them clear of her heated tunnel and then drove them in again, the soft lips clutching each one. They pumped in and out, faster and faster in time with the bamboo as each slash seemed to drive Susie’s hips forward onto them as her pelvis developed a frantic rhythm of its own, rising towards a peak of sensation.
Now Miss Piggy’s commands were heaving pants, her arm was weak and the cane almost stroking instead of slashing, and as Susie squealed aloud and her hips froze from the frantic pumping and began to circle luxuriously on her thrusting fingers, Miss Piggy shouted in triumph. ‘Yesss!’ she called out, body slumping in exhaustion, right hand and cane drooping towards the floor as her left hand, which had for some time been thrust down the front of her own substantial knickers, ceased its jerking movements.
Outside the window, crouched in the overhanging bushes in the secret den he’d first used almost a decade earlier, soon after Miss Piggy came to Mason’s High School, old Groudle the caretaker crouched in the shadows, one hand frantically busy inside his overalls as he gazed on the scene he’d enjoyed so many times before.
The girl was slumped across the desk, her lovely bottom striped red, skirt bunched above her waist, knickers stretched between her thighs, two fingers buried in one of the cutest little pussies Groudle had ever seen, and he’d quite lost count after all these years, but he’d seen some proper little peaches. Miss Piggy had a man’s eye for the girls, and always seemed to fix on the ones that Groudle would have picked if he’d been choosing for himself. It had been quite a while since he last bothered to watch Miss Piggy during her after-school sessions. Ten years ago, in her early thirties, she’d been slim and shapely and reasonably attractive, especially while taking PE lessons in her crisp clean gym kit. And he used to find her just as arousing as the younger girls, one arm flailing the cane, feet astride, and one hand under her skirt and between her legs as she thrust fingers inside her own body in time to those she was watching.
But these days she was more stout and ruddy, and Groudle just concentrated on watching the girl.
And she was worth watching.
She’d slumped forward across the desk like they all did, but now she was stirring, softly withdrawing two delicately glistening fingers from her sweet body. As the shiny pink lips clasped themselves wetly together, Groudle groaned to himself, and sprayed copiously up the wall.
When Susie left school it was inevitable that she’d do journalism and media studies, inevitable that she’d go to college, and even more inevitable that going to college would mean moving away from home. Her parents didn’t understand why; the college was only a few miles away. But her parents didn’t know how desperately she wanted to be free to spend whole nights – and days, come to that – as she pleased. She wanted a whole new world of opportunity where she knew her destiny as a top investigating journalist was awaiting her.
In her final year she moved from a shared house into her own flat, an experiment which proved to be good and bad. Most of the time her easygoing and up-front nature, the very thing about her which made her sexual availability so blindingly obvious to the men around her, also made it easy for her to move on. She never took anything seriously and they all knew it; there was seldom any ill feeling when she spotted someone new or different and departed in pursuit of them. Like a butterfly dipping between exotic blooms, her wandering behaviour was completely natural and expected, and the men she left behind usually went back to normal life with a smile on their face. Only one or two made the mistake of reading more into her actions than a brief excitement, but in the past they had been easy to get rid of. Now she had a place of her own they were always trying to move in with her, obliging her to be uncharacteristically harsh with them. She didn’t like hurting their feelings, but they left her with no alternative.
But she wasn’t going to go back to a shared house and give up the pleasures of her pretty little flat, which she adored. On the ground floor of a four-storey Victorian house in a leafy street, she was in a quiet neighbourhood but close to the city centre and all the action, and almost as close to college, in the opposite direction. By going home regularly, twice a week, to see her parents, she forestalled the possibility of surprise visits at the flat.
High-ceilinged rooms, huge windows and imposing fireplaces gave the two-rooms-kitchen-and-a-bathroom layout a space and grandeur that Susie loved, and being here alone on winter evenings had been a private delight, usually followed by the more familiar kind of private delights. And it was while savouring these delights that she first discovered her new neighbour was a sexual athlete of incredible prowess.
It was Sunday afternoon, just after three, and she’d just climbed from her bath, glowing with the sensuous heat of the oiled and perfumed water and with the deeper warmth that shaving her legs and her neat little pussy always created. And as usual, it was a heat she couldn’t ignore; neither could she see any reason why she should. So she lay on her bed, fingers idly stirring between her legs, wondering whether to carry on and let her fingernails rasp her little button into a frenzy, or push a couple of fingers inside and let their slippery thickness spread her apart and produced that deeper and long-lasting satisfaction that relaxed every muscle in her body. She’d just decided to do both, starting with a fingertip crescendo which she knew would leave her pussy aching for fulfilment, when her attention was caught by a very familiar noise, as the bed upstairs began thudding remorselessly into the floorboards.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
It was a regular pace, which meant only one thing. They were at it again! The bloke must be the fittest man in the city, probably the country.
Thud! Thud! Thud! it went, getting faster as he got into his stride.
Susie listened in a mixture of surprise and envy. The Saturday night coupling upstairs was a regular feature of life in her flat, and was impressive for its duration as well as its ferocity. And Sunday mornings were usually the occasion for an equally impressive repeat performance. In fact, the sounds of this morning’s bout had ignited her own desires, and after delighting herself with her fingers, she had only just decided it was time for her bath when they began again, their second bout of the morning.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Susie was jealous; this was gold medal-standard shagging from a bloke quite obviously qualified to fuck for Britain in the next Olympics.
Then she heard the squealing become a wailing as the girl – Anne or Annie, she wasn’t sure which – began to rise to her own crescendo. ‘Aah... Aaah... Aaaaah...!’ the long, agonised shrieks mingling with the thuds as her boyfriend clearly pushed himself solidly home.
As she listened with growing excitement, Susie discovered her right hand was keeping time with the rhythm upstairs, fingers pressing in and out of her body at the same moment as what’s-his-name was pushing in and out of Annie. In her mind she pictured the girl on her back, with legs wide and knees drawn up as her boyfriend rose and fell between them, each downward thrust contracting the muscles of his bottom as he rammed himself harder and deeper, making the bed thud and Annie squeal.
Still keeping perfect time, Susie’s fingers pushed harder and faster, and she felt her pussy spreading round them just as she knew Annie’s was spread around the genuine article upstairs. And each time it pushed in Annie’s lips spread a little wider, making her and Susie squeal in perfect harmony, faster and faster and faster until the bed was battering on the floor, Annie’s squeals were one long continuous wail, and Susie was screaming aloud in release as she came at precisely the same moment as Annie and her boyfriend.
It was better than she’d expected; a delightful release that left her weak and gasping, the relaxation that followed letting her mind wander until, half asleep, she realised he was doing it again! But now it only made her angry. ‘Inconsiderate,’ she muttered to herself as she searched for some clothes to wear, ignoring the juicy wetness between her thighs.
‘Bloody racket,’ she said aloud, rattling coat hangers in the wardrobe, feeling the dampness still seeping from her.
‘For crying out loud,’ she called out, feeling the fresh clean panties stick wetly to her body as soon as she pulled them on, as the thudding continued, a full thirty minutes after it had started for the third time.
It was still thudding away when she left the house, although it was faster now and Annie had got to the squealing stage again, so it couldn’t last much longer. And the house was quiet when she returned twenty minutes later with an armful of Sunday papers. They were all there, all the tabloids, right down to the sleaziest of the lot, and they promised a good hour or more of entertainment. Every Sunday she read at least one, usually more, and never failed to find them exciting. They were a never-ending source of interest and arousal, and though her intent was simply to study for her future career, her reading was still very often the trigger for a quiet afternoon of long-drawn-out pleasure and release. She thought the best story this week was the revival of swinger parties where anything and everything goes, and though it provided such a rich choice of fantasy for her solitary pleasures and she fully intended to come back to it later, she read on just in case. Halfway through a story about a schoolteacher with a fondness for being caned by his teenage pupils, she was disturbed by an outside influence, and she peered around the room, trying to identify its source.
Footsteps on the stairs, that was all. Then she froze, unable to believe her ears.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Away he went again upstairs, the bed pounding on the floor.
Half an hour later, with its steady rhythm unaltered in speed or strength, she gave up and went out, returning much later after the pubs were closed, having enjoyed a pleasant evening in good company and much in need of eight hours’ sleep.
Over the next few weeks his incredible sexual performances became a source of utter amazement to Susie. To have the ability to perform so frequently and relentlessly was astounding enough in itself, but to have the appetite, to actually want to do it almost every waking moment of your life, was another thing altogether. She was only twenty-two years old, but she’d lived a bit and counted herself as experienced. But she could say with honesty that she knew of only one other person with an appetite of similar scale, and she’d got two fingers buried inside that person right now.
But, in the shape of the bloke upstairs – Andy, she’d heard Annie call out at moments of extreme passion – was someone with a matching level of desire as hers. But he’d already found a girlfriend, and she wasn’t about to steal blokes from other girls. All else aside, she’d only seen him once, from a distance and in the dark, so she didn’t really know whether he was good-looking or no. She ignored the little voice in the background telling her she didn’t care... and anyway, she did. Even if she hadn’t seen him, she knew enough about him to think he might be a trifle weird.
He never seemed to go to work, but was always in, and always doing something. There were footsteps, bumps and rattles, as if he was forever emptying crockery out of cupboards and putting it back. She toyed with the thought that he was one of those obsessive types who’s got to keep cleaning all the time; there were certainly some odd smells upstairs, like powerful chemical cleaners, so maybe he was forever bleaching the work surfaces or some such thing.
