A Man Walks into a Bar (WIP)

When Exhibit A gave me false hope he had been mistaken for a stripper in a pub and taken this to its logical conclusion, my mind began to wander. It’s still wandering now, but here’s a taster:

A Man Walks into a Bar

Unassuming and polite, with a businessman’s briefcase and a sly smile, when he enters the pub he’s selected a random for a swift half, he’s confronted by a vortex of pink feather bowers and glittery cock-shaped deely-boppers, scented with flowers and sweetness and assertive female sexuality. The British Hen Party.

One woman notices his smarter-than-average appearance – three piece suit, tie pin, pocket square – and alerts the others. Contrary to their appearance, this confab is hushed and respectful of the other patrons, and he watches them out of the corner of his eye as he buys his drink and finds an empty table away from the hubub but not so far from theirs that he can’t surreptitiously eye the ranks and catch the odd snippet of something salacious.

For example, an older woman with dark eyes, framed behind thick rimmed glasses wrapped in a gold dress fighting a losing battle with her voluptuousness immediately grabs his attention and refuses to let go. Her voice is deep and rippled with honey, and even with her head very close to the companion closest to her, he hears snatches of a tale his cock is desperate to know the outcome of.

“He grabbed my thigh and his hand went higher [slurp of wine, leans in closer] fingers behind my knee [slurp of wine, reaches for top up, becomes unintelligible for a minute or so, until] came in my knickers and made me wear them home.”

He wonders if she’d care to replay this narrative with a slightly different outcome – as the thought of burying his face between her matronly thighs begins to fester and hook itself around his synapses.

In his reverie he undoes his jacket – boy is it hot in here all of a sudden – and doesn’t notice when a redhead with poise notices the flash of movement, until she raises her voice.

“Hey, it’s the stripper!” and they collapse into half-drunken giggles as he smiles and shakes his head, accepting his change.

“Take it off! Take it off!” she continues, appropriating Taylor Swift’s anthem with urgency, a couple of voices joining hers and agitating the other patrons, who raise their voices in combat, calling for silence. Others take the traditional British way out and take their leave, with poisonous looks at the pink army before they do.

It’s been a long day for him; conferences and endless, bitterly boring meetings only broken up by a lunch with limp, sweaty sandwiches and tea that was an affront to the least patriotic Englishman.

He sips his beer and shudders, looking forward to comfort food, pasta and three different continental cheeses, when he eventually gets home some time after nine. Checking his watch, he notes he has an hour to kill – more like 90 minutes if he forgoes the traditional wander around Smiths subtly checking out the last vestiges of the top shelf mags, then nipping to M&S for some wine to complement dinner. But there’s wine at home, there’s always wine at home.

The hens are still debating. It’s summer, so under their warriors garb, they’re universally stripped to the barest of glamorous essentials. He notes the bounty of bare legs, from pasty white to deep burnt umber and everything between, though cleavages are mostly hidden under fluorescent duck down. As he considers for the eightieth time whether he truly is a tit man or a leg man, one of the women breaks ranks and, with a nod to her companions, makes her way over to him.

All fingers and thumbs (Kink of The Week)

The concept of ‘fingering’ had never much appealed to me. The idea of being impaled on someone’s digits like a finger puppet made my blood run cold, and if a porn scene ever headed in that direction, the sight of the person whose fingers were doing the playing pistoning their arm back and forth like they were chopping firewood made me feel queasy.

I get it now though. I understand. The first time I allowed him to gently extend one of his digits inside my cunt – as he ate me out like a man who’d been starved for a month – I writhed on the bed, alarmed that it felt so good. We’d compared the size of our hands – his dextrous guitarist’s fingers versus my chubby toddler digits, complete with dimples where my knuckles ought to be – and laughed. We joked about how small hands make everything look bigger, but I didn’t think about how longer, more nimble fingers could reach the places that need to be reached, and even conjure the unicorn with the right kind of external and internal pressure. I began to find myself whining “Finger me” with startling regularity. And he always obliged. I had always thought the act was something that men did because they thought women liked it, not because it actually felt good to receive it. I was wrong. I was very wrong.

I’m still getting there. Sometimes, because of my inexperience and his relatively large size, penetrative sex isn’t an option for us, but his fingers…. As he ducks his head to worship at the altar, or directs me in using a toy with his fingers reaching the parts my own, babyish ones can’t….. I might not ever be able to go back to masturbating without his hand between my thighs, my fingers hooked through his. Being fingered feels too good. It might be my favourite thing.

