Sarah Thomas was a boxer. At the age of twenty, with glorious long blonde hair and a pair of breasts you could park a mini on, you would have taken her for a model or a dancer, but the truth was that her profession was beating other young women up - all her female colleagues in the boxing game, that is. A lithe and limber lioness, she took on all challengers at the gym, her head hidden inside a padded helmet, her strong but slender body gleaming with perspiration as she spun and jabbed and hit. At the end of her third consecutive year in the amateur league, Sarah was getting ready to fight her first professional match for a major purse, and she was to fight a man. It happened like this...
Sarah’s new gym, which she joined as she moved up in the ring, was attended mostly by men. This was not unusual. With the exception of the first youth club where she learned to box, and the girls had their own allotted nights to themselves, all the gyms she ever trained in were mostly full of men. Joining was not difficult, as most facilities came equipped with a girls’ loo somewhere on the premises, and that was where she changed into her workout clothes in comfortable privacy. Her post-workout shower was more of a problem. The men didn’t like it if she accidentally caught a glimpse of their limp cocks when she entered after a shouted warning, and they especially resented having to let her have the shower room all to herself. If somebody tried to get a peek at her, or cop-a-feel as she walked by, she knew from experience that a professional punch in the mouth, delivered with all the force of an indignant twenty-year-old who hit fifty-pound bags for a living, usually left a bruise the size of a small cauliflower and earned her a muttered apology, after which the unfortunate sod never troubled her again.
As for the looks she got, frankly, she enjoyed those. There was power in being the only girl wrapped in a towel, or dressed in skimpy shorts and a vest, walking through a gym full of sweating men reeking of testosterone. There was power in knowing that not one of them would have the nerve to raise a hand, let alone a penis, in her direction, not after the first one who tried got a black eye for his trouble.
Of course, they didn’t like her. They glanced at her toned assets as she showered, and then skittered back all wet and clean and smelling of perfumed soap, to the ladies’ bathroom to dress, with a mixture of irritation and barely controlled lust.
Looking back, it was only a matter of time before she ran into someone like Robbie Carlton. He was a champion in decline, but a champion nonetheless. She vaguely remembered some fight she had seen him in on television when she was a girl, during the upward swing of his career, where he’d beaten some poor skinny rival within an inch of his life. All by the rules, of course; if they don’t quit, they have to be hit until they fall down. She had never followed his career, as such, but she remembered him well enough to recognise his face when she entered the new gym she was promoted to when she left the amateurs and moved to London. He had a streak of grey in his sideburns that gave the impression a flame had singed his tight curls, and there were faint bags under his eyes, but his body was as firm and muscled as it had been when he was twenty, and she recognised the look in his eyes immediately.
They were the weary eyes of someone who has killed people in the ring.
She saw him when she was sauntering through the gym in her vest and shorts for the first time. He looked up from lacing his boots when an uncanny silence fell over the large room as nearly all the men fighting and exercising stopped what they were doing to watch her. She nodded at him, and he said in a loud voice, ‘What will they let in here next, bloody boxing cats?’
There was a roar of derisive male laughter, and she bit her lip.
Later, in the shower, she took her time washing her hair, and no one bothered her. For once she didn’t have to hit anyone to secure her privacy. On her way to the ladies’ room wrapped in her towel, she saw that most of the men were still out on the floor, including Robbie Carlton, who was busy taping up his hands. She paused for a moment, a few feet away from him where he stood at his locker, and then she slowly walked right by him.
Water dripped from her bare thighs, and her breasts were swelling dangerously out of the towel she had wrapped tightly around herself, so that only her hands holding it up covered the rosy half-moons of her nipples. ‘At least the cat can still bite,’ she said loudly enough for everyone to hear. ‘At least the cat can still move.’
There was a shocked intake of breath all around as Carlton looked up from taping his hand at her lovely and determined face. His copper-coloured eyes stared right through her and sent a hot thrill down her spine that sparked a debilitating warmth in her pussy, which tightened deliciously as his mouth hardened angrily. Then it was war.
Two days later she found a note in her letterbox from the gym membership board. Her request for guest membership was denied. Her fee would be returned to her by cheque under separate cover the following week. Other members have complained, the letter said. Significant and important voices in the club raised fierce objections to your presence.
When she walked back out into the gym that afternoon, Robbie was there, standing amongst a group of men, and this time he was in the process of pulling off his shirt. He was some six feet tall and built of steel. She walked right up to him in her short skirt, high-heels and low-cut blouse, and she felt strangely naked when he looked her straight in the eye. She thrust the note towards him. ‘Are you the significant voice?’ she demanded.
He folded his shirt very neatly before he looked at her again. ‘Girls can’t box very well,’ he replied. ‘In fact, they’re no good at it.’
‘Oh, really, what are we good at?’ she snapped, balling her hands into fists and crumpling the offending note in the process.
‘Fucking, sometimes,’ he replied in a husky, insulting voice, ‘although in your case I might make an exception.’
‘You...!’ but she couldn’t think of a scathing enough insult to hurl at him. She wanted to beat her fists against his rock-hard chest and smash his arrogant nose. ‘You couldn’t beat a girl!’ she said finally. ‘You couldn’t hit your way through the little silver handbag I take dancing!’
‘Why should I? I don’t need a fist to put you down, love. You need another part of me altogether.’
The men gathered around him laughed.
Sarah blushed red as she furiously raised a fist.
‘Be careful with that,’ he said, smiling, ‘you might hit something.’
‘I’ll beat you!’ she challenged. ‘Five rounds. Any purse you like!’ She didn’t have the money, but she didn’t care.
A sober silence descended on the amused crowd. Betting on a fight was illegal, and cross-gender boxing was not permitted, even privately, in a federation gym.
‘I’d have to have something other than money,’ Carlton said quietly.
‘If you want me to leave, you have to box me,’ she insisted, ‘and I’ll give you any prize you want if you win.’
A few men laughed appreciatively at her promise as Robbie Carlton put down his shirt and reached out to caress one of her cheeks with a large hand.
She flinched away from him automatically, and then her blush deepened as she heard him accepting her challenge. Even more furious now, she dashed out of the gym to the ladies’ room to change followed by the men’s humiliating laughter.
The purse, it was decided, would be five-thousand pounds; a figure arrived at when each of the men present pledged a hundred pounds to fill the pot. Sarah said she would cover it when she stood in her vest and shorts, her breasts hanging free inside the baggy top, not taped up as they would be if she had come prepared for a match with another woman. She had thrown shadow-punches at the wall and done knee bends in the loo, glancing at herself in the mirror. The shorts hugged her bottom as she bent and straightened, bent and straightened, and despite herself, she found herself admiring how good she looked in her skimpy fighting outfit. Then she entered the gym determined to knock this guy down. He would lust after her when he saw her, he would long to be inside her shorts, and it made her happy knowing he wanted to fuck her. It would make putting him away even more of a pleasure.
She stood in the ring with men all around her. They had locked the front door of the gym to keep anyone from entering during the illegal contest. She felt all their eyes on her body, on her breasts, round and firm inside her vest but jiggling softly as she stepped this way and that to warm up. She felt the deepening waves of lust flowing through the ropes protecting her. Then Rob walked into the gym, his chest gleaming with sweat, indicating he had warmed up in the changing room.
It pleased her to see that he at least took her seriously, and a cry went up from the men as he climbed into the ring with her.
He was looking at her breasts as the first bell sounded, and he came slowly towards her in the classic stance, arms bent, fists held up in front of his face. His eyes, cold and appraising, lingered on her bosom before finally settling on her face. Then he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, ‘Why don’t you take that vest off, girl?’
She hit a right and he wasn’t expecting it; her glove connected with the left side of his jaw like a brick. He flinched slightly, but then shook her blow off as easily as a cold drop of rain and came back at her with a left. She ducked and dodged him, which led her smack into the upper-cut of his powerful right.
His first punch stunned her; she had never been hit with such force before. Women simply did not have the weight of a six-foot tall, middle-weight man of forty. She found her vision swimming, and half her face went numb for a few seconds.
‘Kiss that away?’ he offered, dancing around her as she tried backing away from him. She took care not to stay still long enough for him to hit her again.
They danced for what felt like hours. It was merely minutes, but the music of the groaning canvas, of the men murmuring amongst themselves, the hiss of leather just missing as he swung and she ducked, the smack as she got him in the side, the stomach, the ears and the head, made it all seem to last for days. She kept hitting him in the stomach when his guard was up, and finally she landed a good one on his chin. She got him good right beneath the jaw, and he went down like a ten-ton sack of potatoes.
There was a collective gasp as he lay there at her feet like a beached whale. She stood her ground, one of his gloves resting near her ankles. There was no referee, no one to stop the fight. She would hit him until he stopped getting up!
He whispered something and she lowered her head, trying to make out what he was saying. Finally, she sank down on one knee beside him.
‘I can see up your shorts,’ he said. ‘I like a natural blonde.’
Despite everything she felt herself smiling deep inside, and she realised she liked him looking at her pussy. She sprang to her feet again as if a snake had bitten her. ‘Get him on his feet!’ she demanded. ‘If he can’t fight, he doesn’t belong in here!’
Robbie pushed himself up onto one knee, and then rose slowly, smiling at her a little groggily, but he was steady on his feet. The bastard had been fooling her.
She wound her fist up for a bigger punch, and when he caught her instead it came as a total shock. A brush to the left with his low right, which she had easily dodged, turned out to be a set-up for his left hook. He caught her square on the jaw and sent her sprawling onto her back. When she opened her eyes a moment later she saw him looming over her as she struggled to clear her head. She could see up his shorts now. His cock was huge, and more than just a little hard. She could see its head reddening as it stared down at her, and thought he wants to fuck me! He wants to fuck me after he beats me! And she was glad. Then she felt her eyes closing again...
A splash of cold water immediately brought her round. All the men were still there; she couldn’t have been out more than a minute or two. She felt her nipples sticking up like pine cones against her wet T-shirt and felt as good as naked. Robbie was still standing over her, and his prick was noticeably harder. He also didn’t seem to mind that she was peering up at it.
‘You said any prize,’ he reminded her. ‘Take off your vest.’
She let the full implication of his request sink in before she asked, ‘Here?’
‘Any prize,’ he repeated, ‘means any place. Take it off.’
Sarah began to sit up with the intention of making a run for it, but he put one boot gently against her shoulder and pushed her back down. ‘Don’t bother getting up off your back,’ he said, ‘just raise your arms.’
Blushing as fiercely as she ever had in her life, Sarah lifted her arms so Robbie Carlton could pull her vest off and expose her breasts to all the men gathered around the ring just inches from her bared flesh.
‘And now the shorts,’ he said.
‘Do I have to?’ she asked, but she knew the answer as he slapped his gloves together impatiently. She didn’t even try getting up again. Instead she rolled over, rose to her knees, and quickly shoved her shorts down as her head spun from the sudden movement and forced her to lean forward on her arms. To her horror, this position thrust her bare bottom up towards her opponent as she knelt on all fours between his feet. And there she stayed, with her shorts around her knees in a gym full of men in the middle of a boxing ring, her forehead down on the deck waiting for Robbie Carlton to do whatever he wanted to her.
There was a murmur of anticipation from the men. ‘Come on, Robbie,’ one of them urged, ‘get stuck in and fuck her brains out!’
‘Don’t you boys know anything about preparation?’ his deep voice growled, and then she heard the hiss of laces as he untied his boxing gloves and pulled them off. Then he rested one of his bare hands on her bottom. ‘Do you admit you were wrong?’ he asked her evenly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she breathed, aching to be fully conquered by him.
‘What will you give to make it up to me?’
‘I... I’m showing you everything now,’ she whispered. ‘What more do you want?’
‘Pull your cheeks apart for me,’ he said harshly.
‘What?!’
‘Pull your cheeks apart.’
She had expected him to shame her, but not like this; this was too humiliating by far. Biting her lip, she reached behind her with gloved hands, and struggled to pull open the cheeks of her bottom. She could almost literally feel the eyes of all the men standing around the ring on her intimate little rosebud, and also on the soft, wet lips of her pussy, puffed and hungry for Robbie, visible through the gap between her slim thighs.
