A Study in Shame
A STUDY IN SHAME Lucy Salisbury
Table of Contents
‘Morrison, I have a confession to make.’
Morrison didn’t answer, so I carried on. ‘I’d like to suck your cock, Morrison. I’d like to crawl over to you on my hands and knees. I’d like to kiss your big furry balls, and then suck your cock, all the way.’
Still he didn’t answer, but there was definitely something accusing about his stare, accusing and distinctly superior, like a bishop who’s caught a choirboy pissing in the font.
I stuck my tongue out at him, then went on. ‘Yes, of course I ought to be ashamed of myself. I am ashamed of myself. That’s half the fun. Wouldn’t it be nice, though, with your big black cock getting longer and thicker in my mouth as I knelt between your fat little legs? Longer and thicker, Morrison, until I couldn’t take in any more. Yes, OK, I’d do it in the nude, if that’s what you wanted, but wouldn’t it be more fun to make me go the way dirty boys like it, with my blouse open and my bra pulled up to show you my tits? I bet you’d like that, and I’d feel so ashamed of myself, sucking your beautiful big cock with my tits out. I wish I could. I wish you had one, a huge one, long and thick and black. I’d suck so well, Morrison.’
I gave a soft moan as I lay back against the pillows. There was just time, if I was quick. My nightie came up under my arms and my hand went down the front of my panties to find the warm wet flesh of my sex. I was still staring into Morrison’s eyes as I began to masturbate, imagining myself on my hands and knees with a really enormous cock in my mouth.
After a while I began to talk to him again, picking up where I’d left off. ‘Oh, if only you had a cock. I promise I’d suck well, and I wouldn’t be a tease. I’d let you do it in my mouth and I’d swallow for you. That would be shameful, so shameful, to have my tummy full of your come while we’re in conference. They think I’m so prim and proper, such a good girl, such a nice girl, and all the time I’d have a bellyful of spunk.’
My eyes were closed and my back had begun to arch. I was going to make it, my fingers now busy in the wet slit of my sex, my mouth wide in a long sigh until I began to talk to him once more, with my fantasy growing ever more dirty as my orgasm grew closer.
‘Wouldn’t that be nice, Morrison, to have me suck you off? I’d pull out my titties and roll up my skirt. I’d pull down my panties and get dirty with myself while I sucked you, and when you’d done it in my mouth I’d swallow what you gave me. Only that wouldn’t be all, would it, you big bad bear? There’d be more, lots more, in my hair and in my face, down my front and all over my tits and … oh, Lucinda, you are such a dirty little tart. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I am … oh so ashamed.’
I was, and it was wonderful, as always, the one thing that could be guaranteed to make an orgasm truly worthwhile. It didn’t much matter what I was thinking about while I played with myself, as long as I knew I ought to be ashamed of what I was doing. Thinking about sucking Morrison off was not only shameful, it was also silly, which made it all the more delicious. There was a big smile on my face as I sank into the softness of my bed, my hand still down my panties as I enjoyed the luxury of a few seconds’ more rest before opening my eyes again.
Morrison had fallen off the bed and now lay on the floor, the fixed stare of his beady red eyes directed at the ceiling, more accusing than ever. I picked him up and kissed his nose. Not for the first time I wondered what lunatic Chinese production manager had ordered a line of large, jet-black teddy bears to be fitted with red eyes. He looked demonic, but in a smug, disapproving sort of way, like a minor devil set to look over a group of damned souls guilty of some particularly embarrassing sin. I’d had to buy him.
It was 8.24 a.m. by my bedside clock, which left me fractionally over half-an-hour to shower, dry, dress, do my make-up and get myself down to the conference room looking immaculate. I could do it, just, maybe even snatch a coffee on the run, but breakfast just wasn’t going to happen. Lunch was; that much could be guaranteed, because it said so in my schedule.
When I’d started nearly two years before, it had seemed the perfect job, PA to the CEO of a FTSE company, as it had been described to me. I’d been cherrypicked, straight from university, onto a salary far higher than I had been expecting and into a flat on the third-highest floor of our London headquarters. At the time, several people had gone to the trouble of pointing out that I didn’t deserve the post, and that I’d never have got it if I hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. It was true, but that hadn’t stopped me accepting.
I hadn’t realised what I’d be sacrificing. At university I’d had plenty of friends and plenty of freedom. Now I had precious little of either, with barely a moment to spare for my old friends and no new ones. The girls on the main floor called me Posh Bit and I was very firmly not invited to share their social life. Nor was I meant to, as my contract clearly stated that I was to ‘maintain rigorous standards of propriety at all times’ and ‘take scrupulous care not to engage in any activity which might risk bringing the company into disrepute’.
It was a philosophy my boss, Mr Scott, clearly believed in, behaving with Dickensian formality towards me, and if his eyes took a quick tour of my body as I stepped into the lift it was merely to ensure that I had presented myself to a standard appropriate to the company’s standing. He even gave a little proprietorial nod when he’d finished, as if pleased with the quality of an acquisition. I returned a bland smile, hiding my true emotions, which were flickering between disdain and a need to be pushed down to my knees and held by my hair as he fed his cock into my mouth. He merely gave me his usual, very formal greeting.
‘Do you have the presentation ready?’
