It was one of those big, glossy ‘country’ magazines that started it; you know the kind;
the first half dozen pages are estate agent’s advertisements for huge country houses,
great big estates and even the occasional castle. Then there are ads by Cartier and Asprey
and then that month’s portrait of some toffee-nosed chick – ‘The Honourable Letitia
Stuck-Up Fotheringay Tits, eldest daughter of the Duke and Duchess Tits’. The rest of the
content of magazines of that sort is straight out of cloud-cuckoo land. Anyway, this
particular example had a portrait that got to me somehow. Half-length studio photo of
‘Miss Arabella Bullen’ which was an unusually plain name for a start. Blonde as they come
of course and pretty enough face; much more of her you couldn’t see because of what was
clearly the top half of some vast ball-gown sort of dress, all cream silk and newness..
Damn diamonds all over the bodice bit – which might or might not have held a nice pair,
who knows? I sat and looked at that photo for probably half an hour, that’s how much it
got to me. Three things; the decidedly pretty face, the look in her eyes – and the bit
under the photo meant to enlighten the planet about Miss Arabella Bullen …
The look in her eyes was of total boredom. Boredom with whoever it was looking at her
that is: it said that all her life – all eighteen years of it – she’d never had to ask for
anything, except perhaps from Daddy. Everyone else she told. Told. Didn’t ask. Told the
maid – or whatever it was – to put out her riding kit, told the groom to get out one of
her half-dozen horses. About as sexually motivated as a tub of lard and her idea of a
fun-night would be Sadler’s Wells or Covent Garden. Not my sort: I prefer Josie any time;
Josie does it for money of course but she likes me and I usually like her. Cooks for me
when she’s in the mind – and when she’s not Up West earning money on her back. Wouldn’t
know how to get astride a horse, not Josie, but she does like to get astride a nice long
prick. Some of her friends – well almost all her friends are a bit odd but as they’re
almost always in Dartmoor or Holloway prisons they don’t bother me much.
Unlike Miss Arabella Bullen. The write-up said she was to marry Captain the Viscount
Peregrine ffrench-something or other in four months’ time ‘at the family chapel’ on ‘the
family’s summer estate’ and that it was rumoured that the famous ‘twelve thousand acres
and the Dower House’ would be coming her way as a wedding present. Somebody-Westwood was
making ‘the dress’ and someone else would be transplanting three thousand flowering
rose-bushes to line the ‘famous, ancient avenue to the chapel’. Her sister, also with a
fancy title, was said to be ‘delighted’ – so? I was reading that bit when Josie bombed
into the flat, hung about with the week’s supermarket hit, looking like a dishevelled crow
in her tatty off-duty denims. If it was the magazine that started it, it was Josie
dropping the shopping, saying ‘fuck that for a morning’s work’ and grabbing the crotch of
my trousers to wheedle me into making coffee. I had this flash image you see, of the
Arabella Bullen chick in jeans, lugging the shopping etc …
So while I was humping Josie in the kitchen while the coffee boiled dry, my mind was
pretty much elsewhere, to the extent that she climbed off me and left me alone to spray
the room and the floor: she flounced out of the flat at about eleven that night saying she
was off somewhere where she was appreciated. I had four months …
In four months I found and bought the cottage-place in Essex, sold the London flat,
turned the shares into cash, shifted the job – bloody boring stock-management programming
which I’d always done from home anyway – shifted the IT kit to Essex and offered Josie’s
ever-so-coarse-but-very smart and enormously fat friend ‘Mr Smith’ a bundle of money to do
something for me. He said he didn’t mind doin’ it but he had in mind about five bundles of
money; twenty-five grand so I said ‘I’m not crazy, Mr. Smith’. He did it for five bundles
of money – twenty-five grand … He’s good, or rather, he knows where to hire other people
who are good at things. They lifted Miss Arabella Bullen – or rather The Lady Arabella
ffrench-something, Viscountess something-else as she was by then, exactly thirty-nine
minutes after the register-signing business when she was, would you believe it, in the
actual doorway of her dressing-room calling her maids to get her out of the colossal
wedding-dress. Bloody risky, doing it in the actual house like that but apparently they
figured it was the best place. One maid appeared and had to be lifted too, as far as the
motorway but by that time both the Lady F and the maid had been jabbed and ‘put to kip’.
