Nexus Confessions Page 4

I answered with equal haste. ‘Get down on your knees if you want a close-up view.’ Another wicked idea shot into my mind and, before common sense could tell me it was insane, I added, ‘You can get your prick out and wank if you want.’

  He did not need any more encouragement.

  I tore off my skirt and stood wearing only a beer-sodden blouse. Tim was on his knees in front of me, stroking a thick erection that looked on the verge of spurting. I tried to meet his gaze but his eyes were fixed on my pussy. When I reached down and started to stroke myself, I watched him roll his fist up and down the length of his hard prick.

  We were outside the bathroom door, in just the right place so that we wouldn’t be disturbed should either Ron or Peter decide to follow us up. I moved so I was standing inside the bathroom, and Tim was on his knees on the small landing outside.

  Deciding to give him the best show possible, I sat down on the toilet seat and splayed my pussy lips wide apart.

  His eyes shone with approval.

  I stroked my fingers against the glistening wetness of my hole, teasing the flesh, stretching the lips and touching lightly against the pulsing throb of my clitoris.

  Tim stroked faster. I watched his fist engulf his shaft, squeezing so tight the glans turned purple.

  Following his lead, realising there was little time available to us, and trying to cram as much into the few moments we had, I pulled my sex open and rubbed vigorously against the pulse of my clitoris.

  Tim’s eyes were massive. He devoured me with his gaze. His hand became a blur as it stroked briskly back and forth along his length.

  The swell of a climax built inside me. Its power was made phenomenal by Tim’s lascivious interest and my own pleasure at being watched. As my hips bucked towards the teasing fingers of my own hand, I came close to losing my precarious position on the lavatory seat. Trying to make the show complete for Tim, I wrenched open my blouse and revealed myself naked, sitting before him, and masturbating furiously.

  He rolled his eyes and his hand worked more swiftly.

  I continued to tease myself, not sure how much longer I could continue before the pleasure burst from my pussy.

  The mood was almost broken when Ron’s voice trailed up from downstairs. ‘What’s taking you so long up there, Tim?’

  Tim grinned at me and called down, ‘I’m just coming.’

  I almost giggled. If I hadn’t been watching his shaft spurt a delicious ooze of spunk, I probably would have spoilt the moment and laughed out loud. Instead, because it was so exciting to watch his eruption, I felt my own orgasm take hold. I plunged my fingers deep inside my sex and clutched the toilet seat with the other. The climax shook its way through my body. I trembled against the seat, spent and satisfied. When I looked at Tim I saw he was still milking the last droplets of semen from his shaft. A small sticky pool lay on the bathroom’s lino in front of him.

  As I knelt down to wipe it up with a wad of toilet paper I told him, ‘This won’t happen again.’

  He grinned. ‘It was good enough for me that it happened this once.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ I warned. ‘If Ron found out, that you’d watched me . . . I mean seen . . .’ I couldn’t complete the sentence because it was too humiliating to say the words. Instead I said, ‘If Ron found out, he’d be very upset.’

  ‘Ron won’t find out,’ Tim promised. ‘And if you don’t want it to happen again, it won’t happen again.’

  And, while his words did give me some reassurance, they didn’t put my mind totally at ease. Part of it is because I know Peter and Tim will talk. But part of it is because I want it to happen again.

  THE MATCH is on again next Wednesday evening, and I know Peter and Tim are coming round to watch it with Ron. It’s crossed my mind that if Ron gets held up at work, delayed in traffic, or if his car leaves him stranded at the office, I might have to entertain Peter and Tim alone in his absence. The thought makes me sick with excitement and dread. I can picture an ignored football match in the background while Peter and Tim stroke off to the saucy strip show I do for them. It’s a recurring fantasy that grows stronger every time I allow myself its indulgence. The stripping is a small part to begin with. In the most recent version of that daydream the stripping has become incidental.

  Twice now, I’ve stopped myself from texting a message to Tim. I want to ask if it’s likely that Ron’s car might not get him back from work on Wednesday evening. It might be wiser to phone the question through to Tim, so he can properly understand what I’m saying. After all, I don’t want Ron to suspect he’s been deliberately delayed. It would be much better if Ron simply thought he was a victim of circumstances.