As the lift descended he began to outline his strategy for the meeting, but I knew it already and only pretended to listen while allowing myself a little fantasy. He was big and dark, with a rough edge thinly concealed beneath the veneer of sophistication. Thirty, maybe forty years before, he’d have been the sort of boss who made me sit on his knee and fondled my bottom as I took dictation, maybe even made me go down on him under the desk, or, better still, made me go down on our clients in order to improve our chances of getting a contract. Not that I thought he would ever actually behave like that, and nor did I want him to, but a fantasy is a fantasy and it’s easy to concentrate on the good bits and forget about the drawbacks.
He was still talking as we entered the conference room. A couple of the girls were laying out pens and paper on the table, a near-obsolete practice when everybody seemed to come loaded with gadgetry, but we were very traditional. Both hurried to finish and one, Stacey Atkinson, even apologised as she left, but the look she gave me was anything but contrite, more venomous. I gave her what I hoped was a sympathetic smile, although I knew it was hopeless. As far as they were concerned, I was the enemy, and there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it. Mr Scott didn’t even notice, as he walked briskly to the head of the table and picked up the control for the huge screen at the far end of the room.
‘They’re very keen on efficiency, Miss Salisbury, so I want this to run smoothly. Every detail counts, right down to having the coffee ready next door at precisely eleven o’clock, while …’
He carried on, but again I knew every detail of what had become a familiar routine. I had imagined the job would be challenging, but it was really just a matter of common sense and making sure everybody did what they were supposed to at the right time. A quarter-hour of bustle and polite greetings for the half-dozen Chinese businessmen who were our clients for the day and Mr Scott was firmly in command of proceedings, allowing my imagination to wander once more.
I’d often wondered how business meetings could be spiced up, simply by being a little less stuffy and a little more imaginative. It wouldn’t even be necessary to dispense with the formality we set so much store by, and if it was always good business sense to keep your clients happy, then why not happier still? I could imagine how it would go, two hours of intense discussion as we hammered out the issues of rights to a vast Australian copper mine which no more than two or three people in the room had ever visited, and then Mr Scott would rise to his feet and indicate the door at the far end of the room as he addressed them in his old-fashioned BBC English. ‘And now, gentlemen, if you’d care to come through into the refreshment area, tea and coffee are available, while Miss Salisbury will be very happy to provide oral sex.’
They’d all want a go. In fact, they’d consider it impolite to refuse. So in I’d go, to the discreet little cubicle set aside for the purpose, with a single comfortable chair and a mat on the floor for me to kneel on. They’d come in to me one by one, in strict order of precedence, all very polite and friendly, but without the slightest hesitation for what they were making me do as they pulled out their cocks and balls for the attention of my mouth.
At the beginning I’d be ever so smart, kneeling in my stockings and heels, my perfectly ironed jacket and skirt, my crisp blouse, perhaps with a couple of buttons undone to hint at my expensive underwear, but no more. The Chinese Chairman would be first, and he would ask politely if he could fondle my breasts as I sucked his cock. It would be unthinkable to refuse, and I’d know he meant bare, so my blouse would come open and my bra would come up, to allow him to paw my flesh and rub at my nipples as I gave him his blow job and swallowed what he did in my mouth.
The first of the two Vice-Chairmen would find me shame-faced and flustered, my boobs still out and my hair in disarray, but that would only make him keener. He’d want more as well, to rub his cock between my tits and have me lick his balls, and, again, I’d be too polite to refuse. The next man would be eager and clumsy, dirty too, tugging his cock into my mouth as I sucked, then pulling my head back at the last moment so that he could watch as he did his business in my open mouth before making me swallow.
By then I’d be too turned on to hold back, despite being bitterly ashamed of myself. I’d pull up my skirt and stick my hand down my knickers, fiddling with myself as I waited for the fourth man to come in. He’d take full advantage, not only making me suck his cock but then bending me over the chair to pull down my knickers and enter me from behind. I’d be more than willing, sticking my bottom up like a she-cat on heat and rubbing myself while he fucked me.
I’d come with him inside me, so by the time he’d finished I’d be left slumped over the chair, sticky with spunk and sweat, well used at both ends. That wouldn’t stop the last two men from the Chinese delegation, the first delighted by the state I was in and making full use of my cunt and mouth, the second disgusted and merely tugging his cock off all over my bare bottom. That would leave all six clients entertained, but Mr Scott and the others from our company would take advantage of me, coming in and making me suck their cocks, fucking me, touching me how they pleased, before finishing off in my face or up my cunt. They’d leave me on my back, masturbating, and as the last man closed the door behind him he’d tell me I ought to be ashamed of myself for my behaviour. At that I’d come, just as the catering staff returned to clear up after lunch, so that they found me on the floor with my legs spread wide and my tits out, my face filthy with spunk and my fingers busy with my sticky cunt.
Just thinking about it was making me shake and I was forced to prescribe myself a strong dose of reality in order to calm down, by paying attention to Mr Scott’s presentation for a while. He was my boss, attractive after his fashion, and I do like fantasies of being under male control, but there was something about him that always brought me down to earth. I could never put my finger on it, but, where with most men the jump between fantasy and reality can come with a tugged-down zip, I couldn’t see Mr Scott letting me do the tugging.
Nobody had noticed the state I was in, but I could feel the wet between my thighs and couldn’t help but wonder if they could smell my excitement, which made me feel even more ashamed of myself and even more excited. I was going stir crazy, and I was going to have to do something about it, and soon.
