Pleasure in the Pillory

It was an advertisement which changed my life. It sent me on an upwards spiral of pain and pleasure from which I never wish to descend.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Penelope Paulizter, and my parents had a thing about alliteration. Of course, if I had been the marrying kind that could have been ruined unless I had I married someone named Parker, or Patterson, or Pathanaiakos – or Paulitzer. But since men don't interest me – well, not in

that

way – I'm stuck with Penelope Paulitzer.

The advertisement intrigued me. It was in a literary magazine and read, in a strict, no-nonsense way, as follows:

WRITER of historical romances (female) seeks researcher (female, preferably) for her next trilogy. The successful applicant will live in at the writer's home. Apply in writing to ....

And there was a box number. I say I was intrigued. It wasn't the baldness of the words, it was those two words in parentheses – or, rather, the same word twice – which caused me to consider applying. As I've told you, I'm not interested in men, but I

am

interested in women.

I dashed off an application, adding my degree in history from a university some way removed from the dizzy heights of Oxford and Cambridge – but an MA is still an MA – and told the advertiser a bit about myself. I even attached a picture.

I'm 34-years-old, I have dark brunette hair which falls to just above my shoulders, I have large breasts, with big nipples to match. I have a strong pair of buttocks, lovely thighs and good legs. I am, as they say, in proportion. I'm also shaved down there, except for my mons, which has a little square splotch of hair on it. As one of my former girlfriends used to say "Shave by all means, Pen, but leave a little landing strip!"

About a week passed and to be honest I thought I'd obviously not even been short listed by the writer (female), but then my mobile went. I was in bed, lying in – I was between jobs, or resting as actors say – and stroking myself.

The voice was deep, rich and sounded like honey. "Hello, Ms Paulitzer," it said, "my name is Charisma Cundy and I'm calling on behalf of Patricia ..." And then she named this famous, I mean

famous

, writer.

"Patricia is very enthusiastic about your application and would like to meet you for lunch to discuss it. She notes you live in London and since she's based just outside Dover, she thought a quick trip up to town and lunch at The Savoy. Would that suit?"

Suit? I've never been in The Savoy, let alone lunched there, so I said it would be fine and took down the details.

A couple of days later, a Friday, and lunch loomed. I chose a smart, grey suit, the jacket was cut deep and I wore a shiny black lace slip over my bra. My cleavage was, I thought, mouth-wateringly, gobsmackingly sexy. The skirt was short, not short enough to look tarty, but it displayed quite a bit of thigh. As I've told you, I'm proud of my thighs.

I entered the hotel and walked to the restaurant which overlooks the Thames. It was hardly half-full. I gave the man behind the desk my name and said I was expecting to meet Patricia – I gave her full name - and the dark-haired maitre d' looked impressed.

"As yes, signora," he said with traces of an Italian accent, "she's already here. Follow me."

He took me to a table looking out onto the river and I looked at an extremely attractive, blue-eyed, brunette. She smiled and her brown hair shook deliciously. She was wearing a smart suit, not unlike mine, and her bosom looked majestic!

She smiled warmly: "Hi, Penelope, I'm Patricia. Can I get you a drink?"

I ordered a gin and tonic, she passed the order on to the Italian gentleman and we both sat down. We made small talk as we awaited my g & t, then, when it was placed on the table, Patricia picked up her Bloody Mary and clinked glasses with mine: "Here's to what I hope will be a mutually satisfying collaboration."

It turned out that Patricia's new trilogy would be set during the tempestuous times of Napoleon, and Nelson – or one of his officers – would play a part. I told her I was particularly interested in this period of history.

She smiled and leaned forward, allowing me a fine glimpse of her upper breast curves. I liked what I saw.

"Now since the navy plays a part in these three books, I trust you have some knowledge of the history of the British navy," she smiled. "You know what Winston Churchill said, that the navy's tradition was based purely on rum, sodomy and the lash."

I sipped on my gin and returned her smile. "Actually," I said, "it's a fallacy that Churchill said that. I know the remark is widely attributed to him, but he never said it. Although, on one occasion, he did say he wished he'd said it."

Patricia looked at me coolly. "I'm impressed," she said, after a moment, removing any doubts I had that I might have "blown it". "Very impressed. Want the job?"