  – Sharon, Sussex, UK

  Figging the Brat

  In the interest of honesty, I have to own up. I confess that I was crafty and manipulative but she started it. Turnabout is fair play.

  It started the bright summer morning that I called my dear friend and long-time rival, Cynthia. I asked her, ‘It’s been a while. Why don’t you come for dinner on Thursday?’

  ‘For overnight, Justine?’

  ‘Of course. It’s hardly worth the drive, otherwise.’

  ‘Is my Babs invited?’

  I licked my lips in anticipation. Deliberately sounding doubtful, I said, ‘Sure. No problem.’

  Babs is Cynthia’s ‘brat’. She’s not a naughty child in the usual sense. For a start, Babs is delightfully nubile and nineteen. Like me, Cynthia is a dominant woman who prefers ‘innies’ to ‘outies’. Unlike me, she likes her girls to be – brats. Brats act up to earn the spankings they crave. I find that a bore. My pets earn their tannings by being good. When I slap a bottom, I do so with love, never out of anger, even pretended anger.

  Babs has cinnamon curls, a petulant face and a pouty round bottom that just begs to feel the weight of my palm. Cynthia liked to dress Babs in drastically cropped tops and extreme low-rider boy-cut shorts made of clinging fabrics, the better to show off her long lean midriff and the curvaceous cheeks of her plump little bum.

  Babs was a brat, but she was a succulent one.

  ‘Sevenish?’ Cynthia asked me.

  They arrived at ten to eight, a little earlier than I expected. Cynthia’s body was draped in a flowing ankle-length black cotton dress, with a coarse enough weave to show the pink of her skin. It was button-through, with just three buttons. The highest came below and between her nipples. The lowest fastened directly over her pubes. Each twist of her body displayed the inner curve of a soft little breast. Each step she took flashed her thighs to well above the tops of her lace-top black stay-up Dim nylons.

  Babs was in pale-blue satin – a military-style jacket that was cropped high enough to show off the rounded undersides of her breasts and shorts abbreviated enough to display the lush half-moons of her bottom.

  While Babs unloaded the bags from their Mercedes, Cynthia and I kissed hello briefly, but with busy wet tongues. She likes to play a game of trying to arouse me enough that I’ll lose my composure. I enjoy that. I arouse easily but I never lose my composure.

  I poured arid Beefeater martinis for us adults and something sweet and only mildly alcoholic for young Babs. Cynthia crossed her knees to let one elegant leg project through the open front of her dress. ‘Where’s your girl?’ she asked me.

  ‘Switzerland. Finishing her Masters.’

  ‘You must be lonely.’

  ‘I keep myself amused.’

  ‘Even so.’ She looked thoughtful. I guessed she had something in mind but I was content to wait to find out what.

  I kept the meal simple – T-bones, Portobello mushrooms, broiled yellow tomatoes from a local grower, hot baguettes straight from my oven, with a nice crisp Hillebrand Estates Merlot. I believe in drinking the vin du pays. I poured Babs a third of a glass of wine. Being a brat, she likes to be treated like a child in some ways and as an adult in others. When it came to drinks, she considered herself all grown up.

  When she saw the portion I’d poured her, she stuc
k out her lower lip and reached for the bottle. I told her, ‘No!’ Her hand snatched back like I’d whacked her knuckles with a ruler. Cynthia looked at me as if she wanted to protest at my disciplining her protégée but she bit her tongue. She gave me another look later, when I asked, in a commanding voice, if Babs would clear the table. Babs complied but with sulky pouts, exaggerated swaying of her young hips and lots of unnecessary clatter.

  They were up to something. Babs was never that obliging. Cynthia hated anyone else telling her brat what to do. When they thought I wasn’t watching, they exchanged secret glances. Cynthia nodded at Babs, unaware that I had noticed.

  Babs said, ‘I’m bored!’

  I told her, ‘You may watch television in the library, or there are lots of books if you’d like to read. Some have pictures.’

  ‘Don’t wanna!’ Babs stamped, hard.

  I looked at Cynthia, interested to see where this charade was leading.

  ‘Do as you’re told,’ she said.

  ‘No, no, no! Won’t, so there!’

  Cynthia pointed to a spot on my blackened random-pine floor, close to her feet, and demanded, ‘Come here!’