What I needed was cock, but the trouble with cock is that it comes attached to men, generally. Men talk, and in the case of company men there’s nothing guaranteed to get them talking faster and in more lurid detail than the conquest of their boss’s PA, which was how they were going to see the encounter. Several of them had asked me out, some of them very attractive, but I’d turned them all down. That had given me the reputation of a stuck-up ice-maiden who thought she was too good to be seen with the plebeians, but that wasn’t it at all.
The truth was that I didn’t dare accept, because I knew what would happen if I did. I’d let myself go, even if I spent the evening drinking nothing but mineral water, and the consequences would be disastrous. Maybe I’d find a man who could handle me, more likely not, but the chances of finding one who could keep his mouth shut about the way I behaved when I was turned on were close to zero. It had happened before, and just to think about it was enough to bring the blood to my cheeks and make my tummy go tight.
I’d come up to university full of excitement and anticipation, but also very naive. A childhood as the only daughter of the ambassador to an Arab state hadn’t been much use as training for life as anything else. My education had been expensive and single-sex, finishing at a sixth-form institution so deep in the countryside that the sight of a man was unusual, while computer access was regulated with a vigour that made the average authoritarian regime look amateur. By the time I left I was an expert at cunnilingus, largely thanks to Juliette Fisher, and had never seen a naked man.
That didn’t last long. Some of the young men at my college were truly beautiful: golden British youth in the first flush of manhood, muscular Americans obsessed with athletics and English girls, intriguingly dark city boys with yet more intriguing bulges in their trousers. I had one of the latter first, and had is definitely the word. He thought he was seducing me, a shy skinny virgin who wore print frocks and had hair down to her bum. So did I, but it never occurred to me that he’d want to call the shots. It never occurred to him that I’d want him to get me ready with the handle of my hairbrush, never mind offer to return the favour, let alone sit on his face to have my bottom licked. That was the sort of thing I was used to.
He wasn’t, but I didn’t even realise it was unusual for a man to call me a demented bitch as I lowered myself onto his erection with my sex lips spread so that he could watch as he took my virginity. I was enjoying myself too much, and he did have the most beautiful cock, long and thick and very, very black. He felt wonderful inside me, even better than the well-buttered courgette Juliette had used to break my hymen. On reflection, it might have been better not to tell him that, and it would certainly have been better not to tell him my Alabama plantation-owner fantasy while I was using his cock to rub myself off. In my defence, I must point out that he came so hard he splashed his own face, but suggesting he lick it up was probably another mistake.
I’d had a great time, and I was both hurt and surprised when he didn’t want to carry on seeing me. Naturally, I knew that people can be sensitive about the colour of their skin, but he was fucking me at the time, and I wanted him to shame me, not the other way around. Most people don’t see it that way, as I quickly discovered. In fact, most people won’t allow a woman to fully express her sexuality without calling her a slut, even when they take full advantage, as I also discovered, and I didn’t dare risk a repeat performance now that I was at work and in an even more enclosed and gossip-ridden environment.
The internet was out of the question, as my computer was part of the office network. It was monitored for ‘inappropriate use’, and, while that didn’t cover the milder sort of dating and contact sites, I had no intention of allowing the company scandal-mongers to learn that I’d been surfing for sex, or even a long-term relationship with Mr Right. Not that I wanted anything of the sort, and I didn’t even know who Mr Right would be, only that he wasn’t the sort of man people would expect me to like. For one thing, he’d be quite rough, the sort of man who’d do things I found sexually humiliating without even realising it, and who didn’t ask questions afterwards.
That was the point my thoughts had reached as I stood staring out of my window after work with a glass of wine in one hand and Morrison’s paw in the other. Twenty-nine storeys up, the view was magnificent. The Thames seemed close enough to toss a pebble into, the cars moving through the rush-hour traffic like toys. I could see an immense amount of life, most of it very alien to me, especially the jumble of warehouses and industrial units along the margin of the river, even though the nearest was probably no more than ten minutes’ walk from the front of the building.
It seemed to be some sort of depot, with big colourful lorries moving in and out, some being loaded or unloaded, others parked in a long single rank that backed onto the river. I could even make out the names, mostly continental firms, and see the drivers, talking together, lounging by their trailers with mugs of tea in their hands or seated in their cabs. They looked like the sort of men who’d do me good, big no-nonsense men who’d enjoy me without worrying about anything but the pleasure they could take in my body. It would be deliciously shameful too, and risky, bent down in the front seat of a lorry cab, my blouse open so that the driver could fondle my breasts while I sucked him off, and, if we got caught, well, I’d just have to suck his mates as well.
The thought sent a powerful shiver through my body, and again as I considered how easy it would be to make the fantasy into reality. All I had to do was make my way down to the street, stroll across to the depot, select my man and ask politely if I could suck his cock. He’d be surprised, but he’d accept and that would be that. In less than a quarter-of-an-hour I could have a nice fat penis swelling slowly to the motion of my lips and tongue while I played with myself down my knickers.
Life’s never that simple. For a start, people would see me leave the building, so at the very least I’d have to take a roundabout route to reach the depot. Then there would almost certainly prove to be some nosy little security guard who wouldn’t let me in, or if I did get in and summoned up the courage to approach a man he’d no doubt turn out to be faithfully married and would turn me down. That wasn’t so bad though, because it would be deeply shameful to proposition somebody only to have him call me a slut and tell me to fuck off, and I could always have a second go.