"Of course," I said, "it will be an honour to work for such a pre-eminent writer. It said in your advertisement that the position would be a live-in one?"

"Precisely," said the new employer. "I live in a large, old-fashioned mansion near Womenswold. Everything will be found, food, drink – in social quantities only, of course – and I think you'll find it very comfortable. When can you start?"

The honest answer was "Tomorrow", but I thought it more diplomatic to say: "Would Monday all right?"

Patricia handed me an envelope containing what felt like a wad of money. "That'll get you a ticket down to Dover. I'll pick you up. There's a phone number for the mansion and my mobile number's there as well. Come on down on Sunday, get settled in and we can start work on Monday."

The rest of the lunch was spent enjoying some fine food, a split of champagne and a wonderful bottle of Bordeaux. The next day, Saturday, I went to the library to kill time and to find out what I could about Patricia.

I read her titles, took notes on when and where most of them were based, read a biography that said she was born in Windsor – was that why she interested in historical romances? – was unmarried and was 48-years-old. She was also said by the Sun newspaper to be "one of England's hottest single totties". How crude.

Things looked interesting. Just how interesting they became were, of course, beyond my wildest dreams.

So on Sunday I took the train to Dover and on arrival struggled with my suitcase and briefcase to the gate. There, waiting for me, was Patricia looking – well, pardon the pun, but Patrician. She was in a gleaming pair of red leather jeans, with a shocking white blouse, which was so tight it caressed her superb bosom. On her feet were what looked like white cowboy boots.

She leaned over and kissed me, softly on the cheek and murmured "Welcome, my lovely researcher" in a voice which was so suggestive I felt a tingle run down my spine, wet as it was with sweat after my long walk from the rear of the platform to the gates, lugging my suitcase.

Patricia took it from me and we walked to the carpark outside where, parked in a regal space right in front of the station entrance in an area clearly marked "No Parking" was a gleaming Bentley Arnage.

"This is my runabout," Patricia laughed, handing my case to a tall, stunningly dressed black woman. After the ebony beauty stowed it in the boot, she turned and smiled at me. Patricia introduced us: "Penelope, this is my maid-cum-chauffeur-cum-general factotum, Charisma."

The black beauty smiled at me, displaying dazzling white teeth, flashing brown eyes and a leather, one-piece suit-clad body which would have turned heads at any supermodel convention.

"Welcome to dreary old Dover," she smiled, gripping my hand in a vice-like hold. "Right, madam, shall we make tracks?" As we climbed into the luxury interior, Patricia whispered to me: "She's 26, so far too young for you, my dear."

The mansion was set in its own private grounds – several acres – and I was taken upstairs to my bedroom to unpack and settle in. Then Patricia took me on a guided tour of many large rooms, then showed me our office.

It was a large room, she had a rather cluttered work station. My desk was set apart from hers by about 10 feet. There were book shelves with an array of items – all her own novels, of course, plus scores of reference books. It all looked extremely well-appointed.

Monday arrived and with it a sheaf of notes from Patricia. "I'm particularly interested in certain aspects of floggings conducted as disciplinary measures in the navy of the day," she told me.

The next day I had printed out page upon page of reports of judicial floggings ordered by officers in Nelson's fleet. "This one I think you will find particularly interesting," I said.

It was a report of a young sailor – a lad in his late teens – who was stripped naked and given 50 strokes of the cat. It was a "minor" offence. The indignities he was left to suffer after his flogging were pornographic in the extreme.

"Hmm, yes, I see what you mean," said Patricia, as she began flicking through my print-out. "Do you think it's authentic?"

I smiled. "Without a doubt it's a piece of the writer's own perverted mind," I told my boss. "For a start, it was rare, not to say unique, for a person to be flogged naked. And while sodomy played a large part in life below decks, it was certainly not practised on the deck while a miscreant was still strapped to the flogging iron."

Patricia's eyes were flashing across the pages. "Yes, but very, very interesting," she said. "I'll try to incorporate some of this in my upcoming chapter. It's, er, well, it's stimulating, my dear."

I was pleased I had pleased her. The next day, she passed me a note asking for examples of punishments inflicted on people in the early 1800s in the pillory. Again, I found some extremely, how shall I put it? – stimulating – commentaries.