They did what I wanted in the back of their truck – I was bothered that they might rough
her up a bit or something more enjoyable, but they didn’t. Professionals, you see. Her
maid and the wedding stuff they left in the Ladies’ Room at a truck-stop. Mr. Smith’s
Angie had studied Arabella’s photo and had watched her for a day or two, so the clothes
she’d bought were a perfect fit. They made their delivery in Essex exactly on time – I’d
arranged to be out of sight – and put her in the cellar. Don’t get me wrong, this was a
girl used to all the finer things so it’s a very nice cellar. Got everything. The boys
fixed her up, Angie scrubbed her make-up off, cut her hair and squared-off her finger and
toenails, helped herself to the earrings and the finger rings – bit of a cheek as I heard
later from Mr.Smith that his cut of the rings alone was six thou - then the five of them
and Angie left. Bingo.
I went and had a quick shufti through the grille in the door and could just see into the
bedroom part of the cellar: there she was, my Viscountess thinggy sitting up, well,
propped-up on the big bed with her arms spread wide and nicely chained to the bed-head, a
big and ugly wad of cloth and duct-tape round her lower-face – I’d forgotten to leave the
rubber gag out for Angie - and wearing a slightly-too-tight, cheap and shiny red floozie
dress – stringy shoulder-straps, nice white tits just about spilling out, the skin-tight
skirt pushed up to a few inches below her crotch to expose six black suspenders and pretty
horrible black fishnet stockings. Angie had crammed her feet into winkle-picker red patent
stilts, eight inch heels at least. Nothing if not imaginative was our Angie: I discovered
later that Arabella’s Jean Patou perfume had been replaced by an overdose of something
sugary that must have cost all of a pound a pint. She looked a treat unconscious but I
couldn’t wait to see how she looked when she came round; she’d discover her chained wrists
first and then would inevitably see her tart’s suspenders and stockings. And not be able
to do anything about her rucked-up tart’s dress.
After an hour I was getting a bit worried about her – no signs of life yet – so I crept
in. My word, I’d already got my money back; this chick was mine and there was nothing
wrong with her breathing or her temperature – nice warm tits. Being of an artistic bent
myself I brought a full ashtray down from the house to put by the bed, plus some nice
glossy hardcore magazines and – master touch – made up a ‘spent’ condom with milk and left
it on the bed by her feet. Another test of the temperature of her tits inside the dress
made her shift about a bit so I reckoned I could just go round the corner and watch
through the back of the mirror. I’d thought of calling her something common and
‘professional’ but then I reckoned that waking-up like that but still being addressed as
Arabella Bullen would add to her fun … As an afterthought I peeled-off the tape-and-rag
stuff and replaced it, not without some difficulty, with the nice shit-brown rubber penis
gag I’d bought specially for her; lifelike little fat erection inside and seven inches of
upcurving, equally lifelike erection outside – she could hardly fail to see that waving
about in front of her eyes when she came round.
Come round she did, twenty minutes later and I watched, fascinated, as she took it all
in, beginning almost at once to thrash about on the bed and rattle her wrist chains; all
she could get out of the gag was ug-ug noises and a lot of spit. Despite the fishnets she
had a very nice pair of legs and thrashing them about gave me glimpses of bits of white
thigh and of curly blonde hair at her slit. Bright, is Arabella: after a long time of
hysterical struggling she cooled down, obviously trying to think what she could do next.
She was sitting there with tears running down her face and over the projecting rubber
prick, doing her ‘sensible think it out’ bit when I walked in, all nicely kitted out in
silk shirt and expensive trousers …
“Well now, Lady Arabella, how’s it feel to be married?” was how I started, meaning it to
throw her a bit. What it did was to make her thrash about and go ug-ug ugug again – hardly
what I’d intended. The legs were a hazard, even with one spiked-heel kicked off.
“Even sluts like you” says I, “even sluts like you are expected to lie still when you’re
told” and – not without a bit of a fight with the legs, I managed to strap her ankles wide
apart to the sides of the bed-frame. That produced a sudden lack of motion in her as she
discovered that with her legs wide like that, the tart’s dress rose up even higher. She
began weeping a lot more then and I swear that every bit of her exposed ivory skin turned
red as she realised I was looking at her mound. Nothing she could do about it except start
to tremble a lot and do the ug-ug business, this time complete with bubbles of saliva at
her distended mouth, with the rubber prick waving up and down as she was forced to suck on
its inner companion.