Or he might turn out to have a weedy little cock. They say size doesn’t matter, but a big well-formed cock is so much nicer than a small crooked one, just as a big well-formed man is so much nicer than a small crooked one. The problem is that you can’t guarantee a big well-formed man will have a big well-formed cock, so I’d probably end up sucking on a little wonky willy, and even the humiliation of having to go through with it wouldn’t make up for the lack of size. I’d just have to ask again. And there was another problem. They probably wouldn’t believe my offer was genuine, or, if they did, they’d assume I wanted to be paid.
With that thought came a shock of humiliation far stronger than before. To ask a complete stranger if I could suck him off was bad enough, but to be offered money, and to take it, would be far more shameful. I wasn’t going to be offered a lot, either, not by a truck driver. A man had once stopped me in the street and offered a thousand pounds for sex. I’d slapped his face so hard his glasses came off. A trucker wasn’t going to offer a thousand pounds, maybe not even a hundred, certainly not for a blow job. Fifty? Twenty? Ten?
Every time I lowered my price I felt a fresh shiver of excitement. To suck a man off for money would be unbearably humiliating, but the mere thought of doing it for ten pounds had me close to tears. I wanted to do it, but I didn’t dare. If I was found out I’d be sacked on the spot, and everybody was sure to find out. It was a great fantasy, but that was all.
Yet surely there was no harm in taking a walk down towards the river? It was a lovely evening and I could put on something pretty but casual, something that showed enough of my legs to intrigue any sex-starved men I happened to pass but which wouldn’t raise an eyebrow from even the most censorious of my colleagues. After all, they all thought of me as a prude and would never, ever guess what was going on in my head.
‘Well, Morrison, what do you think? Shall I sit in and have another glass of wine over an old film, or shall I go out and pretend to myself that I’m a tart?’
He didn’t answer, which was good enough for me.
I pretended I was really going to do it, thinking the whole plan through and acting accordingly. The first thing was to dress the part, which was tricky. On the one hand I had to be able to get out of the building without arousing suspicion, but on the other I didn’t want the drivers to automatically assume I was the stuck-up little bitch everybody seems to take me for just because I’m tall and blonde and speak decent English.
‘What do you think, Morrison? How about my red dress with a hat but no knickers underneath? Yes, that feels right.’
It did: acceptable, yet daring, with intriguing possibilities.
‘I do hope it isn’t windy, that’s all, because if it is my dress will blow up and everybody will see my bare bottom, and rather more. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?’
There was no wind, so I was quite safe, but the thought alone was embarrassing enough to add to the faint shaking of my fingers as I sorted out my dress and a pretty straw hat to go with it, an ensemble which would make it look as if I was going out on a casual dinner date. Next came my underwear and shoes.
‘Do you think I should wear a bra? I’d better, I suppose, people are sure to notice with my nipples so hard, but let’s make it something strapless. No stockings. My legs are smooth and I ought to show them off, while it’s best to keep things simple. Flats or heels? Flats are more sensible, and there’s less chance I’ll be taller than the man who buys me, but tarts wear heels.’
I went for the heels, lipstick red to match my dress. Having a bra on but no knickers felt odd, and very dirty, leaving me nervous and excited as I looked myself over in the mirror. I looked cool, poised and perfectly respectable for a woman of my age, but in my head I was a tart and a cheap tart at that, the sort of girl who’d suck a stranger’s cock for a few pounds. Shades and a small red bag added the final touches and I was ready, but afraid to leave my flat and at the same time cross with myself because I knew perfectly well I didn’t have the guts to go through with it and get what I really wanted.
In the end I had to force myself to leave, but nobody took the slightest notice. Nearly everybody had left anyway, and only Security even acknowledged me, with a polite remark as I signed out. I’d escaped, but I was sure I could feel their eyes on me as I crossed the plaza, watching me walk, curious at the way my dress fell against my skin without showing any evidence of underwear, realising I had no knickers on and chuckling together over what that implied.
I felt good, for all my cowardice, naughty and free in a way I hadn’t for a very long time. The evening was warm and still, but fresh from rain the night before. I knew there was a pub on the riverfront beyond the depot I wanted to pass, the Wharfingers, although I’d never been there. That provided my excuse and I was soon walking alongside a long high fence with the depot beyond. A sign told me that it was a bonded warehouse, which meant Customs and Excise, high security and no chance whatsoever of getting in without a good reason.
The discovery brought me both relief and regret but made it easier to enjoy my fantasy as I walked on. I was now opposite the row of parked lorries, and their drivers. Closer now, I could see that most of the lorries were French, Spanish or Italian, belonging to long-haul freight carriers specialising in wine and spirits. That meant they were a very long way indeed from their wives or girlfriends, and safely anonymous. Surely none of them would turn down the offer of a blow job and a grope?
I walked straight into the huge man who had stepped out from behind a parked van, bounced back, tripped over an uneven paving stone and sat down hard on my bottom with my skirt up around my hips and my bare fanny on show to the world. Not that the world was watching, but he was: a giant of a man with a red beard and a blue boiler suit, his face set in surprise but his eyes locked firmly on the neatly trimmed triangle of fur between my legs for the split second before I’d managed to cover myself up. Both of us began to stammer apologies and I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I pulled myself to my feet and hurried on, only to slow almost immediately, with a single thought raging in my head, painfully embarrassing and yet too thrilling to be ignored. He’d seen my cunt.
