Today Dan woke up full of energy and suggested going on a hike. I wasn’t too keen. I wanted to stay in all day and pine and wait for Boris to call. More than anything, I wanted to be alone. But then I realized that a day alone would make me restless, and that I’d probably end up stealing something. And was that really what I wanted? A day of pining and stealing and masturbating until my fingers were red and sore?
Well, yes, that’s exactly what I did want, but it was time to move on, to pull myself together. It was time to forget about Boris.
Maybe a hike was just what I needed. A long walk that would stamp out my disappointment, that would get rid of the gnawing, septic pain that was imbedded in me, like a splinter under a nail, growing each day. Growing and growing until now I was just a shell of longing, a nothing, a nobody, until he called.
I had to ask myself, was the pleasure of seeing him ever going to be worth the agonizing periods in which he was away from me?
I knew the answer, of course. Five minutes with Boris was going to be worth days of cold longing. Him inflicting his cruelty on me would turn me into a shivering wreck of pleasure immediately.
So, while the tormenting thoughts chased themselves around my brain, we drove two hours west of London, to a place called X. I don’t want to tell you exactly
where we went, because if you have any kind of voyeuristic tendencies, and I believe some of you do, you’ll probably be tempted to hare off down there
immediately after you hear what goes down there, and I want the place kept nice and quiet, thank you very much.
Because it was a warm day, I was just wearing a tight red sleeveless t-shirt and jodhpurs, with knee length leather boots. Not because we were going riding, but
because Dan likes the way my bum looks in the tight stretchy material. I wasn’t wearing panties, and while I was still lethargic and choked with bitter resentment about Boris, I had no doubt that once we started to walk and I was pumped up with energy, I might fancy some al fresco action.
Dan was whistling away. He hasn’t mentioned Boris since our conversation last week. I think he knows he hasn’t been in touch. To be honest, I think he’s pleased. He’s glad that he’s top dog again.
He’s wearing these worn out jeans I like, that are pretty tight around the crotch, and as we walk, I can feel myself getting distracted by the way his cock looks, pressed up against the threadbare material. He’s also wearing a white tshirt, jean jacket and walking. His hair is all mussed up and there’s a light sheen of sweat on his brown, and the more we walk, up muddy paths, through beautiful valleys, the less interested I became in the autumn foliage and the more I become to take a break and have a bit of sexual relief.
I’m just pulling Dan over and unzipping his flies, when I hear shouting.
“What is that?” Dan asks, prone in the grass, with me straddling him.
My fingers stop unzipping him and I jump up.
“It sounds like a woman, doesn’t it? Do you think someone’s being attacked?” I say, anxiety zipping through me. I race towards the patch of wood from which the cries are coming. Leaning forward, I pull back a sinewy rope of briars, ripping my flesh in the process. As I suck the blood from my fingers, I hear a series of high pitched painful gasps, followed by a long drawn out guttural moan.
Dan comes up behind me and I put my finger to my lips to shush him.
“I can’t see anything,” I whisper.
Still standing behind me, he reached for a branch and moves it aside. The branch makes a dry raspy sound as the leaves rustle against each other.
“There,” he whispers, pointing to the left.
In the middle of a clearing is a naked young woman, her hands tied up above her head, her body roped to a tree. A man holds a switch in his hand, letting his strokes rain down on her, on her breasts, her thighs, her arms. The man before her wears dark green cords and a beige shirt. He is middle aged but handsome, sporting a goatee, his mouth set in a cruel smile. My clit jumps. Something about his demeanour reminds me of Boris. I pull open my zip and rub my smooth cunt, one finger dipping into the dripping hollow.
“You like what you see?” Dan says, pulling up my t-shirt so that my breasts can bob free. As he starts to caress my breasts, they swell under his hands. My index finger is busily working my clit in tiny circles.