But it was when she was obliged to spend a few days at home by herself that she really noticed something odd...
At first Susie imagined the bloke on the stairs to be a meter reader. It couldn’t be Andy. For reasons which were perhaps connected with the activities she was usually engaged in while he was enacting his own virtuoso performances, she’d pictured Andy as all glistening muscle in legs and shoulders, with an equally glistening and enormous lunchbox in order to do the deed so often and so long.
Or it may have been the fact that she’d only met him in the dark before.
This time, though, it was in the hallway that she bumped – literally – into a hunched figure in a leather jacket. Concerned that he may have been a burglar up to no good, she introduced herself with a brisk and friendly greeting. ‘Hi, I’m Susie – I live in number one.’ followed by an inviting, tell-me-everything smile.
‘I know. I’m Andy – from upstairs.’
Surely not, she thought. All right to look at, in a furtive sort of way, he didn’t look as she’d imagined the stud she’d heard hammering away upstairs. In fact he didn’t look like he had enough blood in him to get it up at all, never mind keep it up. And as for all that continual humping – well, judging by size and weight, he hadn’t had a decent meal since Christmas and he looked like he’d be in trouble carrying two pints of milk upstairs by himself.
On the other hand, she thought as she closed her front door behind her, maybe he looked like that because of all that activity. Perhaps he’d worn himself into a frazzle with doing it all the time. Certainly he looked like someone who spent his whole life on the job might be expected to look – drawn and exhausted.
Now, here she was coming through the outside door into the hallway on Monday evening, and here was another bloke on his way down the stairs, a bloke who might have been Andy’s brother if physique – or lack of it – was the only guide. This was another shy, withdrawn individual who may well have been a meter reader by profession himself, so reticent was his nature. However, it was too late in the evening for meter readers to be out and so she greeted him with a cheerful, ‘Hello,’ but he scurried past her and vanished out of the building into the evening without a word, leaving Susie puzzling on the doorstep.
Later on she heard footsteps on the stone steps climbing up to the front door and, curiosity stirred, felt she just had to peep. So she crept over to the tall bay window and peered shamelessly round the edge of the curtain. What she saw was strange, but reassuring. Andy was at the door with his key in the lock, accompanied by another man – just a bulky figure in the darkness.
At least he’s got mates, she thought, so he can’t be all that bad.
Hardly five minutes later, she went into her bedroom and was forced to change her mind yet again. Thud... thud... thud... came the unmistakable noise from upstairs. She sat on her bed to listen, in case she was mistaken, but there could be no question. It was getting a little faster now.
Bloody hell, she thought, how can he be doing that? The rude bastard was shagging his girlfriend in the bedroom while his mate was watching football or whatever on the box, and there was no doubt at all that the noise which was racketing through Susie’s bedroom must have been clearly audible upstairs as well, even above the din of the football match; the television was very loud.
But not loud enough to drown out the rapid thump-thump-thump as Andy went into top gear and Annie started to squeal in time. Faster and faster went the bed on the wall or the floor, whatever, and louder and louder Annie squealed and screamed until it was that long continuous wailing that meant for her at least it was nearly all over. And suddenly it was. One last shriek from Annie was drowned by a massive roaring cheer as someone somewhere scored a goal of a different kind, and then there was silence from the bedroom upstairs and relative silence from the television as well, as the bloke watching it turned the volume down. He’d obviously been trying to drown out the noise of Andy and Annie’s energetic coupling in the room next door.
Not long afterwards there was the clatter of feet on the stairs, and now thoroughly intrigued, Susie peered round the curtain to see Andy and his mate scuttling off down the path towards the front gate.
Odd, thought Susie. Very odd. She was aware from the still-audible television upstairs that the game was still going; in fact it probably hadn’t reached half time. But still, maybe they were watching it in the pub and he just had to come back for a quickie, she thought, highly impressed by the enormity of such an appetite.
She was in the kitchen when she heard the street door bang, and footsteps on the stairs. Swiftly silencing the kettle she listened, and heard voices above – quite definitely two male voices.
‘What is he up to?’ she mumbled quietly, at a loss to explain the behaviour upstairs, or fit it within any rational pattern of activity that she knew of.
Bringing the water to the boil once more, she went back to the settee with her coffee. She’d just found the remote control for her own television when a faint tapping noise seized her attention. Slowly, as quietly as she could, she put the remote down and uncrossed her legs, rising to her feet in one fluid movement of feline grace that would have stirred the loins of any red-blooded male lucky enough to see her like that in baggy T-shirt and knickers.
Thud, thud, thud went the noise upstairs, and she shook her head in utter disbelief.
He can’t be doing it again, she told herself firmly. But he was, thud, thud, thud, remorseless as a metronome, quite literally banging away in the bedroom upstairs.
He can’t be that fit, she thought, as he really went at it. And he can’t be that rude, bringing his mates back to watch telly and disappearing every five minutes to screw his girlfriend. But he obviously was.
They must have been out for some beers, she thought, settling back in her seat, although it was strange not waiting till half time – which she knew had just been reached because the television upstairs was back on its loud setting, to drown out the racket Andy was making in the bedroom.
The rapid-fire tapping of the bed and the high-pitched squeals that went with it told her that this one wasn’t going to get into the second half, and sure enough Annie gave that long drawn out squeal of delight long before the football resumed. Susie was just pondering the fact that Annie must come every time Andy does, when the feet came trampling down the stairs again.
Rushing to the window, she pulled the corner of the curtain aside and was just in time to see Andy and his friend outlined under the streetlight, two thin shapes heading away up the road in the direction of the Seven Bells. Upstairs, the television was quieter but the football was still on. Shaking her head again, Susie sat down, picked up her coffee and flicked on her own television.
The coffee was, well – not cold, but not hot either. Pulling a face she went into the kitchen and made another, but hardly was she settled in front of the television again when she heard a car pull up right outside. Fearing it might be her latest jilted lover, she shut off the television and crossed the room in two strides.
Through the tiny gap in the curtain she saw Andy emerge from the car and head up the path towards the front door. The driver followed him, a tall man with a flat cap and a fairly obvious beard. It wasn’t the bloke who’d arrived at seven o’clock to watch the football. He’d been a big, burly bloke, with no hat and no beard. Or had he? Hadn’t he just left, small and thin like Andy? No beard, anyway, nor a hat.
The two sets of feet trampled upstairs and as they trod the boards directly overhead, she heard angry voices, a man and a woman, but no words, so she couldn’t tell if Annie was complaining about being intermittently loved and left, or him trooping his friends home to watch the football when she planned to be watching something else.
Susie gave up, abandoning them to whatever peculiar lifestyle they had chosen for themselves and heading back towards her comfy seat at the end of the settee, and a quiet evening in front of the telly.
Quiet? she thought, less than five minutes later. Quiet?
Hardly had the angry voices died away than they had made up their quarrel and were cementing their relationship in the time-honoured way – the fourth time-honoured way that evening!
He just couldn’t be that fit, she thought... Oh no!
It wasn’t Andy at all! The scrawny little runt didn’t look like an Olympic sex machine because he wasn’t one! He wasn’t shagging her time after time – his mates were! In a flash of blinding clarity she realised that was the only way it made sense. He wasn’t bringing them home to watch football while he screwed his girlfriend – he was bringing them home to screw his girlfriend while he watched the football!
Footsteps clumped loudly down the stairs and she peered round the edge of the curtain, and gained instant confirmation. The hunched little figure setting off down the pathway was Andy – certainly it wasn’t a big bloke with a hat and a beard, and he ignored the car and walked off in the direction of the pub.
That means, she thought carefully to herself, that the bloke with the beard is still upstairs, alone with Annie.
‘And that means...’ she said to herself and cocked an ear towards the bedroom ceiling where the steady thudding noise was now punctuated by Annie’s little squeaks, ‘that means he’s the one screwing her, not Andy.
‘But she’s doing all right out of it,’ she mused, as Annie squealed her way through another orgasm, her third or fourth of the evening. ‘Unless of course she doesn’t like it and those are squeals of distress.’ She dismissed the thought almost before she’d had it. ‘No, she’s coming all right,’ she said thoughtfully, a spark of envy flickering deep in her tummy.
But was she? And what about the argument just now? It wasn’t the first time those two had argued and then made up in bed... unless, in light of the evening’s events, they’d argued and then he’d made her get up to it in bed with someone else.
Could that be it? Could Andy be keeping Annie prisoner, and selling her to his mates as a sex slave? The thought was interrupted yet again by the sound of feet on the stairs, heading down. He was leaving.
She huddled by the window, peering through the narrowest crack she could open between the curtain and the wall.
A broad figure with a flat hat jammed on his head waddled down the path, and as he reached the gate a thin figure emerged from the shadows. Andy! He’d obviously decided against the pub and had been hanging around outside instead. ‘Well, I’ll be...’ she exclaimed in hushed tones. The bloke was giving Andy something – money; he was counting out notes. At least five of them. Fifty pounds? Maybe more! And for what? For services rendered, that’s what. ‘And those services were rendered by Annie, if I’m any judge,’ she concluded, as flat-hat-and-beard climbed into the Jaguar and drove away.
And not necessarily of her own free will!
Recalling the angry words, she reconsidered Annie’s infallible gasps of what she’d taken to be pleasure and decided they could be interpreted as gasps of displeasure, or even distress. Perhaps, she wondered, perhaps he’d kidnapped her and was keeping her prisoner. He looked shifty enough, and she had never appeared in daylight since the day they arrived, except as a ghostly face at the upstairs window.