‘That’s nice,’ Robbie said, ‘now beg me to fuck your arse.’
‘I’m sorry?!’ she gasped.
‘Beg me to fuck your arse. You said I could have anything.’
‘No, I’m sorry I challenged you!’ she sobbed. ‘I’m sorry!’
‘Beg,’ he insisted.
‘Go on then - fuck my arse,’ she cried. ‘Fuck me!’
‘What do you think, lads?’ Robbie asked, his hands casually caressing and squeezing her firm yet yieldingly soft buttocks.
‘You should oblige the little one,’ one of the men answered.
‘Well, maybe I will,’ Robbie agreed, ‘but I don’t think she deserves that yet. She wants it too much. Maybe a little smack or two on her other cheeks will make her see some sense.’ And to the great delight of the assembled fighters, and to Sarah’s disbelief and mortification, Robbie Carlton began spanking her with resounding smacks. A murmur of appreciation rose up from the men as his great palm made contact with her bottom, making her cheeks quiver and burn with a pain that sent sweet hot flashes of desire through her pussy. She wriggled her bottom provocatively, not caring any more who saw it. She didn’t care how he fucked her now, she just wanted him to fuck her, and fuck her hard.
He spanked her for a full fifteen minutes as the men counted his blows in one great loud voice. ‘Twenty-seven! Twenty-eight...! Go on, make it the thirty, Rob!’ And then - Sarah wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed - he pulled her to her feet, lifted her out of the ring, and pushed her ahead of him into the relative privacy of the changing room.
‘A man’s got to have peace and quiet to do his best work, lads,’ he called out, and they groaned their disappointment but did not dare follow.
And in the quiet cool of the changing room, Sarah sank to her knees again before the powerful form of Robbie Carlton as he pulled his shorts down, and his erection sprang straight out into her eager mouth. She nearly choked on his cock it was so big, but he slowly fed it to her as she struggled to take it all the way down into her throat to accommodate him, to let him go as deep as he wanted to. Then she released it and turned around, and kneeling on all fours again, offered him the soft, taut cheeks of her buttocks.
‘Do you still want to?’ she asked throatily. ‘Do you still want to fuck my arse? I’ll let you do whatever you want! You can have me however you want me!’ And Robbie Carlton, champion of her youth and of her own making, promptly began pushing his long, thick dick into her bottom.
He fucked her and fucked her, thrusting and pumping his relentless erection into her tight rear passage, until she came with a scream that could easily be heard by the men ranked outside the changing room door chanting, ‘Champion! Champion! Champion!’
Vanessa was an estate agent’s assistant whose body was her chief asset. She had full breasts that made one want to throw her onto her back to watch them spread, and her buttocks were so delightful that heads turned all the way up and down the street whenever she went to show a property. And at the moment, those gorgeous breasts were swaying gently back and forth as she leaned over her boss’ face, estate agent Martin Croupe. His mouth was suckling her hard nipples and making her moan as she rode up and down on his cock, lodged deep inside her succulent sex.
‘Not bad,’ he said as she lifted herself off him, holding the cigarette he had lit and then passed from his lips to hers. She lay down on her back, and watched with some interest as her large brown aureoles sank back down into the creamy round spheres of her breasts. He traced a finger beneath her high cheekbone, and gently wrapped her hair behind her ear. ‘You’re getting better as a lay,’ he went on, ‘but you’re still thick as shit when it comes to selling houses.’ He got out of bed and started pulling on his suit trousers.
She coughed, ‘What?’ choking on a mouthful of smoke. Suddenly she felt compelled to cover her breasts and pulled the sheet up over them.
‘I’m sorry, love.’ He reached down, plucked the cigarette out from between her fingers, and took a drag. ‘You’re just not working out. Nice little pussy and all, but frankly,’ he looked her up and down in a way that made her feel cheap as used oil, ‘the arse isn’t worth what we’re paying you.’ And with that, he turned away and slipped on his jacket.
‘But Martin,’ wrapping the sheet around herself, she leapt out of bed and ran after him as he headed for the door, ‘I’m just... I mean, I’m just...’
‘What?’ He turned back to face her, his hand on the doorknob.
‘I need the job,’ she said desperately, tears rising into her eyes; this was so horribly unexpected.
‘Yeah, well, we all need things,’ he said, and turned away again.
‘No, I really, really need this job, Martin!’ The air in the little apartment was almost cold - the heat hadn’t been turned on before he brought her here to fuck her - and despite her distress, she felt her nipples stiffening again beneath the sheet.
‘How badly do you need it?’ he asked, looking at her in a strange way.
She felt an anxious tightening in her tummy. ‘Very badly,’ she admitted, her mouth dry. She had known she shouldn’t go to bed with her boss, but she had been afraid he would sack her if she didn’t, and she was sure that after he fucked her, he would want to keep her around...
‘Go back to bed,’ he said.
‘All right,’ she replied submissively.
‘I’ll keep this.’ He yanked the sheet off her, leaving her naked in the cold passageway. Even though he had been inside her only five minutes ago, the way he looked at her as he left made Vanessa blush.
There was a sound in the corridor just outside the bedroom where Vanessa lay. It sounded like some kind of motor, or perhaps a fan, had been switched on. She couldn’t be sure because she couldn’t see. She was blindfolded. And she couldn’t go out to investigate the sound because she was handcuffed to the bed, face down.
Vanessa was lying bound and blindfolded and completely naked in an empty apartment up for rent. There was nothing in it except for the bed upon which she lay spread-eagled and handcuffed to the brass bedstead. The bedstead and bed were a trademark of Martin’s agency. ‘Give them the feeling they can fuck there,’ he always said, ‘and they’ll pay twice the going market rent.’ Which was why Vanessa was not surprised to find the bed in the apartment when he first took her there, or to find herself energetically fucking him on it a few minutes later. Now, however, she did wonder where he had got to, and why. Before he left, slamming the door behind him, he had turned on the heat, because it was warmer in the room. She pulled against her bonds. Why would he want the place warm now after he had fucked her? Yet she could not really concentrate on the question, because being tied up made her horny as sin and all she wanted was for him to come back and fuck her again.
She heard the front door open; a lock disengaged, and footsteps sounded down the hall.
‘Martin?’ she called, but there was only silence.
‘Don’t be a sod!’ she cried. ‘Say something!’
‘The south exposure is quite grand,’ she finally heard his voice commenting as he approached the bedroom and opened the door, which creaked slightly on its hinges. And then she heard the soft, gentle scuffing of another set of footsteps. Or was it two more sets? ‘You’ll find, gentlemen, that this flat offers opportunities most apartments do not.’
Yes, there were two more sets of footsteps! Vanessa blushed like a peach in late summer when she realised he had men with him, two men! She was sure of it now; she could smell aftershave that definitely wasn’t his.
‘Very nice, isn’t it?’ Martin’s voice continued pleasantly. She could feel him standing over her now, which meant he could see right up into her body. She writhed against the mattress and pulled desperately on the ropes holding her legs open. There were two other men with him, and for all she knew, they were standing on either side of him enjoying an unimpeded view of her most intimate places. And suddenly, she felt a hand trace the lines of one of her shapely buttocks.
‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘Martin, you bastard, cover me up.’
The hand came down hard on her bottom with a ringing smack that sounded incredibly loud in the empty room.
‘Ouch!’ she exclaimed, more in surprise than in pain.
‘The fittings and fixtures are most flexible,’ Martin went on as though he couldn’t hear her. Maddeningly, he was giving his usual pitch even as she felt a hand creeping up between her thighs again. She had no way of knowing if it was his hand, but she didn’t want him to spank her again, so even though she writhed against the bed and pulled on her bonds, she didn’t say anything as he kept on selling. ‘You’ll find all the original decorations, no renovations have been necessary.’ The hand had reached her buttocks and was massaging one of her cheeks, making her yelp it squeezed so hard. Then she felt it rise off her before it came down again even harder.
‘Oh, my God!’ she gasped. ‘What was that for?’
‘Offer yourself up, bitch,’ Martin addressed her suddenly. ‘Don’t you want to sell? Push your arse up.’
‘Are you crazy? I’m not...’
‘Push your arse up or I’ll fuck you right here in front of these two gentlemen, and then you still won’t have a job.’
Gritting her teeth, Vanessa found herself pushing her bottom up towards the punishing hand. At least she knew it was his hand now. But for how long? He had just told her there were two other men in the room, she just didn’t know where they were standing, or what they were thinking.
‘Does she do tricks?’ a deep, foreign voice inquired. She tried, but she couldn’t place the accent.
‘Sure, anything you like,’ Martin replied.
‘Now, wait a minute!’ she shrieked. ‘I’m not...’
‘Shut up and open your mouth,’ Martin commanded.
‘Now wait just a minute!’ she tried desperately.
‘Keep your mouth nice and wide open, Vanessa. This is a sales job, remember.’
‘I’m not a bloody tart! I...!’ She cried out in real pain this time as something thin and flat and hard cut into her buttocks with a hiss and a crack. A riding crop? It struck her again, but this time her scream was cut off as her mouth was filled with a stiff penis. She choked a little as its owner drove it into the back of her throat and started fucking her, moving back and forth between her lips while her head was held in place by his fingers gripping her hair. She started to feel light-headed as the cock used her face like a pussy and fucked and fucked and fucked her mouth until it finally exploded, and forced her to swallow mouthful after mouthful of hot sperm surging from the balls of some strange man she couldn’t even see.
Vanessa gasped for air when the blindfold was pulled off, and she lay panting on the bed after the thankfully spent erection slipped out of her mouth. The light hurt her eyes at first, then her blurred vision focused, and glancing over her shoulder, she saw Martin standing in his coat just behind her. To her right, a man in a beige suit was zipping up his fly. Another man, wearing a grey charcoal morning coat, was standing beside Martin directly behind her - right between her open legs - and he was holding a small vial. Both the strangers were black, a very deep black like ebony. She blinked in an effort to clear her head as she looked back at Martin again. ‘You bastard,’ she hissed.
‘Don’t worry, sweetie, you’re not finished yet,’ he said condescendingly, nodded, and the man in the coat approached the bed as he opened the vial in his hand.
‘No, Martin, no,’ she panted. ‘I’m not...’
‘Do you want a job?’ he asked in a maddeningly reasonable tone.
‘No, I don’t...’ she spat, before adding, ‘what’s he doing?’
The man in the morning coat squeezed some white liquid onto his palm as he knelt between her legs at the end of the mattress. She felt his fingers slip between the cheeks of her bottom, and then one of them slipped into her anus and very efficiently lubricated her tight back passage with the cool, greasy ointment.
‘No,’ she murmured. ‘Martin, don’t let him do this to me. I’m not...’
‘What aren’t you?’ He had lit a cigarette and was leaning back against the wall, watching as the man finished greasing her rear hole, knelt up, and began undoing his trousers.
‘I’m not for sale,’ Vanessa sobbed into the pillow. ‘I’m not for sale...’
‘But it looks to me like you can be rented,’ Martin said.
She shook her head as the second man, now free of his trousers and boxer shorts, crawled towards her on the bed, his long brown cock fully erect. He spread himself on top of her, and gently kissed the soft curls at the nape of her neck as his heavy body pressed her down into the mattress. Then he reached down to part her cheeks, and began thrusting his penis slowly, insistently and inexorably into her bottom...
As she lay quietly, her flushed cheek on the pillow, Martin came back into the room holding the contract he had just signed with the two clients before they left, along with a cheque. He waved it back and forth in her face. ‘Maybe you have a future in this business after all,’ he said, sitting down beside her on the bed.
‘That was terrible,’ she said flatly. ‘Terrible.’
‘What was terrible?’ he mocked. ‘The fact that they were foreigners? That your arse is too tight?’
‘I’m not a whore,’ she complained. ‘I’m a professional woman. I can do the job. I can sell. You didn’t have to let them have my body.’
‘Well, sweetie,’ Martin pulled his tie loose, ‘it’s like this. I didn’t really let them have your body, I simply renegotiated the fixtures. You want to sell, don’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
He undid the top button of his shirt. ‘You’re the agent of record on this letting. The commission is yours. You’ll be collecting, of course.’ He kicked off his shoes.