As soon as I saw this fortnight’s topic, I knew the only way I could end a post on fingering would be with this image from the always hilarious FRED FLETCH on Twitter. Sure, it’s not exactly sexy and is pretty jarring coming after the above, but this is my blog and I’ll do what I like so ner.

More? Check out everyone else on Kink of the Week below

Glastonbury 

So last year I was writing this revenge fantasy about a dickhead who did me wrong. It includes this passage alluding to an occasion whilst watching festival footage on TV. 

The audio is housed on my alternative/old blog but if you’d like to visit it:

Here it is.
Enjoy. 

The past is another country (with better spelling)

I have a lovely and caring boyfriend who often brings thoughtful and charming gifts – a bunch of flowers in my favourite colour, chocolates that bear an uncanny resemblence to his chosen pet name for me, every brand of throat sweet when I came down with tonsillitis two months into our relationship…. He’s pretty wonderful.
Not long after we’d started seeing each other, he was going away on a business trip, involving an internal flight.

I asked him politely if he would mind supporting my Toblerone habit and gifting me one of their airport specials – salted almond (as delicious as it sounds, trust me). He agreed. And I can’t remember when, but at some point I casually asked if he’d buy me a porn mag. And he agreed to that, too.

I’m a bit obsessed with analogue porn. My first exposure to erotic material was my older brother’s hidden stash of Fiesta at a stupidly young age (under double digits). I can still remember some of the images – women in plastic macs – and peculiar phrases describing an orgasm as a ‘mushrooming fireball of lust’. I liked the stories more than the pictures, the excitement of the adult experiences I was yet to master.

I’m a little too young to remember the halcyon days of finding shreds of Page 3 girls in the woods; by the time I was entering puberty the internet was taking a hold and it was pretty easy to find naked ladies/men/combinations thereof as was your taste, through a quick visit to AskJeeves. Then there was late night softcore shenanigans on C5. I remember the thrill of catching a few moments of the 1970s adaptation of Fanny Hill – I’d devoured the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejdudice, and the idea of a pornographic costume drama was the holy grail.

I got older and internet speeds got faster and watching porn online became as easy as checking the news or buying tat on ebay. But the thrill of leafing through a magazine, with its adverts for expensive chat lines, and weirdly sexy cartoons, and Readers Wives pages with their neat black bar across the entrant’s eyes, never dissipated, even though I was far too chicken to walk into a Newsagents and congidently purchase a copy of Razzle. Over a decade later though, here I was with a compliant boyfriend who wanted me to be happy and a happy me was a me with a porn mag in her lap.

He presented it to me in my bedroom. He’d asked me what kind I’d like – “chubby girls,” was my response. And these were beautiful, voluptuous women. Pages and pages of them in various softcore poses. And interspersed with them, the usual, borderline offensively written adverts for sex chatlines. But that was all. No stories. No articles. No grainy shots of amateurs. I was grateful for the gift, but a little disappointed with the publisher.

Cut to a couple of months later. He’s on another work trip away, he knows the drill. Goes into an upmarket adult store and asks for porn mags. “No dice. No call for it. Print media is dying out.”

5 minutes later he messages me again in a bog standard newsagents, choc-a-bloc with mags of every description. “No call for it – Hah!” He buys us a three pack, which we devour over the course of a few days around planned family obligations. There are articles in these magazines. There are even reviews in these magazines! (I was geninely surprised at that.) But fancy porn store man has a point, too. Because, well….. These magazines are BAD. Not the features artistes, who are very beautiful in a variety of different ways. Not because they are exploitative or borderline illegal, at least not that I can see.

They’re still making porn mags. But they’re putting fuck-all effort into the formatting of those mags. It’s like they’ve given up hope, which I think is pretty sad. I’ll leave you with some examples below of actual text from the magazines my loving and patient partner purchased for me.  Vowels and consonents all over the shop.

They are not a reflection on his love or on our relationship, merely a reminder that pointless nostalgia is just that, and some things *were* better in the past.

 

Hands, knees and bumps-a-daisy (Wicked Wednesday)

Those of us who grew up in the country will know at least one person who learnt to drive doing circuits of their uncle’s field at a frighteningly young age, probably without a seatbelt.