  Swaggering, but with an obviously faked fearful look on her face, Babs obeyed. Cynthia reached up and over with her left hand, grabbed Babs by her hair and tugged the girl down over her left thigh. Babs squealed, kicked and flailed her arms, but quite ineffectually. Cynthia was deft, I’ll give her that. Her long lovely right leg went up and over, trapping Babs behind her knees. Cynthia’s left hand secured Babs’s wrists. A swift yank pulled the girl’s shorts down to the middle of her thighs, leaving the twin pink mounds of her bottom naked and elevated.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ I asked Cynthia. ‘A cane or a strap or something?’

  ‘My hand will suffice.’ Her palm rose and fell with a resounding clap that betrayed a cupped palm, making more noise than was necessary.

  I watched Babs’s punishment with some enjoyment. The slow blossoming of the girl’s cheeks made a pleasant enough sight but I was more interested in Cynthia’s face. She has a vulpine cast to her features that I find quite erotic. The act of spanking accentuated the feral quality of her features, suffusing them with lust.

  Once in a while, Cynthia and I had kissed and occasionally caressed in what we pretended was a casual way but it had been years since we’d tried anything serious, sexually. We each found the other’s body attractive. The problem was our minds. Domme-on-Domme just doesn’t work. I hadn’t forgotten the way her nipples felt between my fingers, though, nor the sweet aroma of her pussy.

  I wondered, watching her smack her brat’s firm little bottom, whether her sex was seeping and, if so, did it still smell like scorched butterscotch.

  She was watching me, watching her spank Babs. I was supposed to get turned on by their little exhibition, and I was, but I didn’t let it show. The slaps fell into a steady rhythm, each blow landing low, on the undersides of the girl’s bottom, right cheek, left cheek, then directly across the pretty plumpness of her sex where it was compressed backwards between her teenage thighs. I counted under my breath. By the time Cynthia got to 70 Babs’s sex was oozing. Her squeals and protests had stopped. She was wriggling and panting, with little grunts from time to time. Cynthia was biting her lower lip in concentration. She has a very bitable lower lip, short, full and fleshy, in contrast to the long taut line of her upper one.

  Babs wasn’t my kind of submissive but I had to give her credit. She could take it. The cheeks of her bum were mottled blue and scarlet. If it had been me delivering her spanking, I’d have been considering ending it while she could still walk.

  Cynthia counted, ‘Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred!’ Three fingers of her spanking hand formed a dagger, which she plunged into her victim’s squishy quim.

  Babs arched and flailed her head from side to side. Half a dozen progressively deeper thrusts tipped her over the edge. Gulping and shuddering, she climaxed.

  Cynthia gathered her brat up into her lap, cuddled her and crooned words of praise, ‘Such a brave girl! I’m so proud of you,’ and the like. My friend’s mouth nibbled over her victim’s cheeks, feasting on the tears that saturated them. Their mouths found each other, Cynthia’s devouring, Babs’s slack with surrender. The girl snuggled lower, nuzzling, popping Cynthia’s top button. A pair of sulky lips sought and found the dark-brown cone of a nipple and suckled, pumping the tidbit in and out of her mouth.

  Much D/S behaviour is ritualistic. I recognised the little exhibition that followed as a well-practised sexual rite.

  Cynthia crooned, ‘Who’s my very best baby girl, then?’

  Babs released the swollen morsel. ‘Babs is?’

  ‘And does Babs love her Auntie Cynthia?’

  Her use of ‘Auntie’ was interesting. Those two aren’t related. A ‘Mistress and brat’ relationship often involves age-play. It seemed that in their case there was an element of mock-incest as well. How complicated! I much prefer my own brand of D/S – I’m the Mistress. My lovers are my slaves. You can’t get much more straightforward than that.

  Cynthia said, ‘Show Auntie Cynthia how much her Babs loves her, then.’

  Giggling, Babs slithered from Cynthia’s lap, awkwardly, for her shorts still restricted her legs. She slid down between her Mistress’s parted thighs to curl up on the floor between her feet. Cynthia eased her pubes forwards and undid her lowest buttons to finish undoing her dress. Looking at me, she asked, ‘If you don’t mind, Justine?’