The woman writhes against the confines of the rope, which has left red welts on her white skin. I wish it were me, oh how much, you’ve no idea. Dan is rolling my jodhpurs down, pulling off the boots, then kneeling down behind me. Splaying my legs, he begins to tease my clit with his tongue, at the same time probing a finger up my arse and rotating it back and forth in the way that he knows drives me crazy. I shove my cunt back in his face, while I watch this slight pale woman, her hair long and black, her large pendulous breasts shuddering as they're marked by the switch, the faraway look in her eyes, as if high on pain. And all I can think is, “You lucky girl.”
I reach a climax against Dan’s mouth, while the man, maybe because he is tired—it doesn’t look like the woman has had nearly enough—puts down his switch, and
walks over to the woman. Now Dan’s cock is inside me, pumping away from behind, while I steady myself against a tree. The other couple can’t see us and I love that. Love the fact that another orgasm is building inside me and they don’t know a thing about it.
The man is untying the woman and now she's getting dressed, pulling on a long black skirt and peasant blouse and combing her hair. Then they spread out a picnic blanket and opened a rucksack and lay out some food. A pie, some tomatoes, a bottle of wine.
And while they talk to each other, in low, civilized voices, I can’t help noticing the man had left the switch lying by the tree, next to the coiled up rope. And in the stillness I ram myself back against Dan, not being able to stem my cries. The couple look up, curious, anxiety in the woman’s eyes. I duck behind the tree, hoping they haven't seen me.
Dan and I stifle giggles as we tuck in our clothes. Dan is all for sneaking away, but I tell him I have a better idea and to follow me.
There’s a path running behind where the couple is sitting, so Dan and I double back and start casually walking towards them. When we reach the couple, I say, “Oh hi, I was wondering if you might be able to help me. Do you know the area?”
The man smiles, appraising my breasts. “Yes, why?”
“Well, I just wondered if there was a pub near here. We’ve been walking for hours and we’ve worked up quite an appetite.” I give him a lewd smile as I say the last word.
“Yes, of course,” says the woman, and begins to give us directions.
“Or maybe,” the man cuts in, “you’d like to join us?”
“Well, I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to impinge on your picnic.”
“No trouble at all,” he says, gesturing for us to sit down.
Dan seats himself, but I hesitate, staring over to the tree onto which the woman was so recently bound.
“Oh,” I say, once I’ve walked over to it. “Look at that, someone’s left some rope here.” I lean down and pick up the switch. “And what on earth is this? Dan do you have any idea?”
The man colours and looks into his glass of wine. “I don’t know what it could be. Didn’t notice it was there.”
“Oh Dan,” I say, giggling. “Do you know what I think this is?”
“No, what?”
“Well, do you remember that horrid documentary we saw on Channel Four the other night about people who like to well, to hit each other?”
“Yeah,” says Dan, shaking his head in disgust. “God, what awful people. Perverts, sadists, the lot of them. You don’t think one of these deviants has left this in the woods, do you love?”
“Maybe. Ooh, yuck, I don’t want to think about where it’s been,” I say, dropping the switch as if it were on fire.
“Would anyone like some pheasant pie?” says the woman, evidently trying to change the subject.
And so we have a glass of wine and a slice of pie, while I chatter away, acting like a ditzy young women who’s hardly slept with a soul apart from her husband. And I can tell that the man, whose name is Thomas, is absolutely beside himself withexcitement. That he’s dying to put his switch on my lovely firm backside.
And I want him to. At the same time, I didn’t want to relinquish mysense of power. Consequently, I decide to ‘accidentally’ spill some wine on my t-shirt, before shrieking with horror.
“I hate feeling all sticky, don’t you?” I say to the woman, Stella, as I pull the t-shirt over my head. Her eyes are popping out of her head as she gazes at my pert tits, which I mop clean of wine. “I think I have a change of clothes somewhere,” I say, opening my rucksack.
“Oh yes, here we are,” I say, pulling out a white vest and putting it on.
“Well, we must be off,” I say. “Thanks so much for the picnic.”
I could see the bulge in Thomas’s pants. I loved the surge of power it gave me. I was inflicting pain on Thomas because of the pain Boris had inflicted on me by cutting me loose. Stupid, yes. Immensely satisfying? That also.
I loved the fact that he would never have me.
The sweetness of the act fizzed in my mouth like a Refresher for the rest of the day.