‘Yes,’ she said to herself. ‘Yes, that’s it!’
Those weren’t his friends he was bringing home; they were customers!
The evidence mounted up the more she thought about it. All the strange noises late at night, and those strangers arriving all evening. She was actually living underneath a master criminal who’d kidnapped the girl and was using her as his sex slave. Why, she’d read a story in the paper only the previous Sunday, where a gang of criminals were kidnapping girls and smuggling them to brothels and harems in the Middle East.
Excitedly she went over the evidence in her mind, and could find no flaws to her theory.
‘This could be the story that gets me into the big time,’ she concluded, very conscious that with Finals in a few weeks she would soon be needing a job, and that she would soon be writing to all the Sunday tabloids asking for an interview. She knew she had a talent for writing and she just knew she could write sex stories better than anyone else. And now she had the perfect opportunity to prove it and persuade some editor to give her a job. She could write a brilliant, perceptive and very sexy story about white slaving in the Home Counties, get a banner headline and a massive fee, and a job too!
As it suited her very well to stay at home for a few days, that’s what she did, keeping a careful watch from the slit in her curtains and using her cheap holiday camera to take some very hazy pictures of Andy and some indistinct shapes of individual men as they came and went. She only used it for the rarer daytime assignations, because the evenings would have triggered the flash and alerted them.
And there was plenty of opportunity to keep watch; Andy would arrive regularly with a different bloke, there’d be the regulation thudding followed by Annie’s squeals and then the bloke would depart alone. He’d come, and he went. ‘Very nice,’ she mumbled thoughtfully, tapping the phrase into her laptop, knowing it would look good on the page.
All through the peaceful suburban evening the men came and went, departing as lonely as before, but relieved of their burden...
‘I wonder if that’s a little too much?’ she said, eyeing the screen, settling for a full stop after went, and deleting the rest.
On Thursday the visitors started arriving in the afternoon, for which she was grateful since her story was still unfinished. Although she had a careful diary of times and a scattering of car registration numbers, she needed loads more information to fill the paragraphs. She knew the police would be able to trace the car numbers but she didn’t want to involve them and blow the story. She didn’t think it was beyond her abilities to persuade a helpful policeman to do some private research for her, but it was risky. At the same time she was well aware that Annie was suffering, if not in danger. Although she couldn’t be suffering that much, she had decided, after careful listening while standing on a chair with a glass pressed against the ceiling had revealed that Annie’s noises weren’t just random squeaks. Not always, but quite often, they were cries of encouragement.
So as visitors hurried up the stairs, Susie snapped away with the camera, delighted with the quality of daylight pictures; she’d read enough papers to know that furtive doorstep comings-and-goings were an essential ingredient of stories like this one. And she could read the car numbers better, and was even more delighted when one car, which disgorged no fewer than three smartly-suited and swarthy men during the late afternoon, had what appeared to be a very personalised and highly traceable number. And Arabs! She almost danced around the room with delight, almost forgetting Annie’s plight until the familiar overhead thudding and the faint wailing cries from upstairs reminded her.
She snapped them furiously as they drove away in their big black limousine after staying for more than two hours, and she got the pictures of them huddled by the front door with Andy – handing over money! As soon as they’d left and Andy went back upstairs, she sat down and wrote a brief but – she hoped – intriguing letter to the editor of her favourite Sunday tabloid, asking for an interview and promising him a real headline-making sex scandal story as proof of her ability. Then she rushed off to town to post it and dropped off her films for processing, her jubilation lasting all the way home.
When she sat down with the laptop to write she found it was still not much easier to fill in the blank paragraphs than it had been before. She wrestled for nearly two hours with her brain and the spell-checker, which was unable to identify some of the words she’d used, leading her to suspect that sado-masochistic bondage and sexually-subjugated slavery might be too lurid, even for the Sundays.
It was some while before she noticed anything was wrong, and it was even longer until she realised what it was. At ten o’clock, when she decided to turn on the news for a bit of company, it hit her.
Silence.
Not a sound.
No one had come to the house, not a soul emerged from upstairs, not a floorboard creaked, nor did anyone upstairs make a sound, sexual or otherwise. Based on the experience of the preceding days there should, by that time, have been at least a bit of traffic on the stairs and thudding from overhead.
Instead there was silence, not even the rattle of Andy shifting jars, or whatever it was he did.
So what was she to make of this latest development? Had Annie finally been sold to the Arabs and spirited away in the night? Almost certainly yes, was the answer to that. The last ones to visit had been those three Arab-looking ones in the posh car, and after that – nothing!
And the moment the money changed hands, Annie vanished completely.
Spirited away as soon as dusk fell over the peaceful suburban street, she began her tortuous journey eastwards, towards a lifetime of enslaved depravity as the plaything of men who used her in any way they chose.
Brilliant!
Susie listened carefully through the night but heard nothing from the rooms above, nor saw a thing. Early next morning she lay in bed debating whether to get up early to go and collect her newly-developed pictures, or go later, after she’d finished off what her teasing fingers had just begun.
No contest really.
The distant trilling of a telephone brought her back from her dreamy relaxed state. It wasn’t her telephone but the familiar tones of the one upstairs, muffled by its passage through the floorboards. It rang for a long while, somehow making her own flat seem as empty as the one upstairs, before it eventually stopped. By that time she was wide awake and on the move.
Susie sat in her kitchen, coffee mug steaming beside her as she pondered carefully, and reached no conclusion apart from the fact that she was cold. She headed for the shower, and apart from a momentary distraction with the tingling jets of hot water, she thought carefully about the recent events and began to form an idea about her next course of action.
She dressed quickly, pulling on a white blouse and a black pleated skirt. They were both old, and allowed her plenty of movement. She pulled on a pair of thick, soft socks; more grey than white, they were more than anything else, quiet. She didn’t know why she was bothering about noise, since there was no one to hear her, but somehow it seemed vital to creep upstairs on tiptoe.
She didn’t know why she was frightened either, but she was, a sort of cold tingle all over her body, jittering every fibre of her being with icy fingertips. Well, almost every fibre. There was one part of her that was hot, and she realised that the fear had once again liquefied in her knickers as a pool of molten heat. She smiled at the familiar response, and that seemed to encourage her a little. Feeling more brave and less stupid, but just as aroused, she opened the front door of her flat a fraction and peered out into the empty hallway.
It was, unsurprisingly, empty.
On the stairs it seemed that every floorboard was loose and each one went off like a gunshot. Each sharp crack had a twofold effect, making her flinch with fear and seep more juice.
At the front door she paused, listening, then knocked loudly. She wasn’t expecting an answer; she knew there was no one home, but just in case she was wrong she had her story rehearsed, even had an empty cup in her hand for the sugar. But neither were needed: there was no answer.
Slowly she pushed the key into the slot, hoping it would work. When she moved in she was the first tenant in the newly-refurbished building and when she’d called at the agents’ office for her key she’d been invited to help herself out of an old biscuit tin. ‘They’re all the same, dearie,’ said the woman in the office. ‘It’s easier that way, but you can change yours if you like, and then the next person can keep theirs the same.’
She hadn’t changed the lock, and she was hoping that the people upstairs either didn’t know about this estate agent’s convenience factor or, like her, simply hadn’t bothered to do anything about it.
Her hand was trembling as she paused a moment, then applied pressure. The key turned easily and silently and the door opened just as quickly, so that she almost fell into the hallway.
With the door wide she knocked again, ready to say she’d seen it open and was merely concerned about burglars.
‘Hello?’
Her voice echoed into the emptiness. There was no answer. This was the moment of truth. She breathed in deeply and stepped swiftly through the doorway, closing it softly behind her until the lock clicked home.
To her left was an open door to the bathroom. It looked as though this flat was identical in layout to her own; she already knew the bedroom was directly above hers. That meant the kitchen was to her right and the second door led into the lounge. The curtains were still drawn but she could see the big television at the far end of the room, with three armchairs circled around it. Apart from some scattered cans and crisp packets, there was nothing else in the room at all.
The door at the far end of the hallway led into the bedroom, she knew, and though she’d been expecting to uncover her evidence in there, she hadn’t expected the rest of the house to be so bare.
The bedroom door was closed, and she paused, stupidly wondering if she should knock. Her heart already was, hammering inside her chest. Taking the handle firmly in her fingers, she gave it a twist, and the door opened onto the half light forcing its way round the edges of the curtains, still drawn, like those in the lounge.
As she stepped inside the door swung silently shut, powered by a large spring; obviously this was a room in which privacy was necessary.
It was oddly dark, but her eyes were accustomed to the artificial twilight, and she saw the big double bed was neatly made, pillows plumped and sheets straight.
The dressing table was bare; not a pot nor a tube, no tweezers, brushes or combs. No woman still lived in this room, Susie knew at once. The wardrobe was bare as well, empty wire hangers, crumpled plastic bags from the dry-cleaners, no more.
There was a chest of drawers, waist-high, where you might keep knickers and jumpers. The top drawer was open an inch, and it looked empty. She tugged the handles and it made a creaking sound as it pulled back.
The loud bang that followed it came from outside in the hallway.
It banged again. The unmistakable bang of someone knocking on the front door of the flat!
She froze, holding her breath, waiting for whoever it was to go away. There was a long pause, followed by a scraping sound and then the thud of the front door swinging open on its hinges and bumping the wall. Then there were more bumping noises and rustling too. Someone was coming through the front door!