We were visiting his parents, and within that visit, spending an afternoon in the barn conversion of some parental friends. Everyone else had gone on ahead, whilst I, being terrible at decision making at the best of times, had spent ten minutes picking out shoes, ended up making us late. And lateness breeds unfortunate consequences.

We drove along personably enough for ten minutes, out of the suburbs with their neat-ish gardens and rows of newer terraces with useless chimneys and Chelsea tractors in the driveways. Once the houses began to peter out and were replaced by sprawling fields and dotted homesteads, his manner changed. He pulled into a layby a couple of minutes later, and without turning to look at me, ordered me into the back of the car.

“And take this. You’ll need something to keep your mouth busy.” he handed me the hdeously-coloured suction cup dildo we mostly kept because it made us giggle. No one was even smirking, now.

I didn’t argue, and went to sit in the back. I could see him looking at me in the rear view mirror as I leant over and closed the passenger door.

“No, on your knees. Hands and knees. All fours. Like a dog.”

I nodded again and assumed the position. He started the car and pulled away, continuing on the journey as I concentrated on keeping myself upright, the silicone cock hitting the top of my mouth with every bend of the road.

“Knickers down.” He called out, turning left down a narrow dirt road with high fields of wheat on either side. I pressed my face into the seat for balance as I reached under my skirt and pulled the underwear to my knees.

The dildo bulged obscenely against my cheek as he slowed down.

“Now, there’s another five minutes of slow driving down this lane until we get to the house. You’re going to take that cock and stick it against the car door – that’s right.” He registered approval in the tilted central mirror as I took the spit drenched tool out of my mouth and passed it between my legs, both of us watching as I used all my viable strength to smack it against the plastic surface and hoped it would hold.

“You don’t need me to tell you what to do next, do you?”

I shook my head, and slowly impaled myself on the dildo, my eyes never leaving the reflection of his. He said there was five minutes until our arrival, but who knew how honest he was being? It could be two minutes, leaving me pinned to the car via my dripping cunt as a small crowd of well-wishers crowded round to meet the prodigal son’s girlfriend. The unlikely outcome that they would press their faces against the glass and call for the windows to be opened so they could paw at me, taunt me, and some of them could show their appreciation for my display with a shower of approval, to be licked off by still others….. that kept me going as the shadows of the farmer’s wheat  dwindled away and the later afternoon sun cast its shadows over my body as we approached the house. My only intention was to make the most of the punishment he had chosen, and the minutes to enjoy it he had so generously given.

See who else is being wicked this Wednesday below!

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Lessons learnt

Good morning little schoolgirl, can I come home with you?
Tell your mom and your papa, I’m a little schoolboy too.
– Sunny Boy Williams, Good Morning Schoolgirl

I played this song a lot when I was younger. Perhaps it was always going to happen, my dad is a massive blues fan, and it’s an absolute standard.
The version I became borderline obsessed with featured Jeff Beck on guitar – accounting for the captivating, almost discordant opening riff which gave me an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. And the lyrics, of course.

I had a school uniform kink from an obscenely young age. Whenever I saw a grown adult don short trousers and badly knotted tie (and this is England, it’s almost a national pastime), my eyes almost lit up. Something about the veneer of innocence barely concealing maturity, experience and sexual allure. I wanted to be that girl, giving you the eye whilst seeming prim.

At eighteen I head to university and the all-important nightclub event, the school disco. I photograph myself looking shy and vulnerable and label this look as ‘the gymslip mafia’. I will don school uniform for two other costume parties, and somehow no one notices that I seem to have a very limited imagination.

I recognise the power of the visual. The appeal of the short-ish skirt, the promise of fresh white underwear beneath. I’m very particular, very fussy. I spent a year buying and discarding various pinafores that didn’t live up to my gymslip fantasies. I don’t approve of so-called ‘sexy’ schoolgirl kits or costumes. A school blouse does not tie at the waist, and a school skirt does not fall at mid thigh, And really, it shouldn’t be tartan either (see? I’m hardcore.)

So there I am. clean black mary janes and long navy blue socks on my feet. the socks stop at mid thigh, my pinafore falls just below my knees. A pale grey blouse and a black cardigan, both of which distance me from my old school colours.  I wear my school tie, of course. Authenticity is key. I’ve procured badges, made myself Head Girl AND a Prefect (Star pupil, butter wouldn’t melt, innocent and trustworthy, such a girl does not harbour impure throughts or dark fantasies).