‘I get commission?’
‘Yes, you’re the commission agent. You get all the money. But you have to come and collect it every month from them.’ He took off his jacket.
‘You mean, I’ll have to...?’
‘I expect you will, my dear, I expect you will. Still, it’s a nice big letting, and I’m sure you want to keep your job.’ He took off his trousers.
‘You expect to fuck me again now?’ she whispered. ‘You treat me like a whore, and then you want to fuck me again? Let me up. Please, untie me. Let me up.’
‘Can’t do that.’ He folded his trousers neatly, and hung them over the brass bedstead.
‘Let me up,’ she cried.
‘No. You see, the cheque hasn’t cleared yet, so I can’t be sure they’ll honour the contract. A letting isn’t a letting until the money clears, I’m sure you’ll agree. So, I have to show the property again in half an hour.’
Vanessa’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You mean...?’
‘Yes, two Japanese gentlemen. Lovely chaps. Well, they sounded lovely on the phone. Anyway, they haven’t got anything you haven’t had before, an old professional like you. You do whatever it takes to get the job done, don’t you?’
She felt the blood rushing to her face again, and suddenly she suffered the impression that she would be tied to that bed for the rest of her life.
‘Aren’t you a professional, Vanessa?’
‘I just wanted to keep my job,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Didn’t you sleep with me to keep the job?’
‘Maybe...’
‘Well, do it once, and you may as well do it a thousand times. Which you may very well have to, if you want to keep working for me. A lot of beds in a lot of short-term lets. But the money’s good. You can’t really sell your arse more than once, my love. Only once, over and over, a thousand times. A million times. But it’s a lovely pair of cheeks you have, and I’m sure you’ll love the closings. Speaking of which, we only have twenty minutes, so push your bum up for me. Can’t very well have the clients getting better service from my staff than I get myself.’
Vanessa felt her tears dry on her face as he kissed the back of her neck like the second man had done. She turned her face to look at him, and found his cock next to her mouth. She knew she had to suck it, and she did, until he pulled it out of her mouth, slick with her saliva, and thrust it without any further lubrication into her bottom, and she begged him to go slowly.
‘All right, anything Vanessa wants,’ he whispered into her ear, and ploughed his erection into her from behind over and over again. Yet she still found herself writhing against the mattress in the throes of a blinding climax as he penetrated her deeply and inescapably, and she listened for footsteps on the stairway outside announcing more clients coming to rent her body.
My husband likes me to play cards with his friends. He likes me to play strip poker with his friends. It all began quite innocently. The game was a regular event. The guys would drop by the house on Thursday or Friday night and play a few hands, just my husband and three of his bowling buddies - Frank, Eddie and Mike. My husband, Billy, is a sociable guy, he likes hanging out with the boys, and who was I to object if he brought them home once a week; at least it meant he was home.
One night I was bringing them some snacks - little frankfurters on sticks and potato chips and dip - like I usually did, it was only hospitable. Billy used to like showing me off to his buddies before we got married, so I thought the least I could do was help him out when he entertained them. I wore a short dress every now and then, I won’t deny it. Hell, I’m entitled to a little excitement, same as the next girl.
Well, on this particular night, Billy was losing badly. He loved playing cards but they never seemed to like him, especially the aces, if you know what I mean. He was holding on to nothing while Frank seemed to be picking up all the good cards. Frank had always liked me, and his eyes lingered openly on me when I was in the room. Frank had money; whenever we went out as a gang, Frank never was short of change to buy the rounds. And he always dressed well, not like Billy’s other friends. Now that he and Billy were gambling together regularly, Frank was picking up ten, twenty notes a night from him, and they were notes my dear husband couldn’t afford.
On the night I’m talking about, as I was bringing in the tray of frankfurters, Bill was cursing the latest of his worthless hands. Meanwhile, smiling in satisfaction at his own spread, Frank gave me a long, leisurely look, his eyes lingering on my cleavage - well-displayed by my tight black sweater’s deep V-neck - as I bent to kiss Billy’s neck. I was wearing a matching short black skirt and black pantyhose with high-heels, and I deliberately hadn’t bothered with a bra.
‘Bill, how about I cut you a break on those expensive hands you keep playing?’ Frank offered as he reached over and speared a frankfurter off the tray from directly beneath my bosom.
‘What you talking about, Frank?’ Billy sounded tired, and he barely seemed to notice when I kissed him. He was studying his cards and rubbing his face.
‘Well, how about we widen the betting frame?’ Frank’s voice sounded strangely dreamy, distant, dangerous. I don’t know why, but that’s the feeling I got when I looked at his inscrutable smile.
‘What terms?’ Bill asked, throwing out a card. It was the wrong one, even I could have told him that, but he never listens to me. He glanced up at Frank, wiping sweat off his brow. The other two men were listening intently, which in retrospect leads me to suspect they had talked this out between them beforehand.
‘Well,’ Frank went on, ‘the way I see it, you’re down fifteen-hundred already tonight. That makes nearly five-thousand you’ve dropped this month, and it’s only the third game of the month. You got that kind of money, Billy?’
‘Don’t worry about my kind of money,’ my husband said, slipping his arm around my waist and resting his hand on my bottom. He always did that whenever his manhood was challenged.
‘Well, don’t you have any other kind of assets you could show?’ Frank riffled his cards gently with one hand.
‘Like what?’ Billy sounded curious now.
‘Like what your hand’s on,’ Frank replied, his smile deepening. Mike chuckled, and Eddie cleared his throat as he shifted a little in his chair. The three of them had talked it over beforehand, I’m sure of it. I wore short skirts around them, yes, but I hadn’t asked for this. Billy will tell you I never asked for this. At the time I wasn’t exactly sure for a moment what Frank meant, but Billy knew straight off. I saw a blush creeping up his neck and looked at him in surprise. I had just grasped what Frank was implying and had been about to laugh it off until I saw Billy, my Billy, blushing. Why should he be blushing unless he’d had some thoughts along these lines himself? I was beside myself when I suddenly realised my husband had considered betting me in poker, but before I could react, I heard him ask, ‘You thinking a hundred dollars a garment?’
‘Well,’ Frank said, ‘a garment per pot, or if it gets bigger, I guess a garment for every hundred dollars, sure. You guys interested enough in seeing Fanny’s goods to spot Bill a hundred a garment, boys?’
Eddie and Mike both grunted in agreement, careful not to look at me.
‘Now wait a goddamned minute,’ I said, slapping Billy’s hand off me. ‘You’re not talking about me like I’m not in the goddamned room, are you? This is my parlour.’
‘It’s an eat-in kitchen,’ Billy corrected me, ‘and you always say we can’t afford what I’m losing.’
‘So stop losing!’ I felt myself blushing to the roots of my hair, but I do believe the truth is that I found it all very exciting and that’s why I sounded so angry. ‘You don’t have to keep playing, Billy.’ I was aware of the fact that Frank’s eyes never left my breasts, in fact, the feel of them resting on my cleavage just got warmer and warmer. I folded my arms across my chest.
‘It’s not quite as simple as that, Fanny.’ Frank reached across the table and speared another frankfurter. ‘Billy’s been losing pretty regularly lately, and when I ask - that is, when Eddie, Mike and me ask - if he can afford that kind of money, we’re not referring to whether or not he can afford to lose what he hasn’t lost yet, it’s whether he can afford to pay what he already owes.’
‘You mean...?’
‘Oh yes,’ Frank said, biting the sausage off the toothpick and then twirling the stick around and around between his fingers. ‘He owes way more than what’s been going out of your account. What he’s been dropping on the table in front of you is nothing. We’ve been gambling on Tuesday nights too, and sometimes Wednesday nights, every time he told you he was at work.’
I sat down in the empty chair beside Billy’s, my head spinning. I couldn’t think, but I knew I was playing this game whether I held the cards in my hand or not, and I could feel my face getting redder and warmer. Then, his eyes meeting mine, Frank laughed softly and put his cards down.
First, Billy bet a two pair and an ace against what turned out to be the straight flush in Eddie’s hand, at which point I slipped off my high-heels.
‘Come on,’ Eddie frowned, wanted me to take more off than just my shoes, but I ignored him and Frank waved him quiet. Billy wouldn’t look at me as he bet a two of diamonds next and an ace backed by a king, but Mike easily beat that, and my skirt came off. I was still wearing more than I would normally wear at the beach, except that they had me get up on a chair to strip. With my back to them, I pulled my skirt up my thighs, unzipped it, and stepped out of it while thrusting my bottom over the table for all of them to see. I was glad I was wearing pantyhose and not the garter-belt Billy normally likes me to wear. The way I see it, they were getting enough for their money, I didn’t need to provide any extras.
I was starting to tear up a little, and I sniffled as I sat back down. I knew what was coming off next, and Billy still wouldn’t look at me. His friends were definitely looking though, looking hard and smiling smugly.
Then my husband lost again. I forget what cards he played, and I wouldn’t look at anyone, just sat in my chair and swallowed. Finally I grasped the hem of my sweater with both hands and slid forward as far as I could in an effort to hide behind the table as I pulled the black folds up to just below my chest, and took a deep breath. The men were staring at my belly, what they could see of it over the table, and piling up their money. I closed my eyes, and pulled the sweater up over my face. I could feel their stares warming up the cool air as it hit my naked breasts, which swayed enticingly as they came free of the tight sweater. My nipples were getting stiff, and I wasn’t sure if it was because it was chilly in the room or if it was because I could seem to feel all their hot breaths on them. I kept the sweater over my face like a veil as I felt their lust like the ghost of a caress on my flesh that made he shiver.
‘Let’s see your face, too,’ I heard Frank say through the soft cotton folds. ‘We get that for free.’
I blinked against the light from the lamp as I pulled my sweater off all the way, and sat topless before them. Then there came the last hand, or the next to last hand. Mike and Eddie had both folded by then, so it was just Frank and Billy. My husband drew a card, then another one, and another one as Frank just kept smiling. He didn’t care about the money. He kept putting out another card, and winking at me as he turned his eyes down towards the table as if he could see through it. He called, finally, the last card was revealed, and Billy lost just like I knew he would. Yet I knew he had been fighting to salvage the last shreds of my dignity. I think he had liked the idea of my getting naked in front of his friends much more than the actual event. But now he had lost, and I had to strip completely.
‘Come on, honey,’ Frank said softly, ‘don’t be shy. Come out from behind the table.’
‘And what if I don’t?’ I asked defiantly.
‘What do you mean?’ Billy beat Frank to the question, eagerly hoping I could find a way out of this for us.
‘What if you play another hand?’ I asked.
‘What else you got to offer?’ Frank’s smile never wavered.
‘I wouldn’t get up from behind this table,’ I said.
‘You’ve got to get up,’ Billy said, looking worried.
‘I don’t have to get up from behind this table,’ I said, clenching my hands in my lap. ‘I won’t get up from it and take my panties off for you three lechers, but...’ I looked into Frank’s eyes. ‘I could get down under it...’
‘What are you talking about?’ My husband looked pale.
Frank’s smile vanished as his stare became penetratingly intense.
‘Another hand,’ I said, ‘and you better win, Billy, because I’m going to get under this table and blow whoever wins the next hand. Double or quits for the money, Frank.’
Frank nodded. Billy had his head in his hands. I sank down even further in my chair and tried to make like I was as brave as I sounded. I just knew I wasn’t about to show my bare bottom to the four of them in my own parlour.
The cards fell again. I don’t suppose you have a hard time imagining how Billy played. He bet an even stupider hand than usual against Frank’s brilliant hand. I suspect Frank cheats, but that doesn’t count for much when it comes time to collect.
Billy crushed his cards when he lost. Why it came as such a surprise to him, or to me for that matter, I don’t know, but the fact is it shocked us seeing all those aces lying in front of Frank like goal posts. There was no doubt about the fact that I was going to have to crawl over there now and make him happy.