For a moment she almost screamed. Then she almost fainted. Cold fear iced her spine. Hot flushes seared her groin. Her hands trembled, her breath gasped. She spun round, looking for another way out, but she knew there wasn’t one. She knew she could open the window and knew equally well she could never jump to the ground. She’d been afraid of heights since she was a child. And anyway, she’d only break a leg or her neck on the solid concrete below.
Out in the hallway she heard a voice – a man’s voice. Even her last hope, that it would be the woman who lived here, had been snatched away. It was him! The slaver! The man who kidnapped women and sold them to the Arabs!
But wait a minute. Who was he speaking to? And who was that answering?
It was another man! There were two of them! Now Susie was certain she was in deadly danger. Little whimpering gasps came from the back of her throat. Maybe they wouldn’t bother selling her to the Arabs. Maybe they’d just kill her! Or worse. But there was nothing worse than being killed, was there? She hoped not.
She crossed to the window, but one look confirmed what she already knew. It was too high to jump, even if she had been brave enough, and there was no handy drainpipe or overhanging branch like there always is in films. She was trapped!
She looked around the room, searching for somewhere to hide. The wardrobe!
But it was a cheap piece of chipboard, hardly big enough to get in. And anyone opening the door couldn’t fail to see her.
Under the bed!
It was an old-fashioned ironwork affair, with a mattress on springs, and tall legs. Lots of room underneath, but it was hardly a place of concealment. She’d be as visible as a... as a... oh, forget it, just plain visible. And she needed to be the opposite.
Behind the door!
If anyone came in she could stand behind the door! And then, when it swung shut on its spring, they’d see her and kill her.
But she could hold it, grab the handle and hold it. That would do it. She almost ran across the room on tiptoe, freezing when she realised the bedroom door wasn’t shut. The spring wasn’t strong enough to close it properly, just push it to. She put one eye to the crack, and was rewarded by the sight of a small sliver of wall, which was all she could see. She pressed her ear to the crack instead, and that was better, because the murmur of conversation became separated into words, some of them recognisable.
She strained to hear as much as possible, picking out words and trying to string them into a sentence, or at least a meaning...
‘No, she’s not very... be gentle... rough stuff. If you treat her... she’ll... full strength... couple of minutes... please yourself... door at the end... going out now... back later, so just... when you’ve finished with her.’
How on earth did he know she was there? And why didn’t he seem to care?
More mumbling came from outside. She pressed her ear to the door again.
‘Sure, she knows how to... and make it last.’
The second man spoke, a hoarse whisper she couldn’t decipher at all. The reply was crystal clear, though, just a single word. ‘Annie.’
There was more whispering from the croaky voice, which again she didn’t understand. But what she heard of the reply explained everything.
‘Course he won’t... any time, he said... help myself... keep the key.’
One of Andy’s mates had brought one of his mates round to enjoy the pleasures of the house. That was why he’d telephoned first and why he’d knocked on the door before retrieving the key from whatever hiding place he knew it would be kept in. He didn’t know that Annie had been sold hardly twenty-four hours earlier. He – or the croaky one, anyway, was expecting to find her in.
In her bedroom!
Fear ran like ice-cubes down her back and into her stomach, and it was as if the contracting muscles squeezed her like a peach, making the syrup run.
There was a louder mumbling from outside and the front door banged shut. For a moment she thought she was safe, that they’d both gone, but then she heard a shuffling noise – the sound, she realised, of someone taking off a coat. There was still someone there in the flat. A man, a stranger, black, white, nice, nasty, handsome, ugly, violent, friendly – she didn’t know. But she was about to find out, because he was about to do as instructed, and come through the door to please himself with Annie. Who wasn’t there.
But Susie was, and when he saw her he’d – he’d think she was Annie, she realised, with a sudden rush of relief. He’d never been there before, never seen her before. He’d think she was Annie, so he wouldn’t think she was a burglar, so he wouldn’t call the police, or tie her up till Andy returned. He’d just... he’d just... oh God!
What he was going to do, unless Susie told him the truth, was imagine her to be some form of sex slave, and do whatever it was men did to sex slaves. But if she did tell him the truth she’d go to prison at best, or a lonely grave at worst. Or maybe get sold to the Arabs, like Annie.
There wasn’t much time, and there wasn’t much choice.
The door opened, suddenly and silently.
There was no time. And no choice.
The man who stood there looking at her was old, sixty at least, and the light framing him from behind lit up the white fuzz of his unshaven cheeks and the crumpled outline of an old and much-worn jacket which might once have been the top half of someone else’s suit. It certainly didn’t fit the man who was wearing it now, nor did it match the baggy corduroy trousers gathered in bunches around legs which were clearly too short for them. As he shambled into the dimly lit room, revealing a shirt open at the collar, Susie caught the scent of last night’s drink and stale tobacco.
‘Hello, my dear. Annie, isn’t it?’
Susie squeaked quietly and he nodded approval. ‘I see you’ve dressed the part,’ he croaked, and she realised that her breaking-and-entering clothes might easily be mistaken for a school uniform; blouse, pleated skirt and socks. He took a step closer, and as the bedroom door swung closed on its spring, the light in the room faded so he was just a shadow, and the croaky voice assumed a sinister aspect.
Intending to say something intelligent about misunderstandings, but almost paralysed with fear, Susie only made a small noise in her throat. She backed away as the man advanced. Her legs stopped when they bumped the edge of the bed, and she sat down suddenly.
‘That’s my girl,’ he wheezed, pulling off his jacket and dropping it on the floor. ‘That’s my girl.’
Wanting to tell him in words of one syllable that she most certainly was not his girl, Susie made some small bleating noises.
Presumably taking this to be a sign of pleasure or encouragement, or even both, he shuffled closer. She instinctively tried to squirm back away from his grasp, realising almost at once that it made her situation worse instead of better, placing her in the middle of the bed with her feet on the edge and her knees raised, allowing him to look straight up her skirt. It was not an opportunity he wasted, and his watery eyes suddenly seemed to find focus, boring in on her groin. She felt his gaze on her like a physical thing, a hot glare that added to the heat between her legs. The effort of screwing up the muscles of his eyes seemed to deplete his ability to control the rest of his face, and his jaw muscles slowly slackened, letting his mouth hang open.
Susie was afraid to move; she could feel the terror all over her body, in the sharply tensed muscles of her toes, the rigid stillness of her arms and legs, the cold trembling in her tummy, and the warm oozing sensation between her legs as liquid soaked into her panties.
As if in sympathy, a long strand of saliva dribbled from the corner of the old man’s mouth, slowly lengthening towards the floor in a series of gentle, elastic jerks. Susie watched, spellbound, as a fresh flow of it surged out of the visible gap between his dentures and his shiny pink gums while he stared at the feminine curve of her within the soft material, saw the darkening dampness and the deep furrow at its centre.
Susie knew she had to speak now, or not at all.
His hand, fingers spreading and closing into a bony claw, lifted from his waist.
It was slow motion to Susie; a gradual movement that seemed to last for minutes. Now his hand was in mid-air, stretching slowly forward, slowly downward, moving lower between her thighs, reaching nearer until his fingertips were almost brushing the tight curve of her knickers, and she sat, paralysed with indecision and fear, unable to do anything because she couldn’t decide what to do. And as she wondered again whether she should speak – it was too late.
With an appreciative sigh, like a man dying of thirst swallowing a glass of chilled lager, he grasped the area of his delight and sighed again. His scrawny fingers clawed at the soft mound inside the swell of her knickers, felt the heat and moisture her fear had produced, and wriggled about as if trying to force a hole in the material or push it all the way inside her.
Susie squealed again, louder and more convincingly this time, she thought, but clearly not loud enough, as she felt his fingertips digging with jerky movements that sent little tremors through her.
‘Arrr,’ hissed the old man, blowing a gale of old beer across her face. ‘Yer like that all right.’ And he rummaged about between her legs with enthusiasm, provoking a fresh flow of moisture from her body. To start with fear had been the source of her trouble, though the old man didn’t know that. But now the natural reaction of her body was adding to it, and her knickers were flooding with slippery juices.
She thought again of protesting, of explanation and escape, but it really was too late.
For his groping fingers had clawed their way around the elasticated edges of her panties, slipped inside, and were mauling roughly at the soft slickness of her tender flesh. The heat and wetness inspired him still further and suddenly a bony finger thrust easily inside her. Susie gasped in shock and horror, and was mortified to feel the reflexive twitch of her hips. Now it really was too late.
‘You’re good and ready, you are,’ croaked the old man, little knowing how right he was. ‘But wait till you see what I’ve got for yer.’
Without removing his hand from her groin or his wiggling finger from inside her, he began unbuckling his belt. Susie groaned in dismay, feeling her body responding shamefully to his rude fingers. He let his grubby trousers drop to the floor and stepped out of them, the action pressing his knees right up against the edge of the bed, standing so close she could smell him; a musty, bookish dampness from his clothes, and the warm saltiness of his body.
Susie stared, mesmerised like a rabbit in a set of headlights, as he fumbled beneath his shirttails, and suddenly produced a stout erection in purple and red, blue-veined and knotted.
‘Here you are then,’ he wheezed, as if he were giving her some sort of prize, and he waggled it from side to side.
She was going to tell him then, as he raised one knee onto the edge of the mattress, bringing the shiny bulbous end of it within inches of her nose. She was going to shout ‘stop!’ and tell him there had been a mistake. But as he shifted his weight onto that knee he leant heavily on his left hand, ramming his finger deep inside her until the knuckle thudded home against her bone with a solid thump.