Incidentally I was a Prefect at school, but everyone was a fucking Prefect. There was something of a dearth. Anyway. Then there’s the hair. Bunches or pigtails, something to grip. Underwear and make up choices are up to Him. He decides if I am pure or wicked. Saint or sinner.

The air of the schoolroom extends to my tastes within the D/s dynamic of my relationship, too. Corporal punishment, standing in the corner and writing lines all features as forms of discipline He has used and will continue to use to improve my behaviour.

And long may that continue.

Before
After

Wicked Wednesday – Wedding Belle Blues

Content warning: degradation. NSFW. Please avoid if you are squeamish about such things!

Prompt: Wedding

This is dedicated to my dear Hannah. With love x

“He’ll never love you.” She said weakly to her reflection, a vision with puffy red eyes and crumbs of mascara peppered around them like funereal glitter. Her flushed chest matched the crimson hue of her eyelids. The bridesmaids dress, which had once held her like a lover and accentuated the curve of the arse that the groom had fucked the night before his engagement party, now hung a little less naughtily, gaping where her hunched shoulders diminished the volume of her breasts, threatening to be exposed by the dress, that was now sizes too small.
She reached underneath her skirts and pulled off the plain black briefs, sodden. She pressed them to her face, her own arousal seeping onto her pink cheeks. Peering at the mirror over the bundle of wet material, she continued.
“You’re stupid and gross and ugly.”
Goose pimples of excitement rose on her arms as she said the words. She shifted on the hard wooden surface of the chair, seven layers of tulle netting grating her skin. She pictured the raw, red rash on her thighs, maybe even drawing little spots of blood here and there. She shifted so that her outer lips spread against the seat.
Six months before the wedding, she’d sat in this position on the groom’s face. His tongue was jabbing into her cunt and he left handprints on her arse that took over a week to shift. The fading bluish bruise of his fingertips nipped at her skin when the bride rang to ask her to be a bridesmaid.

Slowly she worked the cum-drenched underwear into her mouth, staring at herself in the glass.
“Pig.” She thought, and moaned as her clit rubbed against the polished surface of the chair.
“No, stupid girl, not yet. Not yet.” Her inner voice admonished.
She controlled herself to absolute stillness, and when she had tuned out the sounds of the wedding party two floors below, she brought a hand to her cheek, drew it back and then smacked herself in the face. She gasped and felt giddy, her heart racing. Her face was even pinker and puffier than before. Her own taste filled her mouth and her nipples stiffened.
She pulled the knickers out of her mouth and put the wadded fabric between her thighs, grinding against it.
“Stupid pig.” She muttered disdainfully, then looked at herself again. Right in the eye.
“Stupid. Pig.” She said, loudly, clearly, enunciating each word as she began to hump the ball of panties. She reached into the front of the dress and exposed her breasts to the chill air of the bridal suite.
“Stupid ugly fucking slut.” She ground her cunt harder against the wad. Harder and harder, feeling her climax build.
The groom had liked her on all fours, all holes accessible as he took his fancy. That morning as she helped the bride get ready for the most important day of her life, he had texted her with her instructions, and slipped the duplicate key card into her cleavage as surreptitiously as he could at the wedding breakfast. It had dug into her skin and made her smile all through vegetable soup, chicken supreme and strawberry shortcake.
Her cunt began to clench as if grabbing for an imaginary cock, her clit rubbed raw. She looked up and smacked herself in the face again and her orgasm crept closer and closer. She grabbed at her breasts and pinched her nipples until the flesh turned white and on a final, triumphant cry of “You gross, disgusting, stupid, ugly pig.” She came and wet her knickers for the second time. She had to grab the back of the chair tightly as her first instinct was to collapse forwards. She tried to catch her breath as she heard the faint beep of the door being unlocked, and the handle being turned.
The bride and groom stood in the doorway.
“Well, well, well – what have we here?” Said the bride with amusement.
“I’ll see you two later.” The groom offered, the same note of smugness in his own voice. They were perfect for each other. Made for each other.
The bride lifted her skirts, seven layers of tulle.
“On your knees, stupid pig. It’s my turn now.”
The bridesmaid felt her stomach lurch with lust as she fell to the carpet and raised her reddened face to her mistress’s cunt.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Something about not climbing trees

I almost talked myself out of it, knowing a punishment would be over relatively quickly but my honesty would be valued.

It was a simple enough task, though.

“Lipstick, eyeliner. And no underwear. ”

Gulp.