“I hope you’re a nice clean girl,” I said, sitting in a friendly way on the edge of the
bed and looking at her tear-wet and very wide eyes – lovely dark blue they are. “Let’s
have a look …” and I leaned over and just pried her labia open. That made her shake all
over like she had a fever or something; she didn’t close those eyes, they just went
blank.
She had a lovely tight little slit and I reamed it out a bit with two fingers,
discovering a hard little clit in the process.
“Seems OK,” I said, friendly still. “Well now, I need something to eat but then I’ll
come and we’ll have a nice fuck. You be a good Lady Arabella now. Don’t want to have to
thrash you, not in the mood. Not now anyway …” and I got up, gave her a grin and went.
Actually, truthfully, for something to eat. In don’t think she’d ever opened her legs to
anything, except inside a pair of white jodhpurs and sitting on one of her horses, so she
was obviously trying to cope with having her slit exposed to full view, to having it
reamed a bit and to everything else – I guess my promise to shaft her didn’t sink in, not
then. It’d sunk in by the time I got back though, for as soon as those wide, wet blue eyes
saw me she went rigid. As well as never having spread her nice legs before she’d obviously
never seen a nice stone-hard tool either. I dropped the last of my clothes on the carpet…
“Right now, your Ladyship …”
Made of the right stuff is Bella: she shook and trembled a bit and made a good deal of
hissing, bubbling noises round the gag but she lay pretty still, just fisting and
unfisting her hands in the steel cuffs. Most certainly my money’s-worth, she was tight and
wet and long in there, which promised much enjoyment when I had her properly trained –
enjoyment for me that is. I’m a reasonable sort so it would be nice if she got some fun
too – not essential though is it? I humped away at her, all the time thinking how nice her
little cunt was and that this was the chick in white silk and diamonds in the magazine
photo – and it was me shafting The Lady Arabella, Viscountess ffrench-whatever … Funny how
your mind works; on and off since I knew what it was for I’d had this growing fantasy of
poking a pretty, young, gagged chick with her legs strapped apart – very nice fantasy it
was too as it’d accumulated a lot of detail over the years. Well, when I was first into
the Lady Arabella it was just an exceptionally good replay of my fantasy – I knew it by
heart, of course, even down to the imagined rattle of wrist-chains and the noises she’d
make through the gag. Just a super version of the fantasy. The fact that this time it
wasn’t sort of fell on me as I was shoving myself back up her slit for the fifth or sixth
time: I looked down and saw a scrub of blonde curls moving about, all damp and shiny with
the thickness of my shaft buried in it and smelt the smells that the fantasy never had –
the flat sort of smell of scared sweat and of leaked semen and a body that wasn’t mine.
Absolutely suddenly I realised that this was for real – that I was humping a real girl who
didn’t want it, who smelt and felt and shook like real. I really could look down at two
white and spread-wide legs on my bed, legs that terminated at the familiar brown leather
straps that’d been in my cupboard for so long. That the shit-brown rubber gag was, for the
first time ever, in a real mouth, and being worked on in there by a real tongue. At once
the whole bloody-marvellous business wasn’t at all like the fantasy, it was fifty times
better. For a start the bed creaked steadily - I’d never imagined that and her legs were
stiff but trembling. Never imagined that either. Nor the closed eyes; but most of all the
musky, flat smell of it. Doing my fantasy for real. Tremendous. Bloody wonderful …
“Keep still, sweetheart,” I said, panting a bit. She didn’t seem to want to so I yelled
at her, which kept her still and trembling for all of twenty seconds. I’d just given her a
really big shove, so that I felt the end of my tool nudge her cervix, when I came my lot
in there. Not your three-four-five jerks but like warm porridge pumping along the length
of my tool and into her. It was for real, all of it; I really had a snatched chick
strapped down on my bed and a posh ‘touch-me-not’ rich one at that. Probably that’s why I
came my load like that - never happened to me before – it was as if all the hundreds of
times I’d come in some slit or other had been play, not the real thing at all. This was
the real thing, the scared-smell from her and the straps and the gag and the mewing,
ug-ging sounds from the gag. Like I was coming for the first time ever - it just went on
and on as I lay on her rucked-up tart’s dress and on her now-only-partly-covered and very,
very nice firmed-up tits. She bucked her hips just once and I growled ‘keep still’,
savouring spending what seemed like buckets of semen into her, but then she gave just
three quick, tense bucks – baby shudders really – and all round my tool inside her was
suddenly flooded with warm wet honey. So bloody much of it that it emerged mixed with
spunk at her slit and ran down onto the bed. She’d had her eyes shut while I was humping
her but now she just opened them, suddenly, wide as wide. I think she was having trouble
deciding what had happened when I filled her up. She was still looking at me like – utter
surprise is the way I’d describe it - when I pulled out of her – and I had to pull, her
whole body was so tense and trembling that she was completely tight – and wiped myself on
her dress. It dawned on me, looking at her bloody awkward position, her wrists still being
chained wide to the bedhead, that her steady trembling was due to pain in her shoulders as
much as scare …
“You’ve got quite a nice little cunt. Shoulders hurt?”