All I had to do was turn around and speak to him. I’d make a few light-hearted remarks, apologise for being so clumsy. He’d apologise in turn, again, assuring me it was all his fault. We’d get talking. Maybe he’d offer to buy me a drink, and all the while he’d know I had no knickers on under my dress. He had to react, to take me into the back of his van or one of the alleys that led between the old warehouses across the road, where he’d make me suck his cock or pull up my dress and fuck me up against the wall. Nobody would ever know.
Three large glasses of white wine later and I was wishing I hadn’t.
‘Oh, Lucinda, you are such a little coward.’
I’d said it aloud but nobody paid any attention to me. The pub had been crowded when I got there, so much so that I’d been forced to perch myself on the low brick wall that fronted the river, with one arm on the railings and one bottom cheek on the bricks. It was far from comfortable but I felt I deserved it, a punishment for being so pathetic. I’d held it in my hands, the perfect opportunity to get what I needed and I’d chickened out. He’d been huge, maybe six foot six, and solidly built as well. There was a good chance he had a cock to match, a massive pole of pale smooth flesh rising from a nest of gingery hair.
‘You little idiot!’
A couple at the table nearest to me glanced across. She looked concerned. He looked amused. I gave them a frosty look, something I’m told comes naturally to me, and got up. The place was busy to say the least, with used plates and empty glasses everywhere, but I still took mine back to the bar and thanked the girl who’d served me. Polite behaviour was a habit drummed into me across the years until it was instinctive.
I didn’t take the direct route back to the building, because it meant passing the depot and I couldn’t bear the thought that the man might still be there and I knew I still didn’t have the courage to ask for what I wanted, or even talk to him in the hope that he would take the lead. As I reached the top of the alley that led down to the pub, I could see straight down the road. He was still there, loading boxes into his van, two at a time, his massive shoulders working under his shirt.
‘Go on, Lucinda, you can do it!’
At that moment a second man appeared from beyond the van, older, balding and carrying a clipboard. I gave up. Evidently it wasn’t my evening. I crossed the road and started up an alley lined with little shops and restaurants, thinking all the while. He’d seen my cunt, a big rough man, a man like a Viking. That was another of my favourite fantasies, to be caught alone on a beach by Viking raiders. I’d imagine being picked up by the biggest of them, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carried on board their longship, stripped, fucked.
That was how the big man ought to have handled me. One peep between my legs and the outcome would have been decided. He’d have reached down, lifted me with the same ease he handled the boxes he’d been loading and put me over his shoulder with my bum in the air. I’d have struggled, just for form’s sake, beating my fists on his back and telling him to put me down, calling him a beast and a bastard. His response would have been to flip up my dress and show off my knickerless bottom to the world, with my cunt showing between my thighs.
I’d have been dumped unceremoniously into the van, spread out on the floor with my legs apart. He’d have unzipped his boiler suit to pull out a truly massive set of balls and a monstrous cock, already half stiff. I’d have surrendered at the mere sight, taking him in my mouth as he straddled me. As I sucked he’d have pulled my dress up, taking my bra with it, to leave me spread naked beneath him in nothing but my bright-red heels and the dishevelled mess of my pretty clothes. Anybody who happened to pass would have been able to see, but I’d have kept my legs open, making a thoroughly rude show of myself.
When he was hard he’d have entered me, sliding easily in up my wet hole and making the show I was giving to the crowd now gathered in the street ruder still. My legs would be rolled up, my penetrated cunt stretched taut on the shaft of his massive cock as he pumped into me with his balls slapping between my well-spread bottom cheeks and the tight glistening hole of my anus exposed to the vulgar stares.
‘That would be so nice.’
This time there was nobody to hear me talking to myself. The light was beginning to fade and there were only a few people about, with most of the shops shut. One wasn’t, a curious-looking place with the single large window painted bright pink and decorated with a single word in gaudy gold paint – Harlot. It was a sex shop, the Pink Pussycat, and I found myself automatically quickening my step as I thought of dirty old men leering at pictures and videos of naked girls. Fifty yards on I stopped.
There was a café and I ordered a double espresso, sipping at the hot dark liquid as I pretended not to be looking at the door of the sex shop. An idea had occurred to me. I needed to make up for my cowardice. I even felt I needed to be punished in some shameful way. I badly needed to be naughty. What better way than forcing myself to go into the Pink Pussycat and purchase some embarrassing article?
I’d be safe, as long as nobody who knew me saw me go in or come out, and the chances had to be tiny. There was still a risk, but that was as exciting as it was frightening and it also stirred something rebellious within me. I had to do it.
‘Go on, Lucinda, you little coward. It’s the perfect punishment.’
It was, so horribly embarrassing that it would be sure to bring my already powerful arousal to the point at which I could no longer hold back. Maybe they’d have crotchless panties, cheaply made in scarlet nylon, the sort of tacky garment no decent woman would ever wear. I’d buy them, from an assistant who’d be trying to stifle his amusement and lust as he imagined me wearing them, my bottom no more than half covered by the hopelessly inadequate triangle of see-through red nylon at the back, the lips of my cunt peeping out from the slit at the front. He’d be some slick grubby-minded type, his head full of dirty thoughts as he eyed me up and down. Maybe he’d even proposition me, and I would turn him down, although the shame of it would be a wonderful addition to my punishment.
‘Go on, Lucinda, just do it.’