Mike and Eddie refused to leave, and Billy said he had a right to watch, and I was too shocked to argue. I slipped under the table, and I could see all their heads peering down at me as I crawled on all fours across the floor to Frank’s knees. His hard-on was enormous inside his black slacks, which made unzipping them difficult as his bulge pressed up against his fly. To my left, Billy’s moon-like face was panting in distress, and in the darkness beneath the table, I detected the starry glimmer of tears on his cheeks. My own eyes were completely dry as I wet my lips.
‘That’s it, baby,’ Frank said. He was the only one not looking down at me, the only one who didn’t seem interested in watching me do this thing.
I reached into his slacks and eased his cock gently out of his fly, careful not to let it brush his zipper’s jagged metal teeth. His head was a hot purple, and his thick shaft was deep red all the way down. I grasped it gently in my hand as it thrust rigidly out at me.
‘That’s it now, baby,’ I heard him say through the table. ‘I’ve dreamed of you doing this. Now, put me in your mouth.’
I licked him with the tip of my tongue. He tasted salty, he tasted of pre-cum and salt, and I liked his flavour. I slipped my lips over his head, and he bucked up to meet me. Slipping lower in his chair, he cradled my neck in one hand and pushed down on the back of my head. I leaned down to swallow him more deeply, and he pushed my face into his lap and thrust himself into my throat. His fingers in my hair, he moved my head up and down slowly at first, and then fast and faster until he suddenly held me hard against him and made me swallow while he pumped and pumped and pumped his pleasure down my throat and I nearly choked. I closed my eyes but I could still hear Mike and Eddie laughing as they watched me blow their buddy, and watched Bill watching his wife going down on another man right in front of him.
Billy was the one who insisted on spanking me for the family honour, but it was really just to make himself feel better. I guess he had to prove he was still a man. He said I had to be punished for being unfaithful.
‘If I should be punished for being unfaithful,’ I retorted, ‘then what should you be for losing all that money in the first place?’
Of course, he didn’t see it that way. He had me stick my bottom out over one end of the table and suffer stinging licks from his thin leather belt. I had bought him that belt when we were first married, and it hurt like hell to have it kissing my skin even through my hose and panties. I cried out so loudly after the third lash that he stopped, saying maybe I had learned my lesson already. The three other men clearly enjoyed watching me being beaten. Frank asked Billy how much he would charge to let each one of them take a belt to me, and my husband punched him in the mouth.
Well, after that it was all natural enough, in a way. After Frank beat Billy up, things got settled. First, Eddie told Billy what he owed him personally, and then Mike explained how he had notes going back for years. So I was forced to take them off. Yes, I took my panties off, finally, but I did it under the table. I lay back and eased my white lace panties down my legs along with my black pantyhose while they all looked down at me. Then Eddie felt me between my legs, kissed me on the lips, and fucked me. I closed my eyes and crossed my knees over his back as he rode me, diving deep into my pussy, and Billy cried and hid his face in his hands.
Then, of course, there was that little matter of Mike’s tab. Billy owed him more money than anyone, so I agreed to his demands. Billy went and got a pillow, and I buried my face in it while Mike fucked my tight little bottom. He greased me up with some butter first, and then slid into me slowly, almost tenderly. And when he came in my rear passage, he kissed the back of my neck and said, ‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ That’s more than Billy ever did when he took me from behind like that.
Which brings me back to Billy. He doesn’t fuck me any more, he says he can’t. Which is why I guess he likes his friends to play cards with me, in the sense that they play for my bottom, my pussy, my mouth, and my breasts. No, Billy doesn’t fuck me any more, which is why, I suppose, he loves it when his friends come by every Thursday and Friday night and he can watch me where I sit under the table sucking their cocks, one after the other.
Anna worked on the high street where the second-hand shops and charity stores blended in with the fine boutiques. Her breasts were lovely and generous, and men would stop as they passed the dress boutique where she worked and stare at her. Yet she scarcely seemed to notice them as she stood on the opposite side of the usually rain-streaked glass hoping for something better in life. She was tired of just standing in a dress shop wearing tight-fitting black clothes, with her blonde hair pinned up in a cute little bun to make her neck look even longer than it was and to enhance the fullness of her breasts. The management liked her large bosom because it attracted customers, mainly men out buying a gift for their wives or girlfriends and indulging themselves in the process. They would walk in off the street, and looking a little embarrassed would ask her if she could help them pick something out for someone special.
‘What size is she?’ she would ask professionally.
And they would invariably reply, ‘Oh, just about your size.’
She would then say, ‘Follow me,’ while thinking, In your dreams!
On this particular day, Anna was pining away as usual. She was standing at the window, tugging her black sweater down to smooth out her shapely silhouette in the tight black dress, when the old fool who ran the charity shop across the street, Second Hands, wove his way through the busy traffic and entered the store. He was about six-feet tall and dressed in a chequered shirt that smelled faintly of damp and mildew.
‘Can I help you?’ Anna asked a bit dismissively. She had occasionally caught him looking out at her, and she had not liked the way he focused on her breasts.
‘I’ve come to see the manager about a little problem,’ the old man wheezed slightly as he spoke. ‘There’s a little something he might want to know about. Well, he might not want to know about it, but then again, he might. Know what I mean?’ He winked at her.
‘I’m sure I don’t,’ Anna replied. ‘In any event, you can talk to me. The manager won’t be in until later today, and maybe not until tomorrow.’
‘You authorised?’ He may once have been handsome, but years of hard living had taken their toll. The smell of damp clothing hung around him like old smoke.
‘I run the shop,’ Anna said briskly. ‘What can I do for you?’ She was hoping a client would come in and force this conversation to a swift conclusion.
‘We’ve been getting your coats,’ the old man said. His eyes twinkled as he eyed her up and down, beginning with her feet in black high-heels and ending with her golden hair. ‘We been getting your coats in our store as donations, and I don’t think that lot’s been paid for. Know what I mean? Come and take a look.’
She said she couldn’t possibly leave the store during business hours, but she would tell the manager, and if he did not come in today, then she would go see for herself later.
‘All right, suit yourself,’ he said, ‘but don’t wait too long. I can’t keep them off the shelf forever. We got homeless to cater for. All right, little one?’
‘Don’t call me that, please. I’ll see what I can do about visiting your shop later.’
He smiled, and practically skipped back across the street.
Anna stepped into the store with its charity smell of damp old clothes and used linen. It was just gone six o’clock when her manager had arrived to count the money, and sent her off to see what this nonsense was about as he licked his thumb on piles of twenty and fifty-pound notes.
The old man was expecting her. ‘In the back,’ he said with a glee she found altogether too frisky. And what bothered her was that his gentlemanly mannerisms were awaking a strange Sunday afternoon movie nostalgia in her as she imagined what he must have looked like forty years ago. He must have been a handsome man, and it made her sad to see him now, so old and shrivelled. ‘In the back,’ he repeated, looking into her bright young eyes with his own equally bright old ones. ‘I’ve got it all ready for you, little one.’
‘If you insist,’ she said wearily. ‘I’ve got to be back across the street to see my boss in...’ her breath caught in mid-sentence when she stepped into the back room. She had steeled herself for the miserable sight of racks hung with old worn-out clothes, but what she walked into instead was a veritable treasure trove. If she hadn’t known better she would have thought she was back across the street. Every coat they had ever sold seemed to be here. Every dress she had ever modelled herself and gift-wrapped was here. Every dress too expensive to stock more than two or three of hung in this back room by the dozens. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’ she demanded breathlessly.
‘Sit down,’ he told her.
She felt a chair pushing against the backs of her legs. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as her knees gave way beneath her.
‘It started with one or two.’ The old man sat down and leaned towards her in a conspiratorial way, his eyebrows a shining salt-and-pepper beneath the overhead light. ‘My name is Walker,’ he told her, ‘Pat Walker, but everybody calls me Pat because I like to pat. Know what I mean?’ He smiled at her, and she felt that strangely stimulating Sunday afternoon and old movies sensation stir in her belly again. ‘One day,’ he went on, ‘there were one or two dresses in a bag, and then a coat. Then one day, there was an entire rack!’
‘No,’ she gasped.
‘Out back,’ he said, ‘under the balcony, out of the rain. Nice gear, this lot, not your usual muck.’
‘We sell only the best to young women,’ she explained, quickly estimating the value of this amazing back room. How could her manager not know about this?
‘I know your young women,’ the old man said dismissively. ‘Not one of them comes here to say hello.’
‘Well...’ Anna shifted her legs beneath her. The skirt she was wearing today was short, and more of her thighs were exposed to his eyes than she would have liked.
He touched her arm. ‘I don’t mean they should give of themselves,’ he said, ‘just a hello. It’s a cold, cruel world for the homeless, and even for those who care for them. A “hello” in the right place saves a thousand pounds of stolen goods. And a little squeeze...’ He put his hand on hers. She could not believe it, but with all the naturalness in the world, as though her body belonged to him, he touched one of her breasts, resting his hand gently and appreciatively on its swelling warmth.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Anna leapt up out of the chair. ‘How dare you, you filthy old...?’
‘Now, now, little one, Pat didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘That’s what your granddad called you, isn’t?’
‘None of your business! I’ll tell my boss you’ve got... some merchandise of his!’
‘You do that,’ he said, and smiled as she fled.
Her boss, an Iranian businessman who always wore a black leather coat and was balding, had no time for this. ‘Go get the coats and the dresses, all of it! It’s your fault they went missing in the first place. I knew this store lost money!’
‘I wasn’t responsible for this!’ Anna declared. ‘How could I be?’
‘I don’t care how, you just are!’ her boss barked back. ‘Go get my merchandise! You don’t get the merchandise back, you got no job!’ He stuck the money he had been counting in his pockets, and left. He walked past the window on his way down the pavement, and watching him go, she caught sight of the old man, Pat Walker, putting one of her store’s more expensive dresses on a mannequin inside the charity shop’s display window.
‘I’m very sorry,’ she found herself saying to Pat a few minutes later where she once again stood in the back room of his shop, ‘about before.’
‘About what before?’ he asked cheerfully.
‘The... misunderstanding.’ She blushed. Despite herself, she could feel something inside her, deep down inside her, stirring for this old man, which made matters even worse. It was like being attacked from both sides, inside and out.
‘Oh? I thought you said it wasn’t your stock, little one.’
‘Well, you see, my boss says I’ve got to get it back. It’s our stock, all right.’
‘Oh. Then what was the misunderstanding about?’ He looked genuinely perplexed.
‘I just... I’m sorry, I didn’t... I’m sorry more young women don’t stop by and say hello. I’m sorry they don’t... give of themselves. It must make your job very...’
‘Lonely? No, I don’t think so. You know, I believe there was a misunderstanding. I don’t think this is your stock at all, that’s why I’ve begun putting it out. That dress in the window, lovely, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t...’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly.
‘Yes, well, it’s amazing what some people leave out. It’s a waste, I say.’
‘Please,’ Anna begged softly.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I have to get all the stock back,’ she whispered in desperation. ‘My boss will kill me if I don’t. He’ll...’
‘He’ll what?’
‘It is our stock!’
‘I tell you what,’ Pat Walker said, ‘as it’s your stock, and you model it to the customers over there... that’s what you do, isn’t it, model?’
‘I’m the manager... well, the assistant manager.’
‘One of these must fit you, mustn’t it? Stands to reason, doesn’t it, little one? One of these must fit you, if it’s your stock and you modelled it. So, why not try one of them on for me and see how it hangs?’
‘You don’t wear anything under dresses like these,’ Anna heard herself say, and blushed suddenly, even though she wasn’t sure why. ‘You can’t get such a fine dress to hang over a bra and panties.’
‘Is that a problem?’ Pat asked, his eyes twinkling. ‘You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before, unless women have changed in the last few decades. Have women changed, little one?’
Her blush deepened; he was getting to her, this decrepit old man was actually getting to her! ‘Where could I change? And it’s cold...’
‘You could change right here. I’ll put the gas fire on for you. Just change right here, my dear. It’s a cold world out there for the charitable. You don’t have to have stock, we manage here without it, I’m just not sure you can manage, without your job, that is. Can you manage without it, little one?’
Anna sighed.