I hate not wearing underwear, knickers especially. I wear them in bed. I wear them under my pyjamas. They’re comforting, even though my mum tuts and says I should let my vag get some air, only in a much more mum-like fashion. And he wanted me out in public, without them. Without my security blanket.

I was already flustered as I left the house. He rang to say he was at the gate. I rang him back sixty seconds later to double check I had knickers at his (“Yes. Lots.”)

He watched me take out the bins, and totter towards him with bags.

“You look lovely.”

“I did as I was told.”

He nodded and opened the car door for me. I slid my bum awkwardly over the seat, trying to make sure there was sufficient skirt protecting his mother’s upholstery. 

He stroked my knee and started the engine. As we turned onto the highstreet, I took the hem of my skirt between my fingers and raised it until I could see my cute little pubic mound. He glanced over and groaned. I thought about how damp my inner thighs were getting. 

We parked up outside Marks and Spencer and I exited the car gingerly. He grinned. When I bent my knees to take a packet buns from the bottom shelf of a display, the low murmur of ‘Good girl’ in my ear was everything.

I can’t wait to do it again. 

Ahahahahaha ‘Butt’

I have a boyfriend. A lovely, kinky, dominant-in-all-the-right-ways boyfriend. He relieved me of my cumbersome virginity (More on that in subsequent posts). He eats pussy like he needs it to survive. And he likes things up his bum – tongues, fingers, implements. He’s an adventurous chap.
At first I was sceptical. He wanted to do it to me, I wasn’t comfortable with his face being that close to the bit of anatomy that makes, as we so charmingly call them “Donalds”. Or mine for that matter, but mostly his. His adoration of my arse was still something of a mystery. Well, not quite. I could absolutely understand why he liked to take his hand, paddle, or even my hairbrush to it. I was just finding it difficult to get a handle on why he wanted to bury his face in it.
He didn’t care. He wanted to do it. And I looked at him askance and carried on sucking his cock.

Some time later, we were taking a bath together (we are twee fuckers and no mistake) and the subject came up again. We were soaped up. Our bums were in the optimum state for rimming.  The run up went something like this:
‘I want to do this to you.’ he said.
‘Why?’ I said, not unreasonably.
‘Because. Because I do. I like your bum. Love it, in fact.’ he said.
‘And you like it being done to you?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ He nodded. “It feels…. amazing.” He might have been soaping my foot at the time, stroking bath bubbles up and down the pink, crinkled sole. Examining my chubby toes. I was reluctant to move from the warm cocoon of the bath and his gentle touch. But if there was a time to do it, now was absolutely that time.
I said ‘ok then’, and stood up,  slightly wobblily in the bath. Part of me just wanted to get it over and done with, but another part was astounded I’d agreed to let a man put his mouth so close to such a gross part of my anatomy, however clean it was. I tried to quieten the voices of my anxiety and germphobia.
I wanted to do it for him.
I knew he wouldn’t push the matter and would live without it if I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want to deny him anything.

It was…… anticlimactic. I didn’t feel dirty, or exposed or deviant. I didn’t feel anything at all, other than a little let down by my nerve endings, and that there was little point in his doing it to me if all I got was cramp in my thigh from being bent over whilst he went to work.
‘I’m sorry.’ I said, turning back around to face him.
‘It’s ok.’ He was smiling. He’s perfect.
‘And now you….’ I grinned shyly, apprehensive again for an entirely different reason.
We swapped over, and I, very gingerly, repeated the process on him.
Oh.
The noise from him. The noise I ache to hear, that seems to flow from his chest like fire and sets contented pleasure flowing through my veins The tension that wobbled in his knees as soon as the tip of my tongue flickered gently against his skin and proved how much he wanted it.
It surprised me how swift and powerful his response was.
It was just as Belle de Jour once wrote, that “the tiniest flicker of your tongue goes further there than anywhere else.”

Well, on some people at least.
On my person for sure.

After a moment or two more – I drew away and he sat back down and reached for the shampoo. Now we knew the lay of the land, the laying on of tongues could wait for another time.

But now I could picture myself knelt behind him with my wrists crossed against my lower back, or being permitted to stroke his cock from the same position, if I’d been particularly good.

And if he’s particularly good, I might even let him do it to me again.

(The butt in question is pictured above)

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A First Meeting

Last year I ran a Giveaway, for which the winner of the Kink Craft cuff set and personalised erotica was Mistress Heather
Her request was specific ‘a first meeting between her and myself, and, after a very long gap, it is finally finished and has her approval for you guys to read it, too.