I swallowed my coffee, spent a moment blinking my eyes and gasping for breath as I struggled to cope with the near-scalding liquid, and got up. There was a cash machine directly across the road, so I couldn’t make excuses to myself about not using my card in the shop.
With the money in my bag I found the street empty for a hundred yards in either direction, so there was no way to back out by pretending I might be recognised either. It still took all my courage to walk those few short yards and push in through the door to the shop, but I did it.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
She was small, tattooed and pierced, with startling green and blue hair like the plumage of some exotic bird, and as far from the image of the lecherous male I’d been imagining as it was possible to be. I could no more buy tarty knickers from her than from my own mother. There was no shortage of them though, three large stands festooned with the things, in dozens of designs and several colours, each labelled: saucy scarlet, bitch black, virgin white. I glanced around, desperate to find something, anything that didn’t imply that I was after dirty, smutty sex.
‘We’ve got some great deals on sex aids.’
I walked across to the glass-fronted cabinet she was indicating. It seemed rude not to. Inside were some of the most grotesque objects I had ever seen, great bulky monstrosities made of hard black rubber and so large it was impossible to imagine them having any relevance to the human form at all. A neatly written sign in front of the three nearest informed me that they were butt plugs: the Butch, which I couldn’t have got in my mouth, never mind up my bottom; the Bully, which would have made an elephant sit up and take notice; and the Bastard, which was quite simply insane. The names suggested they were designed for gay men, to my immense relief.
On the shelf below was a selection of vibrators, which were positively calming after the butt plugs. Most were ugly plastic things covered in embarrassing bumps and oddly shaped protrusions, but a few were stainless steel and really quite elegant, also reassuringly expensive. The assistant was looking at me hopefully and I realised I ought to say something, if only to find myself an excuse to leave.
‘Do these come with a warranty? The steel ones.’
‘Three years, but, believe me, they’ll last you a lifetime. Let me show you.’
I stepped back in alarm, not at all sure what she meant, although it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d been told to pull up my clothes to have a vibrator applied to my pussy. As it was, she merely unlocked the case, selected the largest of the stainless-steel ones, pushed the switch up to maximum and passed it to me. It was buzzing like a hive of angry bees and sent vibrations right up my arm, and further, making the muscles of my belly tighten. My reaction must have showed on my face, because she smiled and I found myself blushing hot as she took the vibrator back.
‘Good, isn’t it? But these are much cleverer. Just let me get it out of the harness.’
She ducked down to the lowest shelf, where there were several complicated harnesses made out of leather straps, each with a large dildo protruding from the front. I knew perfectly well what they were for, having had homemade versions used on me more than once, and found my blushes growing hotter still as she went on. ‘It’s a complete system; three sizes of vibrating dildo, harness, detachable cuffs, head harness and dildo gag, but you can buy the bits separately and the vibrators are the best. Here.’
She was holding it out to me, a vibrator made in the shape of a big black cock, very much like the one I imagined Morrison might have, complete with a pair of fat rubber balls. I took it, unable to control my shivering as my hand closed on the thick hard shaft, and then she turned it on. The vibrations were so strong I immediately let go and jumped back in surprise.
She laughed as she picked it up. ‘It gets people like that. Or there’s the thrust setting.’
An adjustment of the switch and the thing began to thrust in and out, a sight at once so obscene and so compelling that I found myself giggling nervously. I was going to have to buy it, because it was now going to be more embarrassing to make my excuses and leave than to go through with it, after the effort she’d made to be helpful. Besides, I desperately needed the awful thing applied to my cunt.
‘How much is it?’
‘Fifty-five, but it’s a much better deal if you buy the whole system. Do you …’
She trailed off, but I knew she was asking me if I went with other women. I nodded, biting my lip, and she was smiling. Before I could stop myself I’d spoken the thoughts in my head: ‘Do me.’
I sounded desperate, even to myself, but it had been a long time, too long. For one awful moment she didn’t respond and I thought she was going to turn me down, only for her to speak again as she hurried for the door.
‘Just quickly.’ She locked the door and turned the sign to closed, then hurried back, grinning. ‘Come on, in the back.’
I let her take my hand, numb with desire and with shame, the way I had been so many times before, willing but helpless. She was as bad as the rest of them, eager and dirty as she led me into a tiny storeroom that smelled of leather and sex. I let her kiss me, opening my mouth under hers after just an instant’s resistance but quickly as urgent as she was. She’d slid a hand up my dress, following the length of my thighs to the top and groping for panties that weren’t there. Her voice was a sigh as she broke away from my mouth. ‘No knickers, bad girl. We know what you want, don’t we? Let’s do it over the desk.’
She pushed me down, among the litter of paper and pens and coffee mugs on the desk, my bottom pushed out towards her. I looked back, in time to see her lick her lips as she lifted my dress to get me bare behind before she began to wriggle herself into the strap-on harness, talking all the while. ‘You’ve got such long legs, and such a little bum. I’m going to enjoy fucking you. What’s your name?’
‘Juicy Lucy, like the rubber doll. Perfect. I’m Charlie.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Stick it out a bit more.’
I stuck it out as requested, lifting my bottom to her as she fixed the huge black dildo into place. She gave me a slap, full across my cheeks and hard enough to make me gasp as she went on. ‘You have such a pretty bottom. Even your bumhole’s pink.’