  ‘Not in the least. Please go ahead.’ I didn’t feign disinterest but nor did I allow my expression to change. Babs is a noisy eater. I once had a Great Dane that could devour a bowl of stew with less slurping and slobbering than Babs lavished on Cynthia’s pussy. After about ten minutes, Cynthia’s thighs clamped on Babs’s cheeks. Her fingers dragged her brat closer by her hair. She humped at her face a few times and emitted a long soft sigh.

  Cynthia gave me a sly look, up from under her long lashes, searching for some sign of my arousal.

  I asked her, ‘Coffee, Armagnac, or both?’

  Babs went up to bed at eleven. Cynthia and I stayed up to discuss who was fucking whom and whether a mutual friend’s entry would do well at the upcoming Toronto Film Festival. She hadn’t adjusted her dress. Cynthia’s pubes and thighs, still glistening with Babs’s saliva and her own spending, were blatantly on display. Perhaps I was supposed to suggest she button up. Perhaps I was supposed to be overcome by her body’s erotic beauty and fall to my knees in worship. Whichever was expected, I did neither. If ever anything was going to happen between Cynthia and me, it’d be on my terms, not hers.

  It was two in the morning before Cynthia got around to the topic she’d been edging towards all night. ‘I love your house,’ she said. ‘It’s so spacious, but, with your girl away, you must be lonely, no?’

  Of course she loved my house. Who wouldn’t? It was built in 1808, post-and-beam construction, sheathed in clapboard and trimmed with gingerbread, with a wrap-around covered porch. I’d modernised it before moving in, so it’s well insulated, with three-and-a-half bathrooms to complement four bedrooms. My location is ideal, for me. It’s a mile north of Derry Road, just below where a ravine cuts into the face of the Niagara Escarpment. I’m sheltered on two sides by cliffs a hundred and fifty feet high. My land is densely wooded. There’s a quarter mile of curved driveway to get to the house. I’m secluded, which is important to me, but I’m only an hour from Toronto, which is very handy.

  ‘I’m off checking beans for a month, come Tuesday,’ Cynthia told me.

  She deals in coffee futures, so she’s always zooming off to Brazil and Colombia and so on to check on how next year’s crops are coming along.

  I said, ‘Nice. Is Babs looking forward to the trip?’ She frowned and leaned forwards, making the most of her small breasts. ‘I’m visiting twenty-two plantations in thirty days. You know what they say, “She who travels alone travels fastest.” ’

  She paus
ed. I waited.

  ‘I won’t be taking Babs.’

  ‘No?’ I relented enough to ask her, ‘Who’s going to look after her for you while you’re gone?’

  ‘I was hoping . . .?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Would you? She’d be good, I promise.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t. It isn’t in her nature.’ I frowned and made a little moue, as if thinking. ‘Very well, she can stay with me while you’re gone, but she’ll be subjected to my kind of discipline.’

  Cynthia nibbled her lower lip. ‘You wouldn’t be too severe?’

  ‘I promise you, Cynthia, you won’t find a mark on her when you return.’

  The next day, after lunch, when my friend and her girl-toy had left, I drove my Range Rover down into Burlington, to Fortinos, to stock up on groceries. I keep my freezer and pantry full but I don’t usually stock much in the way of sweets and I wanted to be a good hostess, even to a brat. As well as sweets, I selected the juiciest oranges, the reddest apples, a variety of exotics, such as dragon and star fruit, and picked out the largest, gnarliest, juiciest piece of ginger root I could find.

  Cynthia delivered Babs on the Monday afternoon. For a change, the girl’s abbreviated top was a white cotton shirt, worn with a striped tie. Instead of shorts, she wore a tiny tartan kilt. I had to admit that she made a ravishing ‘naughty schoolgirl’.

  She made to carry her bags upstairs.

  ‘Leave those for later,’ I told her.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Don’t grunt. I’m going to go through your things. While you’re in my house, I’ll decide what you wear.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Those are the rules. If you don’t like them, I can call Cynthia to come and pick you up.’

  ‘Cynthia likes me to look nice.’

  I picked up a phone and started punching numbers.

  Babs swayed her hips and toed the floor but she whispered, ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Good. Supper is at seven. Until then, you may play upstairs. I have a playroom on the third floor. The tall cabinet is unlocked. Take a look inside.’