‘Aaah!’ she gasped, feeling the instinctive reaction as her thighs opened wider and her pelvis rolled upward in welcome. ‘Aaah!’ she groaned again as he rammed another finger alongside the first and her traitorous hips bucked upwards of their own accord.
Gradually he began to find the required co-ordination and his fingers started to slide in and out in a steady beat, the knuckles thudding solidly against her each time, the fingers pulling all the way out until she was empty and aching before they slipped back in, spreading her pussy and plunging right up inside her.
‘Mmmm...’ Her eyes were half closed, that lidded look of sultry arousal she always wore at such moments, and she spread her thighs even wider, lifted her hips higher, and luxuriated in the sensations as his fingers pushed into her.
‘Mmmm... mmm... mmm...’ She made soft moaning noises and slowly reached up with one hand for the long thick shaft which bobbed around in front of her face.
It was red-hot and rock-hard, though the leathery flesh was loose like an ill-fitting sleeve, and the veins were gnarled like knotted string under the skin.
‘Arrr,’ grunted the old man as her dainty fingers curled around him, and then grunted again as she slid her grip up until she’d reached the tip and then slowly pulled back, rolling the foreskin away from the glistening purple bulb. Up and down, very slowly, moved her hand. And she watched, almost hypnotised, captivated as always by the workings of the male organ and the feel of its thick stiffness filling her fingers and her palm, the stickiness of its fluids as it oozed a thick, white juice.
‘Arrr,’ wheezed the old boy again, his own hand still busy inside her panties.
‘Mmmm...’ breathed Susie softly, as his fingers pressed deep and his thumb flicked lightly across her nut-hard little bud.
She wasn’t conscious of moving forward, but she did, and unbidden her lips slowly peeled apart and her mouth closed around the end of the shaft, her tongue flickering across the smooth top as she leaned further towards him, swallowing him down to where her fist grasped him halfway along the shaft.
‘Arrr,’ he grunted his approval, and his fingers stiffened inside her.
‘Uurrgghhle...’ she gurgled, as the sensations flooded her groin and she felt the beginnings of an orgasm clutching the muscles at the top of her thighs. Suddenly it became very important to come at once, and she indicated this by sucking hungrily, pulling the erection into her mouth, licking and sucking at the very tip as her fist began steadily pumping, flicking the leathery foreskin over the rounded helmet while at the same time flexing her hips against his hand.
The old bloke was perfectly still, not moving a muscle, luxuriating in the sensations as Susie’s naughty mouth sucked wetly on his knob and her hot pussy ground down on his rigid fingers, firmly fixed in place now as she grabbed his wrist and held his hand still so she could thrust herself against it, hips rising and falling as she worked the two fingers in and out, her head bobbing, and her juices flowing freely between the two intruders, soaking her panties.
There was a minute, perhaps a little longer, in which they stayed like that, the old man stock still, Susie squirming on the bed, hips grinding, head nodding, both of them totally absorbed in the feelings that grew and grew; oblivious to the traffic outside, the radio playing somewhere across the street, or the whine of a Jumbo six miles overhead. For them there was just semi-darkness, the intimate squelching as her body moved against his, and the thunder of their pulses in their own ears.
Then the old man’s cock stiffened even further, if that was possible, and thickened. It grew in her fist and stretched her lips, and she felt the fluid pumping up its length just before the viscous spray burst into her mouth, and every time it jerked and pulsed in her fingers another jet splashed onto her tongue and she locked her thighs around his hand, clamping it against her as the muscles deep inside squeezed his fingers in a series of long, slow waves of release.
As her body slumped she held him in her mouth, rubbing and licking and squeezing as she always did, waiting for it to go soft... but it didn’t.
It lost the extra dimensions it had gained in the few moments before it had erupted so copiously, but otherwise he remained as hard as a teenager who’d found his father’s secret stash of adult magazines. She leaned back, and there it was, still as stiff and straight as ever, glistening in the gloom. As she looked up curiously at him, he turned his watery pink eyes on her, and pushed one knee onto the bed between hers, spreading apart the thighs that were still holding his hand at her groin, two fingers still deep in the heated wetness of her body.
‘Reckon I’ll do yer now,’ he hissed, and with no further ceremony he pulled his fingers from her, folded her skirt up around her waist, tugged the wet gusset of her knickers to one side, pressed her down into the mattress, and fed himself straight inside her vulnerable pussy.
She was so shamefully wet and ready his erection sank into her body and thumped solidly home, knocking the breath from her in a loud gasp – a mixture of surprise and arousal.
‘Ar,’ he grunted again, and then pulled out, leaving her cold and empty. Then she felt her flesh spread wide as he pushed vigorously back into her.
‘Aaah!’ she sighed, and the sound had barely escaped her lips than he was gone again. ‘Aaah!’ she squealed, louder and more urgently as he rammed in once more. ‘Aaah... aaah... aaah...’ she gasped rhythmically as he began to move briskly in and out. He was watching himself, she realised. He was looking down between her thighs and watching himself thrusting in and out of her, a steady pulsing beat that came and went between the soft lips of her pussy.
She wanted him inside her all the time, wanted to be filled with solid male flesh, needed to have a thick warm pole deep inside, to wriggle and squirm against while she built slowly to her climax. But it just kept coming and going, sliding briskly in and out, spreading her wide and then leaving her empty.
Her hips writhed as she tried to move herself onto it, to hold him deep, but he just kept on going, in and out, in and out. She reached out with both hands, trying to grasp his bony thighs or buttocks to pull him into her and hold him there, but he cursed and panted at her in no uncertain terms to lift her hips and pin her hands under her bottom. She whimpered but instantly obeyed, and so she couldn’t hold him, couldn’t stop him thumping in and out, the new angle of her hips allowing him to plunge deeper and deeper. And as he plunged away she heard the bed thudding against the wall:
Bump... bump... bump; a sound she knew so well, but always from downstairs when she’d been listening to someone else.
She came almost at once, a writhing, squealing surprise of a climax that gave no warning, just a shattering burst of sensations, all lights, noise, colour and contracting muscles that wrenched a shuddering scream from her as she arched her back and then sagged limply into the mattress.
But none of it distracted the old man, still pounding relentlessly away, no change in pace or rhythm as she lay inert beneath him. Then suddenly he stopped moving too, poised above her, his rasping breath making her damp fringe flutter on her perspiring forehead.
‘Ar,’ he grunted quietly, and then she felt him hosing into her, a long spray that made his dangling testicles jiggle against her bottom. And then he hastily pulled out of her, gripped her thighs and pressed them even further apart. Susie half opened her eyes and saw his erection pulsing in the dim light, and then it jerked and another jet of sticky fluid sprayed forth, tickling and tingling as it spattered onto her, leaving small pearls of moisture captured in the short blonde curls on her mound and clinging to the shiny wet folds of flesh. Susie reached out to grab it and pull him back into her, but before she could it sprayed again, thick white cream splashing across her stomach and her blue skirt. Then she was holding it, pulling it in, and as the pink folds parted to let the snub purple bell inside she felt the shaft vibrate in her hand and another gush of sticky fluid burst from the tip.
‘Ar,’ croaked the old man. ‘That’s wore me out,’ and she caught another blast of stale beer and roll-ups as he sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Almost at once the odour of the public bar was joined by an even nastier whiff; his clothes smelt as bad as his breath, maybe worse.
Hastily Susie moved away from him, not making her distaste too obvious in case it angered him, but immediately regretting her fastidious move. Now her nose was in clear air, but her groin was closer to his face. Her knickers were still where they’d been left, tugged to one side, and he was gazing deep between her thighs, where his still-warm fluids dribbled from her. The flow was matched by his mouth, where spittle dribbled from the corners of his slack lips. His stare was uncomfortable, embarrassing, unpleasant. Even more so as a gappy smile disfigured his countenance. ‘Ar,’ he said again. ‘Not had so much fun for years.’ It was his longest speech so far. Susie doubted if he’d had this much fun this century.
‘How long since you, um, er...’ Her voice tailed away. He blinked, squeezing a tear from a gummy pink eye, and looked up at her face. Then he began to cough, a deep hacking that ripped out of his chest and left him wheezing for breath.
‘More than seventeen year,’ he croaked, the source of his sinister whisper now revealed as a chronic smoker’s cough. She sat, spellbound by the whole procedure; every rasping cough made the fleshy pole between his legs jerk in perfect time, as if it was the baton and his chest were the orchestra. But interesting though its syncopated wobbling may have been, the reason she was staring was simply that it was still there, almost as erect as it had been at the beginning. He saw the direction of her stare, and he saw the look on her face.
‘Reckon yer wants what yer shouldn’t have,’ he whispered throatily, and flexed his hips with a surprising agility so that it flopped around again, spraying sticky droplets from the end. She continued to stare as he grasped it with one hand, his bony fingers wrapping around it so that she noticed, for the first time, the nicotine stains, the cracked and blackened nails and the ingrained dirt in the coarse skin of his fingertips. Fingertips which only a short while ago had been prying her soft pink lips apart and fumbling their way into her body. She shuddered.
Now it was over she didn’t want to look at him any more, at his wrinkled, loose-fitting skin, his dirty hands and face, or the still-hard shaft with its rough hedge of grey and white hair.
Primly she reached down and tugged the damp rag of her knickers back into place before she stood up, making a pretence of studying herself in the dressing table mirror, but watching to see what he would do next. She was relieved to see him struggle to his feet, bend down and pull up his baggy old cord trousers, fastening the belt at his waist.
She turned, crossing the room towards the door, planning to hustle him out and then get away herself.