She laughed, and put the head of the dildo to my cunt. I was soaking but it was still hard to take, stretching my pussy hole until I was open mouthed and gasping for breath. She’d got me, completely, bent over with my bottom stuck out and the fat black dildo pumping in my hole. My head was full of dirty thoughts, how I’d begged her for sex, how she’d told me off for not wearing any knickers, how she’d compared me to a rubber doll, how she’d slapped my bottom and told me I was pretty behind. All of it was exquisitely shameful, just the way I like it, and now I was being fucked over a desk in the rear of a back-street sex shop. Lost in ecstasy, I began to babble. ‘Harder, Charlie. Fuck me, fuck me harder. You can smack me too, if you want, anything … anything at all. I need it.’
‘What you need is this.’
As she spoke she turned the vibrator on and jammed herself as deep in as she could get, squashing the fat rubbery balls to my cunt. I screamed, taken to the edge of orgasm in an instant, and over, with my fists hammering on the desk top and my heels drumming on the floor as I came to the sound of Charlie’s happy laughter as she fucked me.
‘I am a dirty little bitch, aren’t I, Morrison?’
He answered with his usual accusing, superior stare, which made me feel even dirtier. I pushed down the sheets and spread my legs, enjoying my nudity and exposure as I thought of what I’d done the night before. It hadn’t been what I’d planned at all, but it had been extremely good. There was a tiny, niggling voice in the back of my head, telling me in a slightly despairing tone that I’d ended up having sex with another woman, again, but otherwise I was blissfully happy.
Charlie had handled me perfectly, not only taking control but humiliating me without even thinking about what she was doing. Then there had been the gloriously shame-filled moment of having to stay in position, with the dildo jammed up me as deep as it would go and the vibrator on full speed while she finished herself off by rubbing her cunt on the base. She’d been nice about it afterwards as well, which is always important, giving me a hug and a kiss before she opened up the shop again. Even the trip back to my flat had been exciting, with my guilty purchases concealed in a large plain bag, the full system, because after what she’d done to me I could hardly have gone for less.
Unfortunately, there was no time to bring myself to a leisurely climax over the memories of the night before. I’d just stripped off my nightie and knickers in anticipation of some fun when Mr Scott had called up to tell me I was to be in his office for a meeting at half-past eight. That barely left me enough time to dress, so I contented myself with a long moment with my thighs wide open and my back arched as I played with my breasts, wondering what he’d say if I came down in the nude, then got up.
At precisely eight thirty I knocked on his door.
‘Come. Good morning, Miss Salisbury.’
‘Good morning, Mr Scott.’
He had looked up as I spoke, and gave me a slightly quizzical look, as if there was something unusual about my appearance. As I had actually dressed, and made-up with my usual care, I knew there wasn’t, but couldn’t help but wonder if there was some sort of afterglow to good sex that showed. He adjusted the papers on his desk and turned to his computer, frowning at the screen as he spoke once more.
‘This weekend is a team-building exercise, Miss Salisbury, as I’m sure you know?’
‘Yes, sir. Bayford Woods. Rendezvous eleven o’clock in the main lobby.’
‘That’s right. As you also know, it’s organised by Confidence. They’ve completed their analysis of staff-interaction patterns within the office and they have two recommendations. First, that we build respect for the authority structure by appointing team leaders with military ranks. Second, that we encourage internal competition and individual aspiration by playing a male team against a female team. This seems like a good idea to me.’
It seemed like a load of nonsense to me, but I knew better than to argue.
‘Yes, sir, an excellent idea.’
‘Good, because you’ll be leading the women’s team, with the rank of lieutenant.’
‘I–I’m flattered that you should pick me, sir, but surely somebody more senior?’
I wasn’t flattered. I was horrified. They all thought I was a stuck-up little bitch as it was, and trying to order them around during a paintball battle we were sure to lose really wasn’t going to help. Then there was the mud, and the inevitable bruising, and at least thirty over-competitive young men for whom I was sure to be the prime target.
Mr Scott was shaking his head. ‘Miss Phillips is in Antigua, Mrs Ryan’s on maternity leave and Mrs Grierson feels such activities are incommensurate with her position as Chair. Look on it as an opportunity to show your authority and leadership skills.’
I was entirely in sympathy with Mrs Grierson and would cheerfully have swapped places with Miss Phillips, or even Mrs Ryan, but there was a hard edge to Mr Scott’s voice and I knew full well that he felt I didn’t make enough effort to be part of the team.
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.’
‘One hundred and ten per cent, Miss Salisbury.’
I managed a smile.
That was only the start. I was not only expected to lead my colleagues on the coming Saturday, but also had to assemble my team, appoint sergeants and corporals, then outline our tactics, all on top of my usual workload. The only constructive thing I could think of was a remark my great-uncle Cyril had made about officer training during the Second World War. When asked how he would go about assembling a piece of complicated equipment in the field, he had replied, ‘Sergeant, assemble the equipment’, which was apparently the right answer. I decided to work on similar lines, by appointing the pushiest girls in the office as my NCOs and letting them get on with it while I stayed safely out of the way.
The obvious choice was Stacey Atkinson, a big dark-haired girl who was the number two in procurement. I’d heard she was from an army family, while there was something about her that frightened me and had led to more than one dirty fantasy. I called her into my office, told her she was my sergeant and ordered her to distribute a memo to all relevant female staff. She jumped at the suggestion, and that would have been that had not Mr Scott insisted on attending our meeting. That left me no choice but to exert my authority over the others, which left Stacey looking as if steam was about to start coming out of her ears.