He put the gas fire on for her. Its two bars, gold and red, flickered cosily as she stood in the back room of the charity shop and handed her clothes over to him. First came her shoes, black stilettos heels shiny as coals. He took them from her, and set them down on a shelf full of stuffed bears. Then she rolled her tights down from beneath her skirt with her back to him, so as not to show him too much. But he got impatient and rested a hand on her bottom, a light, appreciative hand.
‘Please, don’t,’ she said.
‘Is it your stock, or mine?’ he asked gently.
‘We’ll see,’ her own voice sounded strangely husky to her, ‘once I’ve tried it on.’ She took her skirt off.
His eyes travelled up and down her long legs. She stood there in her panties and a bodice over her strapless bra as he laid the fine garment she was to put on over an empty dress stand. Then he waited.
Sighing again, she reached behind to snap open the bodice, and then bent forward to let it fall off her.
He took it from her. ‘Now take off your bra,’ he said.
‘Do I have to?’ she asked in the petulant tone of a little girl.
‘The stock doesn’t belong to anyone,’ he said, ‘it’s what you give that gets you to heaven.’
She reached back again, and unhooked her bra. The lace cups fell away and her breasts, full and pink and standing erect in the chilly room, hung free. She gasped when his frail, dry hand immediately took hold of one of them and caressed it as gently as he had before. ‘And my panties?’ she whispered.
‘You don’t have to take those off, my dear,’ he said, smiling. ‘What’s a gentleman for?’ And he slipped his fingers into her panties, slipped them down around her thighs, and cupped her warm young mound in his cool old hand. He fumbled a bit with his fly, and she instinctively reached out to help him pull his zipper down, curious to reach inside his pants and feel his wiry white hairs.
When, on her knees before him, she had licked him erect - her tongue awakening a surprisingly big and firm prick out of all that soft, snowy hair - he made her lie back on a pile of coats beside the softly hissing gas fire. Then he spread her legs and drove his cock into her slowly. Eventually, she found herself coming as the old man kept thrusting patiently into her pussy, seemingly in no rush to come himself. She groaned as she climaxed, and afterwards he caressed her brow gently. ‘Little one,’ he said, ‘you just don’t meet the right men.’
In the morning she woke up on the creased coats covered with a blanket Pat had spread over her. And in the doorway of the charity shop’s loading bay at the back of the store stood her manager handing Pat a twenty-pound note. ‘It’s very cheap storage, don’t you think, Anna? Very cheap storage back here for stock, not expensive like it is across the street.’ Her boss laughed. ‘You like this old man? In my country we have a saying, “look after the old, because what you give them you will one day take for yourself”. Don’t forget the dress!’ And he left, trailing laughter behind him.
Pat helped her up. She was still naked, and he insisted she put on the expensive garment. ‘No, you earned it,’ he said when she protested. ‘It is your stock, little one. Don’t you let it get cold.’ And he kissed her until she felt that wonderful golden warmth in her pussy again.
‘Do you watch old movies, little one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well then, why don’t you bend over this chair for me like a good girl.’
She did as he said, and he lifted the shining dress up over her lovely bottom, and took a cane to it. He used an old bamboo cane someone had donated, a swishy cane that seemed to cut right through her flesh. When he lifted the weapon up for her to see, her eyes widened in alarm, but he promised her he would be gentle. She nodded, and lowering her head, waited for the first stroke to fall.
It burned impossibly. ‘Ah!’ she cried.
‘Only five more,’ Pat said. ‘You can’t have less than six, it’s tradition.’
‘Please, just use your hand, Mr Walker,’ she begged. ‘I’m not as strong as women used to be. I’m...’
‘Just a girl,’ Pat finished for her. ‘All right, little one, just my hand, but it’ll have to be the full dozen then on your lovely bottom.’
She nodded, and bit her lip.
The spanks were soft, at first, and after the terrible burn of the cane, they barely hurt. He smacked her on each cheek, and then let her rest a moment. Gradually, however, her bottom began glowing as it warmed up, and by the tenth smack her cheeks were blazing like a furnace. He stopped to caress them, and to cool their heat by blowing on them.
‘Two more, then a treat,’ he said, and spanked her two more times before, to her amazement, he broke out a small jar of cold cream. ‘Oh no, little one, good girls deserve favours.’ And his fingers rubbed the wonderfully cool cream into her flaming buttocks, very slowly and gently, until the fiery discomfort dimmed and flowed down into her pussy as a deliciously exciting warmth. And then he greased her, his cunning fingers dipping down into the valley between her now cool, sleek cheeks. His cold-cream laden finger thrust gently into her anus, and then his slim old cock slipped comfortably deep into her bottom. He penetrated her with surprising strength and speed, and glancing over her shoulder at him, she could have sworn that as he took her from behind, ramming his miraculously rampant old rod into her willing buttocks, Pat Walker looked like a young man... it was nineteen-thirty again and she was coming and coming forever...
Cora Brown taught piano in her tiny apartment at the top of the tower block, and the pupils who came to her - from the local school that couldn’t afford to keep a full-time music teacher on staff - were mostly boys. She had taught girls once a few years ago, but now most of her students were boys, and she sometimes wondered if this had anything to do with her outfits.
She taught A-Level piano for boys sixteen to eighteen-years-old, and she wore tight dresses that hugged her breasts and tied her blonde hair back in a prim little bun that left her bosom and elegant shoulders fully exposed.
Sometimes, in the summer especially, she wore skimpy shorts. A breeze would play through the tall tower block windows she enjoyed feeling on her bare legs, and all the students who walked through her door invariably looked down at her thighs, and blushed.
Her star pupil, who was taking his exams this summer, was Paul. He was blond and thin but solidly built, he had long, angular hands ideal for a pianist, and he hated practice. Yet he played like an angel when he made the effort.
He could definitely play, she reflected as she pinned her hair up in the hall mirror just prior to his arrival. He played like a devil. But he didn’t like to practice, and if he didn’t practice, he would fail his exams, and that would be that.
‘Do it again, Paul,’ she said after he had taken a trial run at the short Grieg.
He was not wearing a school uniform; the sixth formers wear permitted to wear their own clothes to school. Personally, she liked the regulation blazers and ties.
Paul, however, was obviously much more comfortable in his blue tracksuit bottoms and grey sweatshirt, and he wasn’t in the least bit interested in playing Grieg again. He was staring at her breasts, and he didn’t blush when he looked up and caught her eyes on him. He simply turned his head and stared out the window at some pigeons perched on the ledge.
‘Paul...’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you want to fail?’
‘What’s the difference, it’s all a con anyway. I’m not going to play the piano when I get out of school, I can’t get a grant.’
‘You can play for pleasure.’
‘No pleasure in it,’ he replied shortly.
She sighed. This was always the way it was with Paul. He made a show of his resistance, and then he got the piece in his head and the notes flowed like water off his fingers. But he didn’t have any time to waste now. This was the exam piece, and he only had two weeks to get it right. ‘There will be time for pleasure later,’ she assured him.
‘I can’t concentrate,’ he said.
‘Paul, you’re the best student they’ve got. If you fail, they might lose the funding for the music option.’
‘Not my fault.’ He looked bored as he snuck another glance at her breasts.
She let out a slow, patient breath, and watched his gaze follow her bosom up and down. Suddenly she was annoyed. ‘Paul, I could lose my job!’ she snapped. ‘I could lose this flat! And then you couldn’t stare at my tits any more!’
He met her eye. ‘If I couldn’t look at them, I wouldn’t come here at all.’ He smiled. He wasn’t even embarrassed by what he had just said.
‘Is that all you come here for?’ she demanded, really angry now. And, for some reason, she was blushing. Perhaps she was a little flattered too...
‘No offence, Cora... I mean, Miss Brown.’
‘I try to teach you something,’ she muttered, ‘and what do I get for it?’
‘Not my fault if there’s no pleasure for me in playing.’
‘What would it take to get you to practice, Paul?’
‘I don’t know.’ He looked her up and down. ‘A bit of fun, I think.’
‘Looking at my breasts?’ she asked, more out of desperation than anything.
‘Yeah, all right.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll practice if you show me your breasts. It’s a start, isn’t it?’
She laughed out loud. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘I can’t think of any other reason to practice,’ he replied seriously.
‘I could punish you if you don’t!’ she snapped, outraged.
‘You’ll punish me if I don’t? How?’ He smiled lazily.
‘I could punish you by not letting you come back here ever again, and then you wouldn’t see my breasts at all, not even through my blouse!’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘And if I do practice?’
‘We’ll see.’ She had crossed her arms over her chest during this exchange, and now the way his smile deepened made her cross her legs as well.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have another student coming that afternoon, and perhaps that is why - as she told herself later - things got out of hand. That is what she told herself, anyway. Paul laid down his terms. He said he would play for an hour, and after that, she would pay up.
‘Just like that?’ She was almost laughing it was so outrageous to be bargaining with one of her students like this.
‘You’re the one who wants me to practice,’ he pointed out. ‘And that’s just for starters.’
‘Oh? What’s for afters?’
‘You wanted to punish me for not practising, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she answered slowly, wondering where he was going with this.
‘We’ll have to think of something if I play for more than an hour,’ he replied. ‘What’s the opposite of you punishing me?’
‘It’s me even letting you think about seeing me topless,’ she said, and rising from the seat, she left the room.
She went shopping while he practiced. She bought a new pair of panties and some fresh razors. When she returned, even before she walked through the door, she could hear the piano. He was still playing.
She went into the bathroom, shaved beneath her arms, dabbed on some perfume, and gazed at her face in the mirror. ‘He’s not a date,’ she scolded herself out loud, ‘he’s an eighteen-year-old boy. He couldn’t care less what you smell like, let alone if you’re smooth. How would he ever know, anyway?’ And she stuck her tongue out at herself. Then, with a start, she realised the hour must be up because he had stopped playing.
Almost shyly, she opened the bathroom door and walked back into the main room.
‘Do you want to hear me play?’ he asked. His eyes focused on her intently, as if he noticed something was different about her, and suddenly he smiled.
She blushed. ‘I heard you,’ she said.
‘Go on then.’
‘With what?’ she asked innocently.
‘Show me how smooth you shaved your armpits. Go on, put your arms over your head and I’ll help you take off your dress.’
‘How did you know I had shaved myself?’ She was astonished, and excited by how perceptive he obviously was.
‘Well, I didn’t think you’d shaved your pussy for me Cora, not on the first date.’
His smile was maddening. ‘I can’t,’ she said simply.
‘Then I won’t take the exam.’
She looked at him, at his tousled blond hair. Just a few years ago he had been a child, now he was a man waiting to take charge of something, of someone, of her.
‘You’re the one who’s worried about your job,’ he reminded her. ‘I don’t have a job playing the piano, you have a job teaching me.’
‘What if I don’t want to?’ she asked softly.
‘You’ll do as you’re told.’ His voice was equally soft, but the unquestionably firm note in it thrilled her. She found herself grasping the hem of her short skirt, and she felt that unmistakable current of excitement in the pit of her stomach again. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and suddenly she was tempted to pull down the low neckline of her dress and let him look at her breasts to his heart’s content.
‘No,’ he said when he saw what she was doing, ‘take it off.’
‘We didn’t say anything about...’
‘Do you want me to play, or not?’
‘This is blackmail.’
‘What do you call offering to give me what I want in exchange for what you want?’
‘A reasonable exchange,’ she retorted.
‘Then get your kit off.’
She felt her pussy getting dangerously warm as she turned her back on him, and pulled her zipper down. She shrugged her delicate shoulders, and the dress slid off her slowly. She felt the breeze wafting in through the windows caress her bare breasts, and then her bottom in the skimpy panties she was wearing. They were made of a nearly transparent silk, and she knew his eyes were on them.
‘Turn around, Cora. Don’t be shy.’
She turned back to face him, one arm crossed over her bosom and one hand curved over her mound to hide the soft bulge of her bush inside the thin panties.
‘Put your hands on your head,’ he instructed. ‘Don’t you want me to see how close you shaved?’
‘I don’t have to play your games, Paul. I’m your teacher.’
‘You won’t be a teacher for long if I fail.’