She was still staring fixedly at my face, still with the surprised expression and still
with tears running silently. “OK. I’ll unfasten your wrists – but you have to get some
things straight first. OK?” Still staring, she waved the brown rubber prick jutting from
her mouth up and down fractionally… Now, either she was hoping for a chance to ‘escape’ or
something stupid like that – or she was just being a good girl; chance I had to take.
“If you do anything silly I’ll thrash you. Ever been thrashed?” No response of course as
the word wouldn’t have meant anything to her. “You do exactly what you’re told and you’re
going to enjoy yourself, my Lady. You disobey one word and you get thrashed. Understand?”
The wide eyes didn’t blink once but after a long moment the rubber prick sticking out of
her face moved slightly up and down again.
“So’s we understand each other,” I said, friendly like, sliding naked off the bed and
opening the top drawer of the bedside cabinet-thing, “this is a thrashing …”
I saw her eyes latch onto the short red rubber strap and follow it but she clearly hadn’t
made any sort of connection; how could she? Not until I sat down at her waist level and
began to beat the insides of her thighs. That strap had hung with all the other stuff in
my cupboard and had never been used – well, only to whap the arm of a chair to make a nice
sound. Now I was doing it for real, seeing, hearing, feeling the red rubber impact on
strapped-apart white thighs. Beating a chick’s thighs - not hard but just enough. Nobody,
but nobody, probably not even nanny had ever even slapped her, not even a quick slap to
the backs of her legs when she was a toddler – if she ever was one. So a steady, rhythmic
beating to the insides of her strapped-apart thighs with a rubber strap by a naked male
came as a bit of a shock; to the extent that she did her very best to leap up off the bed
and then remained there in an upward, shuddering, flinching curve as the strap went
Flattt! Flattt! Flattt! Flattt! Flattt! Filling the room with sound – over and above the
creak of the bed and the sharp yanking metallic sound of her wrist chains – and mottling
her ivory white thighs mulberry red. The rubber prick at her mouth jerked and waved as she
bit and chewed on the stubby shaft between her teeth and saliva flew and she did the
mewing and breath-hissing. Doing it wasn’t what turned my prick into a tent-pole again; it
was the realisation that I was really doing it. .
Flattt! Flattt! Flattt! Flattt! I really wasn’t very much aware of having to flail the
strap at those widespread white thighs for something else much more powerful had taken
hold of me: the new and recurring discovery that it was the proud, confident Arabella
Bullen of the magazine photo who was beside me with her legs wide while I thrashed her
thighs. That was exotic, sexual magic. That was enough to make my shaft stand up even more
eagerly and to wave about with all the activity. What to do? I wanted to spend the next
twenty minutes or so discovering if it was safe to release her, not shafting her again:
easy, one hand to wield the rubber strap, the other to jerk myself off so that I sprayed
her reddening thighs and beat that into her red skin too … I could do anything to her. Any
of the things that filled my fantasy and every one would be accompanied by the realisation
that it was real, happening, me doing it … Every one would be as stupendously powerful an
experience as that fantastic come … Any thing.
So pulled down the bodice bit of the lousy red dress and trailed the semen-slick strap
across her tits and gave her a grin, saw the sudden rigid fright in her great blue eyes –
and the glitter of tears there. I could say anything…
So I said it, not for her benefit but to hear myself saying it, for real. I said it
slowly, feeling my prick respond
“Lady – Arabella – I – have – decided – that – you – need – to – have – your – breasts –
beaten –with – a – rubber – strap.”
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