I wanted to explain, but when I finally got the time I discovered that she’d already left, so there was nothing for it but to go up to my flat and collapse into a chair with a glass of wine. Feeling stressed and exhausted, I’d drunk half the bottle before I’d got dinner ready and finished the rest before it was dark. By then I’d started to perk up a bit, and went into my bedroom to examine my naughty purchase of the night before. It was an extraordinary piece of kit, and something I was going to have to keep very carefully hidden.
Charlie had put on the harness with the big black cock-shaped dildo attached in order to fuck me, but there was a lot more to it than that. There were two more dildos for starters, another one in the shape of a cock, equally long but thinner, which suggested it was designed to go up a girl’s bottom, a very dirty thought indeed, and a third with two slim pegs, one above the other, and an extension below, made like two fingers and a thumb but very strangely shaped, which was positively bizarre.
The cuffs could be used separately, attached to each other, or fixed to the front or back of the harness. It seemed a bit odd to want to restrain the girl doing the fucking, until I realised that, if I’d had the cuffs on, Charlie could have fixed them to the harness while she fucked me, leaving me utterly helpless. They could also be fixed to the head harness, which was positively perverted, a sort of cage made of leather straps and designed to encase the wearer’s head with her mouth either held open or plugged by the dildo gag, a double-ended monstrosity that made me shake just to hold it in my hands as I spread everything out on the bed.
Morrison was sat in his usual place at the top, his red eyes staring out from his furry black face with his usual supercilious expression. I felt I owed him an explanation.
‘There’s no need to be cross, Morrison. A girl’s got to have some fun occasionally, after all. And besides, I didn’t mean to buy all of this, just a vibrator. Not even that, really. I was going to get a pair of tarty panties and wear them as a punishment. You’d have approved of that, wouldn’t you?’
His expression suggested that he would have, so I went on, picking up the head harness and fitting the dildo gag into place.
‘And besides, it would be really horrid to have this used on me, wouldn’t it? Look, these straps go around my head so that I have to take the short rubber cock in my mouth …’
I shut up as I fed the fat black cock into my mouth. It was very thick, enough to make my jaw feel stretched, and there was no question that being made to wear it would feel like I was being punished, or a victim to some cruel bitch, Stacey Atkinson possibly, albeit a willing victim. I sucked for a while, then pulled it out. Morrison definitely looked as if he approved.
‘You see? It’s awful, and imagine how I’d be, on my back, with somebody sat on my face so that she can have her fun on the long rubber cock, maybe that bitch Stacey, wriggling her big fat bottom in my face and fucking herself.’
I broke off, imagining how Stacey would look, poised over my face, perhaps with four of her colleagues holding me down, her big muscular bottom stark naked. She’d be laughing as she lowered herself onto the long black cock-shaped dildo sticking up from my mouth, enjoying the look of horror on my face until she sat down and I was smothered between her meaty bum cheeks, with her anus pressed to my nose. It didn’t bear thinking about, even though she was just the sort of girl I’d always gone for, but she didn’t even like me.
‘OK, maybe not Stacey. Charlie then. She’s nice. No, you couldn’t do it, you’re a boy. No, Morrison, that’s not fair. Besides, you don’t even have the right equipment. Oh …’
A very naughty idea indeed had occurred to me, something so deliciously dirty, shameful and downright perverse that for a moment I wasn’t sure I could go through with it at all. Yet I knew how to deal with that sort of situation. A little time and a little more drink and I’d be ready. Besides, Morrison wasn’t backing down.
‘Well, I suppose so, if you really think I ought to be punished? You do. I thought you would. And I’m to wear the head harness with the gag in my mouth? You realise how stupid I’ll look with seven inches of thick black cock sticking out from my mouth and another three inside, don’t you? Yes, that’s how big they are, it says so on the packet. You don’t care? I deserve it? Oh, all right then, and I suppose you want me in the nude?’
He always wanted me in the nude. I’d been in the flat for over eighteen months but it still didn’t feel like home and probably never would. That made going about with no clothes on feel vulnerable and exciting. The locked door and extensive security system meant that I couldn’t actually have been much safer, but that didn’t help my trembling as I stood to strip, slowly peeling off every last item of clothing until I was fully nude. Even in the bedroom being naked had its effect, but it was far stronger as I moved to the kitchen and made myself a large gin and tonic. The living-room curtains were still open and all I had to do was walk to the window and I’ve have been naked to half of London, but I was careful to stay out of view as I pulled them close.
Seated naked at the table I let my feelings rise, sipping my drink as I thought of how it had felt to be taken from behind by Charlie and wondering what was worse, that or what I was about to do. Both clearly came under the heading of inappropriate behaviour, but there was really no question of which would be considered more shocking, and that was the latter. Yet Morrison was right, I deserved what was coming to me.
He was waiting for me in the bedroom, his stare more censorious than ever.
‘OK, OK, at least let me get ready. I know I need to be punished, but there’s no need to be so stern with me.’
I swallowed down the last of my drink and went to sit on the bed. Morrison fitted the harness quite well, with his stumpy little legs sticking out to either side and his round belly already snug at the same fitting Charlie had used. I was going to have to tighten it up a bit, but first I needed to fit a dildo.
‘No, not that one, Morrison. I may have been a naughty girl, but I don’t deserve a cock up my bottom. Not the fingers either, for the same reason. You can give me a good fucking and be content with that.’
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