Slowly, feeling the blood rushing to her cheeks, she raised the hand over her panties to her head, and saw his eyes glance at the shadow of her bush showing through the fine silk. His gaze lingered on the gentle swell of her mound stretching the delicate material before it travelled slowly up to her breasts again. ‘Now the other hand,’ he said.
She smiled sarcastically and stuck her tongue out at him, but she obeyed him and put her other hand on her head. Her breasts grew taut and she felt completely exposed as her nipples stiffened beneath his stare.
He reached out to touch her.
‘Oh, no you don’t!’ She stepped back out of his reach. ‘You’d better pass with flying colours, or I’ll tell your mother!’
‘We still haven’t settled what the opposite of you punishing me is,’ he reminded her quietly, and gathering up his sheet music, he left.
She had to take a hot bath, during which she teased her clitoris into three very hot orgasms, before she felt more like herself again.
The morning of the exam, Cora sat around her flat drumming her fingers. She had tried not to think about him since that last lesson, but she couldn’t help herself. She hadn’t exactly minded showing him her breasts and her pussy, not really. To be honest, she was thinking about that afternoon a lot, and thinking about it still got her excited. He was eighteen after all, and his eyes were so intensely grey...
The doorbell rang.
She walked to the intercom expecting the postman, and froze when she heard Paul’s voice saying, ‘It’s me.’
‘What are you doing here?’ she nearly shouted. ‘You should be in school for the exam!’
‘Let me up. I’ve got something for you.’
Unable to think straight, because she was so surprised, she told herself, she pressed the buzzer and let him in.
Paul stood in her doorway speaking words she couldn’t quite understand. ‘Can’t do it,’ he said, ‘got a job lined up in a guitar place. It’s boring playing piano. I can’t be arsed, frankly.’
‘What have you got for me?’ she asked softly.
‘It’s funny you should ask that, Cora. I’ve brought you a music stand.’
‘But you’re giving up music,’ she said stupidly.
‘It’s got other uses, Cora. I thought you’d want to pay up the other part of our agreement.’
‘Paul, please, be serious.’
‘I am being serious, this is all very serious. The piano exam is just for you, not for me. None of it’s for me.’
‘I care about you, Paul.’
‘You care about the piano.’ He looked her over. She was wearing the same short, tight dress he had last seen her in, and once again she had decided against a bra.
‘What do you want?’ she asked faintly. She could feel it all falling apart around her as she stared at the music stand gleaming in his hand. What on earth had he brought it for?
‘I want some reason to go on,’ he said.
‘I’m not sleeping with you,’ she stated bluntly.
‘Why not?’
‘You’re my student,’ she replied weakly.
‘I’ve left school. This is the last exam, and I’m not taking it.’
‘You’re too young.’
‘I’ve been eighteen for six months now.’ He shook his head. ‘No excuse works, does it, Miss Brown? Don’t you want to know why I brought you this present?’
‘Come in,’ she said.
The exam was at twelve. She let him in the house at ten o’clock, and to her vague amazement, she was naked by ten-thirty. She kept saying it was wrong, but her own body was against her. Even as her mouth made quiet arguments her hips shifted on the sofa towards him, her legs lolled open for him, and her tummy was exquisitely alive with increasingly excited butterflies again. She wanted to be naked. She wanted to be bare and open and exposed in front of this young man. She wanted to offer herself to him. She rose from the couch, and he unfolded the music stand before her.
‘What’s that for?’ she asked dreamily.
‘You’ll see,’ he replied.
She shrugged, and reached under her skirt.
He watched her slip her panties down her slim hips, and asked her to push her bum out towards him as she brought them down around her thighs. She did as he asked shyly, turning her back on him so he could touch her naked bottom. The breeze blowing in through the open windows cooled her skin even as his hand made her whole body feel warm. The cheeks of her buttocks felt as though they too were blushing as he caressed them. ‘Go take the exam,’ she said, ‘and when you’ve finished, I’ll...’
‘You’ll what, Cora?’
‘I’ll trust you,’ she whispered.
‘You’ll trust me to take the exam?’ he asked. ‘Or you don’t care at all about me and this is just whoring?’
She turned and undid the top button on his black jeans, and then the next, and the next. A moment later, she was completely naked and his jeans had fallen to the floor with a clink of loose change. The skin of his thighs was soft and warm against hers as he held her close, and ran his hands down her back to cup her bare bottom. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked softly, kissing his neck as he slipped his fingers into the knot of hair at the nape of her neck, and freed it.
‘Bend over and hold the music stand,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘What?’ She pulled away from him.
‘This is the opposite of you punishing me,’ he explained.
‘What are you going to do to me?’
He reached down, and picked up one of his discarded trainers.
‘Best get it over with quickly, Cora. You’ll like what I’ve got for you after you take your medicine, I promise.’
Her face red with shame, Cora found herself bending over the music stand. The metal was cold, and she felt the cool spokes of the music rest pressing against her nipples. The breeze wafting in through the windows played over her pert buttocks, which felt exquisitely exposed as Paul lined himself up behind her, and swished the running shoe through the air near her hips. ‘You won’t hurt me will you?’ she pleaded.
‘Only enough to make you take it seriously,’ he replied. ‘Isn’t that what you told me? You’ve got to
suffer for your art?’
‘I meant practice...’
‘Well, I’m going to practice on you.’ He thrust his free hand between her thighs, and she felt his astonishingly skilled fingers reaching for her clit and playing with it very much as she herself had after his last lesson. He teased her and she felt herself getting wetter and hotter and bucking her pussy back towards his hand despite herself. ‘That’s it, Miss Brown. I knew you’d like it if you let yourself go.’ He took his hand away, and brought the trainer down hard across her left cheek with a loud smack.
It burned like fire. She couldn’t believe what a sting the rubber sole packed. ‘Oh!’ she cried in distress. ‘You can’t do that again!’
‘Then I couldn’t possibly take the exam. You don’t really care, do you? If you can’t take a little pain for your art, why should I?’
Cursing him through her clenched teeth, she bent over again to take her punishment. The trainer hissed through the air as she caught her breath, then seared her flesh again with another loud smack. ‘Oh!’ she howled. ‘Oh!’
‘Be quiet,’ Paul muttered. ‘Or I’ll have to tell people you’re neglecting your students.’
To her shame, Paul stuffed her panties in her mouth when she kept protesting, and then pointed at the music stand until she braced herself on it again, and bent over for more punishment. He subjected her to six more blows from the excruciatingly hard rubber sole, three to each one of her flaming cheeks. Then she was rubbing her sore bottom and blinking furious tears out of her eyes as she asked him to leave.
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘We’ve got time before the exam.’
‘I want you to go!’
‘Kneel under the piano,’ he commanded.
For some reason, she obeyed him without another word. Then he sat down on the bench and played the Grieg, softly and beautifully, while she followed his orders. ‘Suck me,’ he said, and she knelt between his legs and reached into his underwear. She couldn’t believe the size of his cock, and after seeing it she didn’t need any further instructions. She licked his pulsing helmet, and a drop of pre-cum added a pleasant salty tang to the flavour of his skin on her tongue. She licked him up and down, tonguing his balls, and then sucked him hungrily, taking him deep into her mouth. The piano piece got louder and louder as she caressed his helmet with her throat, her eager and experienced tongue and lips urging him to come in her mouth as he played the final chords of the Grieg so she could swallow every last drop of his sweet come at the same time.
Afterwards, he went away for an hour to take the exam. Then he came back and got into bed with her and she opened her legs as wide as she could for him, sighing with pleasure as his erection sank into her blonde bush. He licked and bit the nipples of her sweet breasts as his strong young rod diving swiftly and energetically into her pussy made her ride wave after wave of pleasure. Then he turned her over and examined the still rosy cheeks of her bottom, making her blush all over as he slid a curious finger between them into her dimpled little hole. She came again helplessly as he finger-fucked her anus. After that, he made her sit naked at the piano and play the whole of the Grieg for him while he knelt between her legs and kissed and licked her pussy until she lost sight of the notes as she climaxed again. Nearly blind with pleasure, she kept playing the piano for as long as he skilfully kept playing her trembling, vibrating body, the notes ringing in her head and coming beautifully alive in her blood as she came again, and again.
I like to tease checkout clerks. I’ve got thirty-six DD breasts and honey-blonde hair, and I like to wear low-cut sweaters at least one size too small for me over tight skirts - really tight skirts. When I go to the supermarket I always reach into my trolley, deep into my trolley, so almost my whole bum is exposed when I bend over, and the male clerks all look at me helplessly from behind their tills and credit card stands. And then I like to hold an item just in front of my big breasts. More often than not, my nipples are erect. I don’t like to wear a bra and it’s chilly in the supermarket, and I’m also excited by what I’m doing to all these guys. I stand there holding something, a little can of peas for example, in front of my chest, which the clerk I’ve chosen as my target tries hard not to look at as I bend down over his little plastic stand - to give him a good eyeful - and say, very throatily, ‘These peas, are you sure they’re marked the right price?’
He blushes, and very gingerly takes the can of peas from between my breasts. I always wear a short-sleeved jumper, even in winter, under an open coat. They call for the manager to come and check the price, or if the manager isn’t around, they do it themselves. They get up, trying to hide the erection inside their supermarket uniform trousers, and step out from behind the till to go check the price.
It’s always the same. I find cans in out-of-date displays, or a type of pizza that’s just gone off sale, or a brand that’s just like the brand on sale only a little different, and I usually get a refund. Only sometimes, and these are the times I like the best of all, there’s no refund to give and it was my mistake all along and they apologise to me for the inconvenience. They mutter, ‘Sorry miss, I’m afraid you’ll find...’ Or they say, trying to sound firm, ‘No, that’s the price, all right.’ Or they might say, ‘We can’t find any other price label, madam, I’m sorry.’ The point is, they all say they’re sorry, and then look down at my generous bosom and smile slightly, glad to have me standing there while they hand me back whatever it was I had them pricing. I laugh happily in their faces, and then they all stare at my bottom in my short tight skirt as I walk out of the store. They all look hungrily at my shapely buttocks as I saunter out, all of them except for Ron, the manager. I rather suspect he’s got it in for me, has Ron.
It started the day I saw the new sign behind the head cashier’s desk on the way out of my local supermarket, where Ron works. The sign said, Price Corrections and Verifications on Request. Client Privileges Applied. I asked a blond checkout clerk whose nametag said Damien, what this new sign meant.
‘No idea,’ he replied, ‘manager’s special.’ And he went to check the price of a can of butter beans I gave him. I was wearing shorts because it was summer, and hot. My long legs were tanned the colour of gingerbread; I had been away on holiday by the sea just the week before. Maybe Ron had cooked this scheme up while I was gone. I hummed, and Damien came back a few minutes later with the butter beans. ‘No, that’s the price, Miss Waterford,’ he said, and smiled at my breasts.
‘How do you know my name?’ I asked, the first nervous peeling of alarm bells going off in my head. I can feel when something isn’t right even if I can’t consciously put my finger on it.
‘My manager,’ Damien smiled, still looking at my shirt stretched tight across my left breast where the strap of my handbag pulled on the cloth. Then he glanced down at my legs. ‘He said that was your special price, Miss Waterford, and he has a Client Privilege reward to give you.’ He pointed at the Service Desk overlooking the store.
I made my way, nose twitching with anticipation, to the booth where Ron sat in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled-up. ‘Miss Waterford!’ he exclaimed in apparent delight, smiling at me. ‘How good of you to stop by.’
‘You have something for me?’ I said, tugging my handbag across my breasts. Ron was one man I didn’t like teasing directly. He had a way of looking at me that didn’t just undress me, it had me face down across a bed and spread-eagled with hand-cuffs at my wrists and ankles. That was the kind of look he gave me, and I didn’t care for it.
‘Client Privilege,’ Ron stated, and slipped a gold card across the counter towards me. I reached out for it, but he plucked it back behind the glass partition out of my reach. ‘Forms must be signed first,’ he said.
‘What’s to sign?’ I asked impatiently. ‘Is it mine, or isn’t it?’