As I stepped off the carriage onto the platform, my heel caught in the pattern that peppered the tile intermittently, guiding blind commuters to the spaces where the doors would slide open. I skidded forward on my heels – higher, pointier than I was used to – and in the crush of bodies, fell awkwardly onto my knees.  Humiliation as fuel for the early morning workers of London, the crowd stopped for what felt like a full minute, silence followed by stifled laughter. Or not so stifled. Then they moved on.
As the crowd eventually thinned and I looked about me, I found myself looking up into her face. “Good morning.” She said evenly, without emotion. She didn’t hold out a hand to help me up, just watched as I scrambled to my feet and brushed the platform dirt off my skirt.
“Good morning, Mistress.” I replied.
“Clumsy.” She observed, turning on her heels – higher, pointier than any I had ever seen, and she moved on them as though she was barefoot. “Follow.”
She walked quickly, cutting through the thrust of human traffic imperiously with me scuttling behind her like a naughty child.
Outside the station, she hailed a cab.
“The Dorchester.” She instructed the driver, and made herself comfortable. I clutched my bag to my chest and began to worry if I was dressed appropriately for the swankiest hotel in the country.
“Your skirt is very short. Your blouse very low cut.” She said, directing her words out of the window, rather than to me. “And you cannot walk on those heels at all, can you?”
“No, but I was directed to.”
“You were. You can follow a simple instruction. Alert the press.”
I glanced down at her own skirt, clinging to her thighs, tapering at the knee, just above her shiny black boots.
“I’m taking you for afternoon tea, and we’ll see if you can act like a lady once I’m finished with you. If not, I’m sure I’ll find a use for you.”
She turned her head briefly to look down at my legs, then returned her gaze to the grey pavements of the city, only saying.
“I do hope that’s not a ladder beginning in your stockings.”
We carried on the rest of the journey in silence.

