Description
by Grendel Butler
Some of the inhabitants of the quiet, outwardly respectable English village of Much Clacking may well be involved in illicit affairs, wife swapping, domination, spanking, bondage, and much more, but for Roger Blaiten, a newcomer to the village, even the unattached women seem unapproachable.
Finally, by chance, he photographs two women engaged in secretive Lesbian BDSM and decides to blackmail them into satisfying his lusts. The eventual outcome exceeds even Roger’s wildest dreams.
Published: 9 / 2011
No. words: 42950
Something moved at the edge of my vision, and I rolled over to see more clearly what I assumed was a fox, a buzzard, or a muntjac. To my surprise, I saw Caroline approach along the overgrown path. Her magnificent breasts bounced rhythmically under her light jumper like two tethered marker-buoys in a sea swell. She carried a canvas bag and she was wearing black knee boots, strangely I thought, for the air was warm, the sky was cloudless, and the path was dry underfoot. What was she doing in this secret place so late in the day, for she was no bird watcher? Why come alone to Brickett Copse on a weekday evening – except to meet someone?
Naturally, I assumed she was meeting a man. As she was a free agent, I assumed that he was not. He would be a man with a blameless reputation, whose house she could not visit when his wife was away, any more than he could be seen visiting hers. I assumed that she had come enjoy a stealthy shag with him, for the leaf mould in Brickett Copse would be soft and dry, and no one would see them – except perhaps a birdwatcher. My lips twisted to a smirk and my mouth watered with anticipation. It would be frustrating to watch the voluptuous Caroline shag another man, but this time I had my camera with me and I would enjoy seeing her heavy tits bouncing as she tossed herself off on him – for some intuition told me that she would be on top.
I hunkered down, quiet and secure in my hiding place as she passed within a few feet, her big bottom swaying heavily under the folds of her thin summer skirt. She rounded the barricade of thorn and entered the spinney from the farther side. Squirming silently under the gorse, I saw her plainly, waiting under the trees in the green, dappled light, swinging her bag and kicking the leaf mould impatiently. I wondered if the man she was meeting had annoyed her in some way, for she looked angry. Perhaps she was meeting her lover for a confrontation. Then she looked back through the opening in the thorn and relaxed. She folded her arms and waited a little more patiently now, though one of her feet still twitched. I expected to see the man enter through the opening at any moment, having scrambled up through the fields from another direction, and I waited eagerly to see who he was.
But Caroline’s secret companion was no man. When the second figure appeared through the opening, my mouth fell open, for it was Eleanor.
“You’re late!” snapped Caroline, her voice throbbing with fierce unrestrained anger.
“Sorry. Sorry.” Eleanor hung her head contritely and her fingertips fiddled together. “Please don’t be cross with me.”
Caroline’s foot twitched. “Sorry? I’ll teach you sorry. This isn’t the first time you’ve been late. Is it?”
Eleanor stood before her, round-shouldered and trembling.
“Is it?”
“No. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
“Stop whining! Extend your hands!”
“Oh dear!” whimpered Eleanor, extending her hands like an automaton. Her head hung limply, like a discarded marionette’s. “Oh dear!” My eyes must have bulged as I watched Caroline reach into her canvas bag and retrieve a long coil of rope with a wide leather strap attached at one end. This she wrapped tightly round Eleanor’s proffered wrists. “Please. Please don’t -”
“Silence! I told you what would happen if you were late again, didn’t I?” Caroline said lazily, though I could hear the deep relish in her voice. “Well?” She threw the other end of the rope over an overhanging branch, and then wrapped it round a gnarled piece of root at her feet. Reaching into her bag again, she produced a metal locking device and threaded the rope through it. It was the sort of thing rock climbers use to enable a rope to be pulled one way, while preventing it from slipping back. “I said, didn’t I!”
“Yes,” whispered Eleanor forlornly, and so quietly that I could scarcely hear her. “Yes you did, but… oh dear!”
Eleanor waited patiently. Her head hung deeply while Caroline fitted the device to the rope and then heaved on it, dragging the placid, doll-like arms skywards. She heaved more strenuously, the rope tightened, jerking the lighter woman rigidly upright and suspending her by her wrists with only the balls of her feet touching the leaf mold. Still her head hung, and her dark hair flopped forwards, obscuring her face. Blowing from the effort, Caroline reached into her bag a third time and withdrew a long, wicked-looking riding crop. With a truculent sneer, she flexed it under Eleanor’s nose, allowing her to contemplate it thoroughly.
“You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you, slave?”
“You’re going to whip me, mistress,” replied Eleanor in a husky whisper that I could only just make out.