As she did he finished tucking in his shirt and was just trying to cram his softening erection back inside his pants. He paused, watching her cross the room; short skirt and long legs, white socks, and lovely youthful tits inside the nice white blouse. She was hardly any different to the senior girls who’d surrounded him at school all his working life. She could have been any one of them, loose-limbed and coltish, with an easy grace and a hot little pussy. The memory of it was still fresh in his mind and still damp on his knob, which was slowly straightening again in his hand.
He saw her staring in total disbelief as it lengthened and thickened once more. ‘Shame to waste it,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Don’t know when I’ll see it like this again. Or you, come to that.’
Susie’s mouth flapped uselessly open and shut several times. What was there to say? What could she say? Later she realised that she could have flattened him with one good push and been halfway down the street before he was back on his feet, but she’d started off playing the role of Annie because she didn’t think there was any choice, and it simply didn’t occur to her now that things were any different.
He shuffled towards her, taking one shoulder in his hand, turning her towards the end of the bed and bending her forward, and she felt the other hand lifting her skirt. She grasped the rail that ran waist-high across the end of the bed as he draped her skirt up over her back, exposing the supple curves of her bottom, straining against the sheer cotton of her panties.
‘Ar,’ he grunted, apparently never tiring of his sole expression of emotion, and he reached down to caress the taut globes inside their thin covering. After only a few moments his bony old fingers were digging down between them, scrabbling at the wet material stretched across the full curves swelling her gusset into a squashy, squeezable mound.
Susie gasped as he squeezed. ‘Oooh...’ she moaned, as he squashed firmly. Her knees buckled slightly, parting her thighs and making room for him to push deeper between them. She shuffled her feet, spreading her legs wider as she leaned further forward from the waist, exposing herself to his touch and his stare.
The pose was familiar to him, and highly arousing. He’d seen it many times before, but only from a distance, never this close. But he’d imagined it would be like this, the sight, the sound and the smell; the warm musky scent of arousal carried upwards by the heat of her body. And he’d imagined what he would do now, imagined it so exactly and precisely that he’d stood back away from her and spoken without thinking.
‘Touch yerself.’
‘What?’ She knew at once what he meant, and wasn’t so much asking a question as registering surprise. But the flat of his hand cracked solidly against the tight-stretched knickers and the moist flesh within. Whack!
‘Ow!’ Susie jumped, and her squeal was a mixture of pain and surprise.
‘Touch it,’ he wheezed, and suddenly Susie was afraid of him, and what he might do if she refused to obey. Her trembling hand reached back between her legs, and her fingers rested lightly on her knickers, still damp from before but now absorbing the sudden rush of fear that exuded from her sex.
‘Do it proper,’ ordered the croaky voice, and the hand slapped across her bottom, adding another flush of red to the first.
She bit her lip, not wanting to cry out, and her fingers curled, pressing firmly into the cotton, pushing into the oozing furrow of warmth, spreading the opening, digging higher.
‘Ar,’ he grunted, but he smacked her again anyway, another stinging burst of pain that sent the heat glowing and burning across both her tightened cheeks.
‘Aaaah!’ She couldn’t stop herself crying out this time, and she worked her fingers harder and faster between her legs, trying to make her actions more visible to him, feeling at the same time the arousal her movements created beginning to mingle with the heat spreading from the red weals made by his hand. She slowed and let her body dictate its own pace, let her fingers spread her body, sliding the sodden material across it in silky waves of pleasure.
‘Ar.’ She knew the grunt of pleasure was the prelude to it but even so the stinging slap surprised her, forcing another squeal.
‘Oooh!’
‘Ar.’ He slapped her again, almost at once, and this time the shock doubled the pain.
‘Owww!’ Her fingertips were sliding across the slippery skin as her knickers became a single strand of soaking wet cotton that slipped easily aside; almost as easily as her fingers slipped between the swollen lips and slowly disappeared from sight, one knuckle, then two, until they were as deep as they would go.
Staring down on her from above, seeing it in glorious close-up, it was better than ever he’d imagined, better by miles and miles. ‘Faster!’ he ordered in a throaty wheeze, swinging his arm in a long curve that brought the flat of his hand across the firm buttock nearest him, letting the fingertip brush swiftly over the slick wetness.
The sting of the slap was one thing, but the brush of his fingers as they slapped against her own forced her hand against her body, pushing the two fingers even higher inside. She didn’t need his orders now, and she was pushing back and forth, pulling her fingers almost completely out of her body so that just the tips were there, resting lightly against the opening, holding her lips just slightly apart. Then, when she couldn’t stand it any longer, she pushed them gently inwards, spreading herself. And his hand would slap down, making her body jerk so she could feel the knuckles of her hand against the soft flesh as her fingers pushed a tiny fraction deeper, until suddenly she felt her body explode, just as the pain from her bottom seared from another slap. So she came, a loud convulsion of pleasure that forced the breath from her mouth in a long scream of release, leaving her limp and exhausted.
She was draped over the brass bed-rail, legs still apart, her firm bottom pulled taut by the pose, panties stretched in a silky-white sheen that encased her delicate pussy, revealing the wet flesh that still gripped the deeply-buried fingers, that still pulsated in climax, tensing and releasing. Never had he imagined anything quite like this. He reached out, stroking her fingers almost tenderly, feeling the oily juices on the skin of her hands, feeling the heat from her body, wriggling his own finger between her two slender ones, pushing in deeper, feeling her getting hotter and wetter the deeper he went.
She moaned, a low animal noise in her throat, and he felt her fingers slither away and out, so she could press both palms into the bed, pushing herself up until she was standing once again, gripping the brass rail, but leaning forward at the waist, pushing her bottom back towards him, pushing herself onto his finger, urging him to use her body.
He looked down to where his finger was buried, at the delicate pink flesh that was separated by its intrusion but clutched it in its welcoming grasp, wanting it inside.
‘Ar,’ he grunted quietly, and his finger plopped out. Using both hands, he pulled her panties down over her bottom, down her thighs until they were low enough for her to shake one leg free. Then he stood and leaned his waist towards her, aiming the purple-tipped shaft so it was nudging between the cheeks of her bottom, separating the puffy pink lips, pushing the glistening flesh aside and pressing easily up into the succulent wetness.
His groans and Susie’s sighs were in perfect harmony.
Standing with her feet apart, bent forward over the metal bed-frame, clutching the rails tightly, Susie marvelled at the virility of a bloke so old. He was as erect as any eighteen-year-old on his first attempt, never mind third or fourth. She locked her knees and let her hips do all the movements, rocking backwards and forwards, luxuriating in the solid girth as Groudle stirred away inside her, bringing the familiar hot flush to every part of her body.
She hadn’t recognised him, of course, any more than he’d recognised her. Over the years he’d seen lots of girls from a similar angle, but only from a distance. And only a couple of them really stood out in his memory, and as he luxuriated in the silky wetness of Susie’s body it was ironic that in his mind’s eye he should see her again, bent over a school desk, one hand between her legs. Strange that he should be thinking of her teenage form as he pushed steadily into the very same little pussy that he’d seen over and over again in his mind, and which had caused him to spurt into his hand more times than he cared to think about as he re-lived that afternoon.
Susie had no idea that he’d seen her that time, or that he was thinking of her being beaten by Miss Piggy right now, although the similarity of her position then and today had not escaped her. In fact, standing with two feet on the floor, bent over a table, an armchair or anything handy, was her favourite position still, making her more aroused beforehand and more satisfied afterwards than anything else at all.
And as she felt him swell further, felt his thrusting lengthen and deepen, she could feel an orgasm about to overwhelm her, and reached back between her legs to grasp the dangling sac, squeezing his testicles, milking them till they contracted in her hand and he sprayed inside her yet again...
‘Yer good, yer know,’ he said on the way out. ‘Dead keen. Here’s a little extra,’ and he dropped a ten-pound note on the bed, and was gone.
Crisp and straight, it was brand new.
Susie had never been paid for sex before, and she expected she ought to feel dirty... and she did. Deep down dirty as hell, as rude as a girl could feel.
Downstairs in the safety of her own flat, with the door locked and bolted, she pressed the note up between her legs, smearing it with her oily juices, and the waves of pleasure spreading through her body made up in a very small way for the disappointment at the collapse of her slaver story. He was just a pimp, and the girl was just a hooker.
No wonder she’d been squealing so much, thought Susie, as she knelt on the bed with her bum in the air, rocking against her own straight-fingered thrusts. She was being paid to have sex. It was the best sensation ever, and as she held the note to her nose and breathed in the intoxicating mixture of money and musk she too screamed as she orgasmed for the sixth and final time that day.
To Susie’s joy – and a little surprise – the editor had replied in encouraging terms to her letter, and asked her to attend an interview, with samples of her work. Now she sat in reception clutching a slim leather briefcase, hoping she looked more like a businesswoman than a student. A smart black suit – more than she could afford – a nice white blouse, heels not too high, she hoped she looked like a junior barrister; competent, clever, and self-assured. And to be fair that was pretty much the overall effect, and it was totally at odds with her innermost feelings. Sheer terror dominated, followed by anxiety and a small degree of panic. She would have been this nervous anyway, but she felt especially nervous after the collapse of her big scoop story. How would the editor take that? She’d rehearsed her explanation many times on the train, but still she knew she had messed it up; she’d gone public too soon, before checking her facts, and there were no excuses for such a basic error. And he would know at once, and probably throw her out and she’d never get a second chance and this was the biggie, the biggest-selling tabloid of them all, the place to work if you wanted to be in this sort of job, which she did, and now, and... and... oh shit!