‘It’s yours if you agree to the conditions,’ he replied, and smiled at me over his glasses. I noticed that he had very large, strong white teeth. ‘Would you like to agree to the store’s conditions, Miss Waterford?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and promptly signed the form he gave me, because that’s the kind of girl I am. I shop there every day. What could they do to me, bar me from the store? Not likely, not when they all live to see my tits. He handed me the gold card, and it was a store credit for a hundred pounds. I took the piece of plastic from him, and got all hot at the thought of what I could buy myself with it. I love chocolate, so I tottered off in my high-heels. I felt his eyes on the cheeks of my bottom, peeking out of my short-shorts, all the way across the concourse, until I walked past the tills and out of his line of sight.
I found out about the small print in the agreement I had signed the next day when I bought a giant panda full of chocolate. It was marked down, made of milk-chocolate and full of cream. I wanted it, so I took it to the checkout counter and paid with my gold voucher. Then I asked the clerk, it was Damien again, about the price. At that moment Ron appeared as if by magic from behind the adjoining till. He had a form in his hand. ‘Miss Waterford,’ he said.
‘Ron,’ I said.
‘It pains me,’ he began, shaking his head.
‘Not half as much as it pains me,’ I said. ‘The bear’s priced wrong.’
He put his hand under my arm - my bare, slender arm with its fine dusting of blonde hairs that all the checkout clerks had been drooling over for years. He not only touched my arm, he grabbed a hold of it and hustled me off into the cosmetics aisle, which was empty at the moment. Damien followed us.
‘It pains me to remind you, Miss Waterford,’ Ron began again, only I could tell it didn’t pain him at all, really, ‘about the agreement you signed...’
‘Amanda, if you must,’ I snapped, ‘and don’t touch my arm.’
‘I am within my rights, Miss Waterford,’ Ron assured me soberly. ‘I can touch your arm, indeed, I can touch your head, your elbow, your knee, any part of your body I please. The agreement you signed, Miss Waterford, has been breached.’ And he held up the form with my name on it so I could read the paragraph now circled in red: Clients abusing the privileges of the supermarket-client relationship agree to compensate the supermarket with supermarket-client privileges at the management’s discretion. Failure to cater to the supermarket privilege provision will result in prosecution. The client will compensate the supermarket for any costs incurred in levying privileges from the client.
‘What does it mean?’ I asked, feeling a little sick and dizzy suddenly. Those small alarm bells were not just ringing in my head now, they were tolling ominously.
‘You owe us privileges, my dear,’ Ron replied smugly. ‘You owe me, the management, Damien here, and a host of other checkout tellers up and down the aisles, as well as the shelf stackers and meat handlers and dairy inspectors. In short, you owe everyone. You’ve wasted the firm’s time. That bear costs exactly what it says on the label, doesn’t it?’
‘Um, maybe...’ I stammered.
‘You knew that when you asked for the price check, didn’t you?’
‘I... you can’t prove that!’ I blurted.
Ron pulled small scraps of paper from his pocket, and I saw they were receipts, dozens of them. ‘Thirtieth of June, thirty-first of June, the first of July, the second, the third, the fifth and the seventh of July, a break of two weeks - oh blessed peace - and then yesterday, and seven days before that... you have a record, Miss Waterford. You love to cost us time and money.’
‘What can I do?’ I whispered, my head spinning. I had signed the agreement, there was no doubt about that; my signature was swimming before my eyes. I don’t like papers with my name on them, except checks made out to me, of course, and now I knew why.
He took me into the back room through wide plastic doors made of clear sheeting where the trolleys always come from, and Damien followed us in. We were facing a wall of sugar bags stacked on steel trays, hundreds of them. ‘Count them,’ Ron said.
‘But there’s so many,’ I protested. ‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘All right.’ He smiled triumphantly. ‘You want to know what you can do instead?’
I nodded.
‘Make him happy.’ He pointed at Damien.
I looked at the checkout clerk, and he looked at me... well, at my breasts. ‘What am I going to do for him?’ I asked quietly.
‘Well, for starters, you could take your top off,’ Damien replied, ‘and climb on those sugar bags.’
‘In your dreams!’ I was in charge of myself enough not to let the tears burning behind my eyes make my voice quaver.
‘Exactly, Amanda, exactly, in his dreams. Dreams are what we make come true here at the supermarket, in our small way. A chocolate bear. You were happy for us to give you that, weren’t you, Miss Waterford? You were perfectly happy to let us give it to you for free. Having wasted all of our time as selfishly as you have for years, don’t you think you should make at least one of Damien’s dreams come true today? What will it cost you, a little pride?’
‘I don’t strip like a common tart,’ I retorted, my face burning with an indignant blush. ‘And I certainly have no intention of stripping in a supermarket warehouse. What do you think I am, anyway?’
‘Is there anything wrong with supermarket warehouses, Amanda?’ Ron glared at me over his glasses.
‘Yeah,’ Damien piped in, ‘what’s wrong with us?’
Ron then appraised me of the considerable cost of bringing a case to court. I don’t earn that much, certainly not enough to even think of engaging a solicitor to defend me in court. He assured me that the corporate office would back him in his case against me. It hated all the man hours lost to sensation seekers like me. That’s what he called me, a sensation seeker. Then he told me again to take my top off and climb onto the sugar bags. I blushed even more deeply, but I put my handbag down. Damien was standing right beside me. I protested again weakly, but Ron just looked up at the ceiling and sucked air through his teeth impatiently. I took a step back away from them both, and found myself touching the sugar bags with my bottom. I blinked tears out of my eyes as I gripped the hem of my top, pulled it slowly up over my head, and then quickly covered my naked breasts with it.
‘I can’t see her,’ Damien said.
‘Never mind,’ Ron told him. ‘Up on the bags, my dear girl.’
‘How can I...? I mean, can I have a ladder, please? If not, I’ll have to take my hands...’
‘No ladder.’ Ron smiled at me. ‘We believe in getting on the floor with the customer.’
I turned my back on them, and was obliged to push my bottom virtually in their faces as I climbed the steel frame to the top of the sugar bags. A heel broke off one of my sandals in the process, but I got up there, and sat with my arms crossed over my breasts, dangling my bronzed legs down over the sacks. I could feel their eyes pulling my skirt up as I climbed, and now I sat with my pussy at eye level to them as they looked straight into my mini-skirt at my frilly black panties. ‘What more do you boys want?’ I asked sulkily.
‘Take your panties off,’ Damien responded at once, and smirked up at me.
‘You’d be so lucky!’ I snapped. I was flushed from the climb and still a little tearful, but I was also strangely flushed, not from the climb but with an excitement I could scarcely admit to myself.
Ron put his hand on my leg, cradling my calf. ‘The supermarket,’ he said, ‘can reclaim property in lieu of costs, if such action is required. Aren’t those the store brand? I recognise the gusset. I’ve receipts for every item of intimate apparel you’ve bought here for months, Amanda. I could tear your panties off you a thread at a time and charge you for my hour.’
I felt a tear of humiliation slip helplessly down my cheek.
‘Take your hands off your breasts and show them to us, like a good customer,’ Ron urged, his hand moving slowly up my leg to my thigh as Damien stepped up close beside him.
I bit my lip as I raised my arms and put my hands on my head. My breasts stiffened in the cool air of the backroom, and my nipples perked up even as I blushed with shame.
‘Do you want us to charge you for taking your panties off?’ Ron asked.
I shook my head, and was just starting to wriggle my hips to try and get them off without lifting my skirt too far when he thrust his hand impatiently between my thighs. He ripped open my panties as easily as wet tissue, slid them down my thighs, and tossed them behind him. All I had around my waist now was my mini-skirt, and both of them were staring avidly into it. I closed my eyes and tried to close my legs, but they wouldn’t let me; they each grabbed hold of one of my ankles and made me spread them wide. Then Ron told me to get back down off of the sugar bags.
I turned around, and held on to the begs as I started climbing back down. A pair of hands - I think Damien’s since they were so quick - caught hold of my hips and pushed my skirt up as I was coming down from my perch, so that now my bottom was as bare as a baby’s. And before my feet touched the floor, he had found the clasp in my skirt and slipped it off me completely.
I don’t know how long I was in the backroom that day. Damien’s hands pressing on my shoulders told me I should go down on my knees, and so I did. I wouldn’t open my eyes, I wouldn’t look at them, but I knelt. And then somebody’s cock nudged my lips. I don’t know whose cock it was, but it was slick with pre-cum, like he’d been hard for a long time, and I parted my lips and it slipped between them, its engorged helmet pushing down on my tongue and grazing the roof of my mouth. Whoever he was, he moaned above me and held me down as I sucked him, controlling my movements by holding my head.
When I tried to finish him off too soon to get it over with, he pushed my face away for a moment, and then made me keep sucking him gently. I took him deep into my mouth, even caressing him with my throat, nodding my head like I agreed to everything he wanted, and when he finally came he forced me to swallow.
After that, Ron made me lie back across the milk trolley with my legs spread and began hungrily licking my pussy. I kept my eyes closed, but my clitoris eagerly sought his mouth, I couldn’t help it, his tongue just felt too good. But then he pulled me up off the trolley, bent me over a cold stack of butter bricks that made my nipples painfully hard, and spanked me while he fucked my pussy from behind, smacking both my cheeks with each of his hands every time he thrust into me. I don’t know who came after that, literally. I heard the plastic doors flap open as someone else entered the back room. Ron climaxed inside me with a great sigh, and let go of my hips. My bottom was so hot, I imagined it was letting off steam in the chilly backroom. Then some other man turned me around and suckled my breasts until I nearly had an orgasm. Then he made me kiss his cock, just kiss it once, and he came all over my face.
That was the first night. I still go there sometimes. If Ron is having trouble getting his clerks to work late shifts Saturday night, or to re-stock Sunday morning, he calls me. He says I’m the supermarket’s Employee Reward Program all on my own, and that I should be honoured, because not every client has the same opportunity that I do to award privileges and make dreams come true as widely and as indiscriminately as the supermarket does. I know my place. I still get to tease checkout clerks, especially Saturday night, only the rule is, if he checks my price tag I have to step around behind his counter, get on my knees where no one else can see me, unzip his trousers, and take his cock in my mouth. And sometimes I have to offer Ron my bottom so he can bugger me, but he saves that for Employee of the Month day.
My husband is headmaster of a school for boys located on a wild, rocky outskirt of land that juts out into the Nordic sea. It rains a lot and cold winds blow, so we don’t venture outside very much, but my spouse keeps me wide awake at night. You see, he’s a devotee of the cane. Even when boys aren’t misbehaving, he likes to swish it about. He is very proud of his long white bamboo cane with the deep brown rings decorating its entire length. He swishes it this way and that, and it whistles through the air as he walks down the school corridors in his black professor’s gown and mortar board. He can’t actually punish the boys very much, because their parents pay to send them there and they would complain, so he keeps in trim with me.
At night we play this game. I slip into a frilly little teddy, and he comes to the bedroom wearing nothing but his black gown and mortar board. He is naked beneath his headmaster’s attire, and the crisp hairs around his penis peep out between the black folds of his cape. He swings the white cane to the right, and I dodge it. He swings the white cane to the left, and I dodge it again. Eventually, he corners me at one end of the bed and I kneel down on it. He makes me pull the straps of my teddy off my shoulders and bare my lush breasts. My nipples are big as rosebuds, and he fondles me, running his hands through my hair while I kiss his cock. But it never gets hard; my husband has not had an erection for years.
The problems began when my husband’s stepson, Stefan, came to stay with us. I had married his father the year before and never met Stefan until just before this particular holiday. His father purchased me from a mail-order bride catalogue for men who live in remote places, and for girls who do not have a much better choice when it comes to finding a good husband. I came from a family of four sisters and no money for a dowry. My new husband met me at the station where the little buggy that brought me from the last outpost dropped me. It was in the carriage on our way to the school that was to be my home that he first showed me his cane.
Stefan was blond whereas his father was grey, and that first night the three of us were together, we all sat down to dinner in the empty school. All the boys had been sent home that morning for a few weeks, and the halls echoed now with the ghosts of footsteps where we sat at one of the tables in the dining hall. Stefan was a slender young man with hot blue eyes, and every word he said echoed in the large, empty space.