The hotel was just as palatial as I had feared. A doorman in a long grey coat and a cap nodded to us deferentially as we entered the building. An elderly be-suited gentleman at a podium looked up when we approached the drawing room.
“Ladies.”
“Heather.” She said, simply. And he nodded.
“Of course, we’re expecting you. Clotilde- “He motioned to a young girl in shades of black and white. “Will show you to your table. And I hope you don’t mind, but you’ll find a chilled bottle of the Dom Perignon 2002 waiting for you. A gift from Mr Petit.”
The faintest smile crossed her lips.
“Thank you.”
He bowed his head and Clotilde lead us through the plush, flower-filled room to a central table, surrounded by chattering women wolfing down their afternoon teas. An almost baying audience for whatever she would inflict on me. My heart began to thud. True to his word, ‘Mr Petit’ had left a large bottle of vintage champagne waiting for us, and a card.
When we were both seated, she reached for the note and read it, smiling again.
“One of the lesser managers here. He’s into CBT and tiny cock humiliation. I only idly mentioned I was coming here and- “She motioned to the bottle, evidence of her power and skill of manipulation.
Clotilde returned to take the orders for drinks, everything else having been taken care of.
“ Lapsang Souchong and a glass of milk, Semi-skimmed, tepid, for the girl. Thank you.”
Clotilde nodded and left to attend to our requirements.
After examining the cutlery for scuffs and soap spots, Heather rested her hands on the table and looked at me.
“What are your words?
“Yes, Mistress. No, Mistress. I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”
“Good girl. Once again, simple instruction didn’t fox you. Now, your clothes.”
For the first time since our meeting an hour ago, she let her gaze wander over my outfit as I tried to sit up straight with my knees pressed together.
“Undo the top button on your blouse.”
She instructed, as Clotilde returned with an ornate china teapot and a child’s beaker of milk. The waitress politely turned her eyes away from my exposed flesh, informing Heather that the first course of finger sandwiches and savoury pastries would be out shortly.
“Now another button. I want to see if you can follow other simple instructions.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
When the flash of lace on my bra was visible, she held up her hand. It had been a very specific instruction; white lace, new, a size too small so my flesh spilled obscenely out of it.
“Perfect. I’m even a little impressed you have followed this instruction to the letter.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
She nodded, and sipped her tea.
“Drink your milk.”
I took a sip. Though I had made a quiet face of disgust – away from her view, of course – when she had told Clotilde to bring me my milk at room temperature, the unusual warmth began to soothe me a little.
When I put the glass down, she raised her hand.
“Stand up.”
I stood with my hands crossed in front of me.
“Come here.”
I walked calmly over to her and stood at her side.
Without so much as a glance about her, she reached under my skirt, up my thigh until her rouge noir nails grazed the chubby flesh of my pubic mound.
“Disgraceful.” I could hear the smile in her voice, feel her pleasure as she carefully extended her index finger and dug the nail sharply into the fat, twisting it, gauging my reaction. I inhaled sharply and coughed. My eyes threatened to water, but I swallowed and kept my gaze on the painted archway before me, wondering what our genteel audience were possibly thinking.
“You were positively panting to act like a little slut today, weren’t you? I bet when I told you to take your knickers off on the train down you had to be stopped from debasing yourself in that stinking toilet cubicle.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress.”
“Yes you are.”
A second finger passed between my outer lips, but I knew this was only to see what her touch had done to me. Any pleasure of mine was inconsequential, only hers in torturing and playing with me held any importance. The only importance.
“You are very wet, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“You like it when I hurt you, don’t you?”
She jabbed her finger harder when I took a second too long to answer.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Fetch me your knickers.”
When I leant over my bag to retrieve them, she called out. “Bend at the waist, not at the knee.” Knowing that the split in my skirt would reveal the lower curve of my backside to every pair of eyes behind me.
I returned to her side and held them out. She fingered them briefly for a moment or two, examining the damp white lace.
“Now, then. Shall we stuff your stupid mouth, or your slutty wet cunt? Of course, a cunt like yours should be plugged to stop you letting it do your thinking for you; but if I stuff your mouth then you can’t embarrass me by saying something foolish. And I do so hate to be embarrassed by unthinking, selfish submissives. Come here and open your mouth.”
I obeyed, and knelt beside her. With the hand she had used to torture me, she smoothed the hair over my forehead, and began to push the fabric between my lips, filling the space up until my eyes bulged. The tiniest sliver of white was visible. She nodded.
“Sit down, I can see the waiter with our sandwiches.”
I sat and watched as a young man in his twenties appeared with a tiered cake stand and set it on the table.
“Cream cheese and cucumber, ham and tomato and plain cheese sandwiches. Creamed mushroom pastries, and beef wellington amuse bouche. Would Madam like me to pour her champagne?”
“Please. And a small glass for the girl, she can’t handle her alcohol at all.”
The waiter nodded and poured out a half measure into my glass before bowing and leaving, though not without a glance at my chest which he thought was surreptitious, but very much was not.
Heather wiped her mouth and selected two sandwiches for herself, before picking up a third and placing it on my plate. Plain cheese. I looked down at it, my mouth awash with the rough texture of lace and the faint taste of my own arousal. I knew she was watching me. Waiting to see what I would do.
I folded my hands in my lap and looked across at her.
“Oh dear. Your mouth is full and you can’t enjoy your sandwich.”
She punctuated this with a bite of her own, a large one, which she chewed slowly, purposefully. Swallowing, she took a second bite and the rest of the morsel disappeared down her throat.
“What a pity. What a shame. Your mouth is all full up. And you can only sit dumbly and watch me eat my delicious lunch.”