Her stomach looped the loop again and tied itself into another, tighter knot. She desperately wanted to go to the loo, but didn’t dare ask. She had to sit there and wait, racked with trepidation. She’d been at least half a dozen times on the train, and she’d even tried to relax herself with her fingers – a natural enough reaction for Susie in times of stress, when her body was already wet and ready as the fear wormed its way into her groin as a burning glow that trickled insistently into her knickers. But today that hadn’t worked at all, and though she’d climaxed with a muffled squeal, there hadn’t been the relaxing afterglow which normally brought relaxation to her limbs and then her brain, making her feel sleepy with contentment.
‘This way, miss,’ a uniformed security man interrupted her thoughts and beckoned towards a door. This was it! No turning back. She composed herself, trying to look calm and suave, certain that she was wild-eyed with terror, that everyone could see she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. Perhaps the lift would get stuck and she’d be trapped for hours, or it would crash and they’d give her a job out of sympathy. But it didn’t, and somehow she kept walking steadily beside the security man, heels sinking into carpet that grew deeper and more expensive with every turn in the long corridor.
Each time they came to an office door her heart gave a leap and her tummy tied another knot, but each time the guard kept on going and Susie followed, the carpet so deep now that the loudest noise was her stocking-tops swishing together. When it came, there was no door; the corridor just opened into a spacious office, full of pot plants and light. A middle-aged woman who looked as if she should be shocked by the content of the newspaper she worked for rose from behind a desk.
‘Good morning, Miss Wills,’ she began, and Susie managed a tight smile of acknowledgement. Miss something-or-other was the editor’s secretary, but by now Susie was so frightened she could hardly speak, still less remember the woman’s name.
But she was able to follow her through a door that was between desk and filing cabinet, masked by a huge green fern. Not hidden or concealed, it was simply unobtrusive. The office into which it opened was large, but not unreasonably so. Miss what’s-her-name was saying something to the man behind the wide, leather-topped desk, but Susie couldn’t distinguish words. Her breathing had stopped but her heart was hammering and blood was roaring though her ears. This was him! This man, this slight, silver-haired man with piercing blue eyes and a pleasant smile was the editor! This was Mr Skase. He could change her life on the spot. And yet he mixed with pop stars and politicians, rubbed shoulders with princes and prostitutes, commanded a media empire that could wreck lives and ruin careers, and she was just a student from a provincial town with a half-baked story about a small-time prostitute and her pimp. It seemed a pathetically small hook on which to hang her future – her career.
The door clicked solidly shut and she was alone with him. She imagined he would hear her heartbeat and her racing pulse.
‘Sit down, Miss Wills.’ His voice was deep and melodic, and his manners impeccable. He guided her to a chair in front of his desk. ‘May I call you Susie? Thank you, thank you.’ He didn’t retreat behind the intimidating vastness of his desk, but pulled up a chair next to her, just a foot or two away, and regarded her with a pleasant but curious stare. He wasn’t what she’d expected; not the loud roistering macho-man she thought you would have to be in his job.
‘So you want to be a journalist?’ The question interrupted her train of thought and caught her off-guard.
‘No. I mean yes, but that is – I mean, well, I want... you see it’s... oh.’ She flustered to a halt, cursing herself.
‘There’s no need to be frightened of me,’ he soothed. ‘I promise I won’t bite. You have to work for me before I can be angry with you.’
He smiled, but she was frightened, hands trembling, butterflies on high-speed fly-past, warm treacle dampening her panties. He was still watching her, silent, waiting. She swallowed, and tried again.
‘I want to work here. And I do want to be a journalist. But here, not just anywhere.’
‘That’s good, that’s very flattering.’ He was still smiling encouragement. ‘You’ve obviously read the paper and know our subject matter?’
‘Oh yes, of course. Every week. I always get it. And the others, of course.’
‘Of course.’ He acknowledged the point with a slight inclination of his head. ‘And the fact that we carry detailed stories of a sexual nature – that doesn’t bother you at all?’
‘Oh, no. I like it – I mean I’m interested in it... the people, what makes them, oh, I’m not doing very well, am I?’
‘Don’t worry about it. I expect you’re nervous. It’s only natural.’ He patted her leg. ‘And anyway, in this office we care more about the way you write than the way you talk. I know you’ve brought some of your work with you. I was very interested in the letter you wrote. May I see?’ He glanced at her leather briefcase.
Susie’s heart lurched, her stomach knotted and her groin tightened. It was the worst possible scenario, even worse than she had imagined when she’d been conjuring up the possibilities for disaster in her mind. Everything now depended on the story – and the story was rubbish. Susie’s rehearsed explanation, word-perfect and plausible on the train, fled from her memory. In silence she handed Mr Skase the slim sheaf of paper, her story, now just about middle-class prostitution. But she’d come prepared and it was hidden beneath another story, unannounced and unexpected by the editor, a perceptive feature about group sex at university parties which she’d penned in desperation the night before.
‘Thank you.’ Instead of reading it at once, he prolonged her agony, pouring coffee, making all the pleasantries about milk and sugar, dragging out her ordeal so that all the while he smiled and chatted Susie writhed in hidden fear. When he finally settled down to read, it was worse, not better, and she sat in misery, coffee untouched, hands together in her lap, pressed against the heat rising from under her skirt.
‘Very nice, very good.’ He let the papers rest on his knee and smiled benignly.
‘You like them?’ She tried not to sound incredulous or too hopeful, but it wasn’t easy to keep her voice calm when the rest of her was seething.
‘Yes, I do. Well written, well observed, and with just the right amount of sexual content. Very good.’
Susie breathed a deep sigh of relief and her pulse steadied for the first time in forty minutes. Then he said, ‘The one you mentioned in your letter – about white slaving – it didn’t quite turn out the way you hoped?’
Her heart sank into her shoes faster than a stone dropping from the top of the Eiffel Tower.
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘Not quite.’
‘That happens. But you got a story from it anyway, and quite a nice one – well observed as I say. But not so well written as this one.’ He divided the sheaf of papers in two and waved one of them slightly. ‘This is lovely writing – facts and fucking, that’s what we like. Very realistic. Based on hearsay, was it? Or observation?’
Susie blushed.
‘It’s an important point. We sometimes have to get close to the subject. Very close. In order to be certain we print the truth. We have to see things for ourselves, not trust the descriptions given to us by other people. Sometimes we have to do things we’re not always very keen on. You’re okay with that, are you?’
‘Oh yes, fine.’ She thought she was a bit too hasty, and sounded a trifle too eager.
‘So this is first-hand reporting, factually accurate and correct?’
‘Oh yes, I wouldn’t dream of writing about something I hadn’t researched fully.’
‘Good girl,’ he murmured, looking over the papers at her. ‘Good girl.’
He knew.
Watching his face he gave no sign, nor was there the slightest change in his tone of voice. But something – maybe in his eyes – something was different for a second, and Susie knew he understood, that the girl being – fucked, that was his word for it – the girl in the story in bed with four men was her. She’d taken a few liberties with the truth, overlooking the way she’d been fooled, and telescoped the timing a little so they were all there together, and naturally made up some bits. But they were accurate enough, she knew. They described what would have happened if all four of them had been there with her at the same time, and what she would have done with four stiff erections. The memory of what she’d written aroused and embarrassed her all at once. Especially since Mr Skase knew she’d been in the same bed with four men, even if he didn’t quite know the exact details. Even if he understood that she’d enhanced parts of the story, he knew there was enough truth in it to make it real. Susie felt as if he’d peeked inside her mind, as if he’d been standing there in the same room, watching.
‘And the other one isn’t a complete waste, you know.’ He interrupted her train of thought again. ‘It’s not really a strong enough story for publication as it is, but it’s an excellent calling-card for your CV, a good indicator of your ability – especially because you did it all alone. Tell me how you went about it, how you got the confirmation.’
‘I broke into the flat where they lived,’ she said simply.
The editor raised his eyebrows, but there was no doubt from his expression that he was pleased, not disapproving, and his words confirmed it. ‘Well done,’ he murmured. ‘I imagine that took a great deal of courage? Were you frightened, at all?’
‘Terrified,’ said Susie. ‘Absolutely terrified. I thought I was going to die of fright.’
‘But you went on with it, even though you were scared?’
She remembered how frightened she’d been... but not as scared as right now, she concluded. Breaking and entering wasn’t as scary as this interview. But she didn’t say so. ‘Oh yes. I wanted to know the truth, and I thought it was worth the risk.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it. Sometimes it is necessary, perhaps even essential in this line of work, to know how to do it and have the courage to go through with it. And have the moral courage to deal with the rights and wrongs of it, too.’ He studied her for a moment or two. Then said, ‘No scruples about whether it was invasion of privacy, or whatever?’
‘No. None at all. I thought I was helping someone.’
‘But not now. You may have gone there with good intentions, but now you’re quite happy to see these two suffer for what they’re doing.’
‘Well, it is illegal.’
He nodded. ‘And when you got into their flat? What did you do?’
For the first time there was a brief hesitation before she replied. ‘Oh, I just looked around a bit. You know.’
‘But what did you see, what did you find? How did you know it was prostitution and not just entertainment?’
‘I think the conclusive bit was when a man offered me money for sex.’
‘You? A man offered you money? What man? How did he get in?’
Susie explained about the two men who caught her unawares.
‘I see. He mistook you for her then, and offered you money. Did you take it?’
‘Well, yes and no. He sort of left it behind when he went.’