He had an announcement to make. ‘I want to devote myself to the cane,’ he said. He was eighteen-years-old and would graduate from school that June. He was a man now, training to be a teacher like his father, and like him, he wanted to take up the use of the cane. ‘I want to learn how to work a cane properly,’ he went on very seriously, but strangely enough, he was looking at me rather than at his father. My husband was studying the ceiling with considerable interest, and stroking his grey beard as he listened to his son, who was eyeing the low, lace-trimmed neckline of my form-fitting black dress. From there his gaze travelled up to my blonde hair, gathered into a tight bun at the nape of my neck, and to my warm cheeks. For some reason the way he looked at me with those eyes of his - like blue ice that burned it was so cold - made me blush. ‘I want to find out what the cane can do,’ he added, ‘I want to hear it sing.’
‘You will have the halls to knock about in,’ his father replied. ‘I will lend you one of my spares. The old black India bamboo one, perhaps. That will start you off nicely.’
‘Thank you, father,’ Stefan said politely. ‘I would be honoured to handle anything you have used.’
The trouble started the following morning out on the rocks. When the boys are away, I go out in the mornings to walk by the sea and sun myself on the rocks, braving the chill in the air for the pleasure of feeling the sun’s warmth caressing my face and hands. My husband, the headmaster, does not mind my doing this, and no one sees me since the boys are all gone. It is a totally private stretch of beach and shingle beneath a looming cliff. Some mornings I even roll my black dress up around my waist and wade hip-deep into the icy water. Usually I take my panties off first and walk down to the water with my pussy exposed to the frigid air beneath my heavy black wool skirt.
On this particular morning the water was so surprisingly warm, and the sun felt so lovely on my face and neck, that I lost track of time. When I finally turned towards the shore and waded back onto dry land, my skirt hiked up around my belly, and my blonde bush shining in the soft morning light just out of reach of the waves washing over my thighs, I saw him sitting between two crags on the cliff-face.
‘Stefan!’ I exclaimed, blushing furiously and quickly dropping my skirt. The hem got wet in surf, but I did not notice; I was too captivated by the expression on his face as he leapt agilely off his perch, and walked down the beach towards me. The look in his eyes told he had seen that most intimate space between my thighs. ‘You should have told me you were going swimming this morning,’ I said nervously.
‘I do not go swimming, I take the air, mother dearest.’ I have no idea why he called me mother as he was my husband’s stepson from his first marriage. ‘And you were not really swimming either, mother. What you were doing was more like parading naked on the beach.’
‘Stefan!’ I gasped.
‘You were,’ he insisted coldly.
‘I was... I was hardly...’
‘Did you not show your pretty little pussy to anyone who might happen to be around, to me, in fact?’ His eighteen-year-old face was hard, and flushed with an excitement made even more obvious by the bulge visible inside his button-down trousers.
‘I did not show myself to you, I was just... it was an accident!’ My cheeks were burning with indignation now, and my pussy was also strangely warm, perhaps from being the subject of so much attention, and of the conversation, which was exposing it in a different sense simply by acknowledging its existence. Normally, a woman did not discuss her most private parts with a man, and I could scarcely believe I was being forced to do so now by my own stepson.
‘We shall ask my father if this is his definition of an accident. A headmaster’s wife cannot be seen to do anything wrong. She certainly cannot be seen showing off her body like a common tart.’
‘I did not...’
‘Then how will you explain the fact that I know you have blonde hair the colour of dark honey between your legs, mother?’
‘I will say...’
‘He will put you on the next train back to that pathetic little village you came from.’
‘My family would not take me back,’ I said desperately, pleading with him by talking to him as an adult and master of the house.
‘Oh, how terrible. You should have thought of that before you showed your pussy off like a harlot. Fortunately, for you, I have decided that you can help me with my work. Be at my room at nine o’clock tonight.’
‘But I...’
‘My father will be reading my school essays this evening, and tomorrow evening, and the evening after that, if I know him. He does not believe anyone could teach me as properly as he could. He will not want you in his bed until after ten. Wear the dress you wore last night to dinner,’ he instructed, and then turned on his heels and marched away up the beach.
I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach, and I felt tears threatening behind my eyes, but the deep cleft between my thighs made me feel as though I was still standing in the sea it was so strangely wet.
I wore the low-cut dress Stefan had demanded, but with a neck scarf draped across my cleavage. Just as he had predicted, my husband was in his study reading his son’s essays. Why I could not have worn a more modest dress to help him with his studies, I did not know.
I stood at his bedroom door at nine o’clock trembling like a schoolgirl outside the headmaster’s study. I had never felt this way even about his father, who actually was a stern headmaster. But his father had a penis that would not stand to attention no matter how long I licked it, and as I had already seen, Stefan’s cock stood to attention without even being touched.
A moment after I knocked on the door he opened it, and pulled me into his room by an arm.
‘Mother, dear,’ he said, as I stumbled into the room. ‘What is this?’ He pulled the scarf off my breasts. ‘How modest,’ he said, ‘and how charming.’
I blushed, unable to meet his eyes. His room was laid out as neatly as a young officer’s quarters; everything was in its proper place. Only the covers on the bed were turned back, as though he had been about to lie down. And then I saw the cane laying across the sheets.
‘Mother, dear, you see my cane?’
‘I see it, Stefan.’
‘Why do you not go and feel it?’
I looked at him for a moment, then went over to the cane and picked it up. It was black, and extremely flexible. As I lifted it the tip dropped down like a man’s limp organ, and even the gentle movement of my picking it up caused a slight whooshing sound as the thin bamboo displaced the air around it.
‘Lovely, is it not?’ he said.
‘If you like that sort of thing,’ I replied.
‘Do you not like the cane, mother?’
‘I do not much...’
‘I am sure my father has given you a taste of it.’
I looked at him again. He could not possibly believe... ‘Your father would never...’ I began breathlessly. ‘He and I...’
‘You forget my real mother was married to him long before you were. We were very close, she and I, and she told me everything despite how young I was at the time. I was only ten when she died. Lower the cane.’ He took it from me, and laid it across the bed again. Then he whispered in my ear, ‘I know my father waves the cane at you but that it does not bite. I know he could not get his dick up with a rope tied to it. My real mother told me these things.’
I stared at him, suddenly unable to find my voice.
‘Take the cane up again and cut it through the air. Cut it through the air, mother.’
I do not know why, but I obeyed him without asking why he was making me do this.
‘Make a big noise,’ he went on, ‘a noise like you’re punishing someone.’
Tentatively, I raised my arm, and swished the cane through the air.
‘Ouch!’ he said.
I looked at him in astonishment.
‘Cut it again!’ he whispered.
My eyes wide, I cut the air with the thin strip of bamboo again, and this time the hissing sound was a little more menacing.
‘Oh!’ he groaned at the top of his voice, and then murmured, ‘Again!’
I swished the cane perhaps ten times as his cries got louder and louder, until what I had feared happened, and there was a knock at the door.
‘Stefan?’ his father’s voice queried anxiously.
Stefan leapt to the door and opened it. All of a sudden his eyes seemed to be shining with tears. ‘Father,’ he moaned.
‘What is it, son?’
‘Nothing... nothing at all. I am sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘Has anyone...? Is something wrong?’ My husband stepped into the room and saw me holding the cane. ‘Gudrun,’ he said, ‘what on earth have you been doing?’
My husband gave his son the white cane to punish me with, the long, flexible white cane he uses himself in the bedroom. He gave it to Stefan and told him to punish me properly, as severely as he saw fit, across my bare bottom. It was the least his beloved son deserved as compensation for his wife’s indiscretion. I tried to explain what had happened, but he would not listen. Stefan had told him I was correcting him for telling me I should not walk on the beach barefoot. His father said that what I wore on my feet was my own affair, but that I was not allowed to beat a man for any reason whatsoever. And he gave Stefan the white cane and his blessing, and went back to his study. He said he could not bear to see justice executed even though it had to be done. He said Stefan could punish me any time he wanted to for the entire week he would be staying with us. He had his father’s permission to punish me until his manhood was satisfied.
And this is how I came to be in the position I am now, crouched on my stepson’s bed with my bare bottom thrust up into the air. I have my face buried in a pillow while he administers the last of tonight’s strokes. He gives me ten strokes every night, ignoring my muffled sobs. He prefers his father’s cane because, he says, he likes to use the master’s toys.
By the time he is finished punishing me, my buttocks are on fire from the ten long fiery welts decorating my cheeks and the skin just below them, the painfully sensitive area where my bottom merges with my legs. And as I remain kneeling on all fours, sniffing back tears, he runs his hands up my thighs to my pussy until I feel my burning skin melting into his palm. Then he turns me around to face the end of the bed and stands before me. His crotch is level with my face, and the size of the bulge in his trousers looks fit to burst all his buttons open. As always, I look up into his eyes and gasp, ‘No...’
‘I will tell everyone what I saw down on the beach,’ he warns. ‘You will be back on that buggy on your way to your mother’s house, and you will feel every bump in the road this time sitting on that hard seat with your sore bottom. And father will not give you a penny, not even enough to buy some cream for your striped buttocks.’
‘If I do this, will you let me be?’ I ask ritually.
‘We shall see, mother dear. Undo me.’
I undo his buttons. They are hard and black and shiny, like small coins, and what they buy me is the beautiful cock that springs out at me. The shaft is white as alabaster but the engorged head is a deep, lovely violet. He holds my head, and draws my lips down towards it. I pull back a little, but then my lips part and I take his young rod deep into my mouth. He bucks his groin against my face, fucking my mouth hard and fast, but he pulls out before he comes. I look at him a little tearfully from the strain of trying to breath with his helmet stuffing my throat, and because part of me is disappointed that I cannot make him lose control with my lips and my tongue. ‘Stand up,’ he commands.
I get up off the bed, and my long skirt falls down to conceal my nakedness. I feel cold inside despite my hot buttocks, and I want to cry.
‘Come around here,’ he says.
I go to him where he is standing at the end of the bed. I want him to kiss me and hold me, but all he does is turn me around so I am facing the mattress. Then he reaches around me and pulls my dress down with such force that the cloth tears and my breasts spill out of my bodice. He pushes me forward so I am forced to brace myself on the mattress and pulls my skirt up again, flinging it across my back out of his way. He caresses my legs again, beginning at my calves and moving up to my thighs, and then he runs his cool hands over my throbbing cheeks. My pussy is deep and wet as the sea by now, a fact his fingers seem to delight in pointing out to me as he slips them inside me, and makes me so desperate for him I want to cry again. Then he shoves me down across the mattress and pulls my welt-covered cheeks apart.
‘What are you doing?’ I gasp. ‘No... oh no, please!’
‘Mother, dear,’ he says, ‘you do not wish to get pregnant, do you?’
‘I would not mind, with you,’ I reply softly.
‘Well, perhaps next time...’
I feel his turgid helmet nudging against the small, reluctantly puckered entrance to my anus, forcing me open and slowly filling me up as I have never been filled before. He stuffs me with him, fucking me like a whore and driving me to my first orgasm since I came to live on these rocks. His encouraging whispers hiss like the tide in my air, and his sperm trickles down my thighs like the foam of a violently breaking wave as I climax again.
Stefan takes me out onto the rocks, and makes me parade naked in front of him. Then we both walk into the sea, where he thrusts his penis into my body with as much force as the waves breaking against me. And then I kneel under the water before him, taking his strong prick into my mouth and holding my breath as I struggle to make him come as quickly as possible. I always swallow some salt water along with his salty seed, but I do not mind, and the cold air above the waves never tastes so good as that first ecstatic breath I take after he dissolves in my mouth.
Back out on the rocks, he has me lie on my stomach with my legs spread so he can enjoy looking right up into my most intimate places. He says he wants to see where I feel him at his hardest. He wants to see where I feel him when he enters me and possesses me. And I moan as his fingers part my labia and it all begins again, this time with me lying on unyielding rocks on my back, and then on my belly, being gutted from all angles like a helplessly beached mermaid panting with love for him.