And that is exactly what she did. She ate sandwiches, and delicate pastry tarts, all the while looking at me, laughing when my salivating mouth betrayed me and a stream of drool coursed from the corner of my mouth, down my neck.
When the waiter came to take the savouries away, he noted my single, now slightly dried and curling sandwich on the plate before me.”
“Such a fussy eater.” Heather said simply, shaking her head in embarrassment at my refusal of their delicious food.
“Perhaps she’ll perk up when the sweet arrives. Chubby little girls often do.”
The waiter, trained as they all were to cater to the fancies and cruelties of the moneyed, nodded politely, and removed the demolished plates of savouries. Before he had quite left, she instructed “Undo another of your buttons.”
This time she took out her phone and snapped a photo of me, all bulging cheeks and breasts, gazing blankly into the camera.
“I would like another with you looking more pained, more desperate. Try again.”
She held her phone up again, and I allowed my resolve to fall away, my tears to flow and my eyes to plead. Satisfied, she tucked the phone away.
“I think you may have suffered enough, or at least I’ve grown bored of your muffled voice, when all I should hear is your plaintive “Yes, Mistress. No, Mistress.”
She leant over and placed my champagne glass before me. The old-fashioned kind, wide brimmed and shallow, rather than a tall, skinny flute.
“Open your mouth.”
She whipped her phone out again for a third photo.
“Now spit.”
The wad of sodden fabric fell into the glass with a surprisingly delicate splash, coinciding with the second tower of treats being set upon the table.
I blushed, but Mistress was having none of my embarrassment.
“Now, you didn’t touch your sandwiches so have you really earned your pudding? I’m not sure you have. And these cakes look so delicious. Look at those huge, fluffy scones with their dish of clotted cream. I know how much you enjoy cream and jam. The sensuality of the texture.”
The waiter departed again as she motioned to the sweet little pots on the middle tier.
“Why don’t you engage with the texture a little more? Why don’t you press your fingers into them?”
I faltered.
“It wasn’t a request, was it?”
“No, Mistress.”
“So why didn’t you do it immediately?”
“I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress.”
“You are.”
I slid my fingers into the seasonal jam – raspberry and rose – and clotted cream dishes and drew them out slowly, both thickly coated, one pink and glistening, one creamy white, like a slightly aged snowdrift.
“That’s right, you want to make sure your digits are entirely covered. And now you’re going to do some finger-painting. A simple word, because of your stupidity. Slut. All in caps. Now.”
I carefully spelled out the word across my exposed chest, the colours mixing a little as I finished the T and looked up into her face for approval. She was holding up her phone again.
“Now lick your fingers clean. Oh dear, now you’ve made even more mess on your stupid, pudgy face.” She tutted and put the phone away again. I watched her reach for a scone, spread it liberally with cream, then jam and place it, open-faced, on my plate.
“Eat your scone.”
She watched me take a mouthful, then returned her attention to her phone. I knew what she was doing; it was part of the agreement. There were select people those images would be sent to. Other Domintrices to show off her possession; other subs to make them feel guilty about their reluctance to debase themselves for her, my own phone, and that of my partner, sitting at the match, eagerly awaiting the picture documentation of the afternoon.
The scone was heavenly, and quickly finished. Heather, meanwhile, topped up her own glass of champagne, then poured a measure more over my knickers, displayed in mine. She took a decadent chocolate torte from the plate and, cutting it in two, leant over to feed me my own half. The filling was dense and velvety, and seemed to be even more decadent coupled with the sensation of Heather’s hand trailing down my neck, caressing the skin just above the creamy mess on my décolletage.
“Wasn’t that nice?”
“Yes, Mistress.” I replied, thinking of the damp markings I was leaving on my heavily upholstered chair, and smiling briefly.
“Good. Which macaron would you like?”
“The pink one, please?”
“Yes, you may take that one.”
Light as a feather, it almost crumbled in my hand, and melted away on my tongue like candyfloss.
It was now later enough in the day, that the afternoon tea crowd had dispersed quite a lot.
“I think there is still a little time left before I have to take you back to the station. And we can’t have you going out in public with your cunt on display, open for anyone to touch it, particularly you. Take your panties and come here.”
She knew that I knew what was coming left, and stood with my legs further apart then was natural. She took them from my hand, not bothering to wring them out, and once again her hand trailed up my thigh, a trickle of expensive champagne travelling down my calf as she began to push the sodden fabric inside me. Inch by inch, cold and wet, I inhaled sharply as she began to fill me.
“Now, hold up your skirt so we can send a nice photo to your beloved so he knows what to expect, and that you won’t get into any trouble on your way home.”
It must have been the flash that finally alerted someone to what we had been doing; the elderly gentleman from the podium walked quickly over to us as my skirt fell back to my knees and Heather swiftly removed her hand.
“Ladies….” He began, but she held up that self-same hand, shining in the artificial light with vintage champagne and girl-cum.
“Thank you, we were just leaving. But what a repast you provided for us. How delicious and satisfying, wasn’t it?”
I looked from her face, to his furrowed brow.
“Yes, Mistress.”
Agog, he made to speak again, but we had already gathered our things and were heading for the exit.
“I trust the car is waiting for us?” She called back over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply.
Of course it was.

The journey back to Euston was silent again, but as I sat with my hand resting on the spare seat between us, she very gently reached over and stroked my fingers.
She stepped out of the cab to straighten me out – button up my shirt, brush stray hairs from my face – and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“We must do this again.” She said, smiling at me – specifically at me – for the first time that day.
“Yes, Mistress.”
I nodded, turning into the crowds. Of course, when I looked back, she had already gone.