‘Left it behind?’ One silver eyebrow raised inquisitively.
‘On the bed.’
There was a long pause. A very long pause. Part of her wondered how he was able to keep one eyebrow up like that for so long. The rest of her knew she would have to tell him – and that he already knew. He just wanted to make her say it. She cleared her throat. ‘As a journalist, I couldn’t write anything I didn’t know for certain was true. Could I?’
‘Quite.’ He dropped his eyebrow and his gaze, flicking through the sheets of paper in his hand. Susie looked at the floor while the editor read on, his face impassive. After a moment longer he asked, ‘How far do you think a journalist should be prepared to go in pursuit of a story?’ And once again he levelled those ice-blue eyes in her direction, making her conscious of herself and her body, so she could feel the straps of her bra on her shoulders, the light rasp of her nipples, rock-hard inside the cups, the curve of one leg against the other and the silky caress of her black stockings, the pull of her suspenders and the damp clutch of her knickers.
‘As far as is necessary,’ she replied, as firmly as she could. ‘The bigger the story and the stakes, the further you should go.’
He nodded, as if satisfied with the answer. ‘How far can you go? I mean, you personally. It’s not easy to follow something through to its conclusion, as I’m sure you already know.’ Was there a faint twitch around the mouth, or did she imagine it? ‘That kind of dedication, which we do expect from our journalistic staff, takes a good deal of personal strength and integrity. You need to be very sure of who you are, what you are, and where you’re going.’
‘I understand that. And I still think it depends on how important something is.’
‘Well, let me see. How important is this job, for example?’
She’d gone cold again, and her muscles clenched as she felt the grab of fear; Susie knew they’d reached the critical moment in the interview. ‘Very important... very,’ she said, defensively. ‘It’s what I want most in all the world.’
‘As important as any big story then?’ he asked, and after a tiny pause he let his hand rest on her knee again.
She looked down, but the hand didn’t move. She looked up, and into his eyes. ‘Of course.’
‘So you think you’re strong enough to cope with whatever circumstances might arise?’ His hand slid along her thigh as he spoke, until it was brushing the hem of her skirt.
‘Well, I... um...’ She stuttered her answer, because his hand was moving again, higher still, under her skirt, until his fingers were touching the soft skin of her thigh above her stocking-top. ‘Um, yes. Yes, of course.’
‘And keep your mind on the main objective; getting what you want from the situation?’
She couldn’t answer for a moment because she was too shocked and surprised; his hand had moved again, and his fingertips had dipped down between her thighs and were brushing the sheer black silk of her panties, very gently searching deeper and lower.
‘Like this job,’ he said quietly, and raised a single eyebrow once more.
‘Yes,’ she said carefully, and relaxed back in her seat, letting her thighs relax apart, making room between them for his hand, which slipped deeper, fingers pressing into the wet material, spreading her open through the slickness of silk and her own warm honey.
‘Good.’ His voice was still even and melodic. ‘Sometimes in this job – as you seem to have gathered already – we need to sublimate ourselves to the task in hand,’ and so saying, he wriggled his fingers around the edge of the elastic and into her panties, caressing the slippery slickness of wet flesh which opened at his touch. ‘So we must put our personal discomfort second to achieving the objective.’
‘I understand,’ she whispered, opening her legs wide to let him slide his fingers into her.
‘Yes, I think you do.’ He pushed another finger in. ‘But can you cope with the wide range of demands that might be made on you in the course of the job – if you were lucky enough to get it, of course?’ and he looked pointedly down at his groin.
His fingers were wriggling inside her and she squirmed slightly against them, legs parting still further as she reached out to place her hand over the straining bulge of a firm erection. ‘I think so, yes.’ She looked him right in the eyes. She was so wet after her ordeals of the morning, and so ready after his fingers began to move inside her that he slipped a third into her with ease.
‘Mm.’ She made a small noise of pleasure as her breath caught in her throat.
‘Not every situation ends with our reporters making their excuses and leaving,’ he told her as his fingers straightened inside her and began to slide firmly in and out.
Susie’s eyes widened and she nodded, unable to speak, as her hips began revolving in response, and breathing became difficult.
‘Sometimes we have to act the part; appear to be eager participants in things we don’t enjoy.’ He looked down at himself again. Susie had been so absorbed in what he had been doing to her that the hand she’d placed in his lap just rested there, immobile. She corrected that, unzipping him with one hand and then delving inside, quickly finding an opening into his pants and pulling out a straining erection with a purple head, which she began to massage, pulling it up and down.
‘You may even have to deal with some strange requests. Do you think you can act the part and keep your mind on the job in hand?’
This was clearly the time to act the part, although it didn’t take a great deal for her to demonstrate arousal; his fingers were still busy and there was an orgasm arriving in the not too distant future. She licked her lips, her free hand brushing across her blouse, opening the buttons, pushing the lacy black bra aside so she could squeeze a breast, rolling and pinching the nipple, sending tiny thrills of electricity into her groin, releasing yet more hot moisture that flowed onto his fingers.
‘Stand up and pull your panties down,’ he said, the tuneful note in his voice replaced by a new harshness.
Susie did as he instructed, stepping daintily out of the flimsy black silk knickers and dropping them neatly beside her chair.
‘Now turn round and lift your skirt.’ She obeyed without a word, letting him admire her long legs, sheer black stockings, suspenders, and taut bottom. She moved her feet apart deliberately, making certain he could see her neatly-trimmed little pussy peeping pinkly at him.
He patted her bottom appreciatively, lightly at first, and then a little harder. Susie felt the gentle pats begin to sting. She heard the sound of each slap just a fraction of a second after she felt the trembling flush as his fingers stung her.
‘Bend over the desk,’ he commanded, and as she obeyed she thought immediately of Miss Piggy.
‘Have you ever been spanked?’ he asked. ‘I mean, properly spanked?’
‘Yes,’ she told him, resting her hands on the warm leather of his desktop. ‘More than once.’
‘Tell me about the first time,’ he said, one hand still fondling, patting, slapping, the other firmly between her shoulders, pressing her down on the desk. Her nostrils filled with the intoxicating scent of the leather.
‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, ‘while I was at school.’ He groaned softly behind her, and she heard his belt buckle jangle, followed by the soft flop as his trousers fell to the floor. ‘I was seventeen,’ she continued, and she felt him close behind, ‘and she was my gym teacher.’ Something warm and thick spread the lips of her pussy apart and slipped easily into her.
‘Go on,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me.’
‘She caught me playing with myself during a maths lesson.’
The editor pushed firmly into her, filling her completely, his groin pressed against her bottom. Then he pulled back until he was just touching her, holding her lips apart with his bulbous tip – and smacked her firmly. Whap! Susie squealed in shock and surprise and her whole body jerked, squirming around on the end of him. Then he pressed back into her, spreading those neat little lips wide as they stretched around the base of his very thick cock.
‘What did she do?’ he asked, standing perfectly still.
‘I had to take my pants down and bend over her desk, like this.’ Her voice rose to a crescendo at the end of the sentence because he was moving as she spoke, pulling slowly backwards until there was just an inch or to of him inside her, and her pink lips clasped softly around the swollen end of him and then, whap! went the flat of his hand and, ‘Oww!’ squeaked Susie as her body quivered and slithered around the tip and it sank back into her.
‘And then?’ he asked, and she felt her body twitch around his shaft, felt the juices flowing from her as she told him. ‘I had to touch myself. Like this,’ and she reached down between her legs, fingers sliding in the wet smoothness, slipping around the thick base of his shaft where it penetrated her, feeling it slither against her hand as he eased out and her body closed around the last inch that remained inside and, whap! went his hand once more and this time her fingertips felt the tremors running through her and she squealed again. And then she moaned in sheer luxurious pleasure as he let his weight fall slowly forward, easing himself into her, spreading her fingers apart around his thickness as he spread her body open as well.
‘What next?’ he asked, motionless.
Her fingers, greasy with her own juices, felt him begin sliding outwards as she spoke. ‘She caned me till I came,’ she whispered quietly, and this time there was no slap, just a jerking spasm against her hand and in her pussy as the editor did the same, spraying burst after burst of hot fluids inside her as his hips pumped and the rapid thrusts almost brought her a climax of her own – but not quite.
Her hips were still circling, but he was shrinking inside her, and she felt his weight begin to lift as he started slipping out of her and she plunged two fingers in to replace him, giving her that fulfilling sensation of being spread and solidly filled. And as Mr Skase looked down and saw her pink lips shining wetly and the oily fingers stabbing in and out, he slapped her buttocks, one flat hand that landed with a sting and sent a quivering tremor through the surrounding flesh, a tremor which sent her tumbling over the precipice into her climax, so the sharp squeal of shock turned to a long moan of ecstasy.
She lay collapsed across the desk for some moments, chest heaving as she gasped for air, fingers still buried to the hilt. With the other hand Susie pushed herself upright, rolling around so she sat back on the edge of the desk, facing the editor, once again neatly dressed, his designer suit perfectly buttoned and correct. In contrast, Susie’s blonde hair was tousled, her blouse hung open so one nipple jutted proudly from within, her skirt was bunched around her waist, her thighs wide and her little pussy lips glistening with an oily sheen where they separated to enclose two elegant fingers. Watching his face as carefully as he was watching her groin, she eased them out with a squelch and raised them to her pouting lips, licking the juices as if her fingers were a lollipop. Then her mouth opened wide and she swallowed her fingers, lips closing around the base of them. As she pulled them free Mr Skase coughed and straightened his tie.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Do I get the job?’