I printed several of them out and they were lying on her desk the next morning. "Some pretty awful things happened to people in pillories," I said. "Although, again, I have my doubts about the authenticity of some. In particular, the 19-year-old girl whose plight I have placed on the top of the pile."

Patricia looked at it immediately, soaking up every detail. Then she looked at me: "Why do you have doubts, my darling researcher?"

I smiled. "It's obviously written for the arousal of both the writer and the reader," I said. "I'd guess it was written by a man, or by a woman with a penchant for wielding the lash. But, nonetheless, much of it is based firmly on historical evidence."

I noticed that as Patricia read the report of the poor girl's torments while in the pillory, she seemed to be grinding her inner thighs against each. One reader, I realised, was obviously getting aroused by the report!

The second week in my new employment began with Patricia saying she was popping into the village with Charisma for some "items". "Just answer the phone and take it easy," she said.

I did just that. Not that she got many phone calls. Only one, in fact, from her agent, to say the BBC wanted to do an interview with her on discipline in the forces in the Duke of Wellington's time, they'd heard she was an expert. And that was it.

It was then that I decided to do some snooping. After all, a trusted researcher needs to know a lot about her boss so as to be fully efficient, correct? I sat myself down at her PC and noticed it was still switched on. I went to her control panel.

It was crammed with lots of boring things. Expenses. Tax returns. Speaking engagements. Then I came across something called "Pat's Private Places". Well, anything labelled "private places" is like a green light to me. I flicked into it – and what a treasure trove!

The file was a cornucopia of pornography – but very specialised pornography! It must have contained about 80 or 90 jpegs and all of them depicted the same scene, but with variations. In every picture a naked woman was shown in a pillory, a large wooden thing. It wasn't always the same woman, there must have been six different ones. Some were blondes, some were brunette, four were white, two were black.

The other common denominator was that seated on a large leather pouffe in front of the pilloried prisoner, was my new employer – but Patricia as I never seen her, only as I had often wanted to see her.

In these pictures she was always naked, well, at least, naked from the waist up. Her breasts were stunning! Big, heavy things, but full, firm and eminently suckable. And in all the pictures the women were shown sucking, or about to suck, at her breasts.

I then noticed that all the women also displayed stripe-marked buttocks, obviously the result of prior flagellation. I was just about to place my hand beneath the hem of my dress prior to stroking my snatch than I felt hands on my shoulders!

"Well my pet," I heard Patricia's voice above and behind me, "I see you've found one of my little treasure troves." Her hands, as she spoke, were moving down to the upper crests of my heaving breasts.

Then she spoke again. "And tell me, my pretty little snooper, do these pictures interest you?" Her hands were now on my central breasts, still outside my blouse, but I was certain she could feel the erections of my nipples through my sheer black bra and satin blouse.

"Yes, madam," I said, in a whisper. My mind was still reeling. She must have tip-toed up behind me while I was engrossed in her porno collection.

"Let's look at one in more detail, shall we?" she said, in a quiet, not annoyed voice. "Try the one in the third row down, on the extreme right."

I pulled it onto the screen. A pretty blonde woman – well, almost a girl, she could have been no older than 20 – had her mouth open. She was just about to suckle Patricia's right breast, the one nearest the camera. My employer's nipple was engorged, her breast gleamed as if it was covered in sweat.

"What a lovely picture of poor Amanda's punishment," I heard the voice above me. Her hands were now cupping my breasts, her thumbs and forefingers kneading my nipples. I was getting wet, oh so wet!

"That's a nice picture of my breast, don't you think, my dear little Penelope?" she asked.

"It's lovely," I said, in a heaving voice. "It's glistening as if you've been in a shower."

Patricia gave a chuckle, low and sensuous. "A shower? Yes, a shower – I like that. But it's not."

Then, as she continued her massage of my mammaries, she ordered me: "Try the next picture."

I obeyed. This showed Patricia dipping her left breast into a large metal basin, which was set in a hooped metal ring some foot or so beneath the girl's face.

"Now that could be champagne," she said. "Only it's not."

I maintained silence. Patricia was still kneading my nipples. I was getting wetter.

"It could be beer – oh, no, it couldn't. Beer is so mundane," she said.

Then, as she continued to arouse my thickened nipples, she said: "It couldn't be milk, could it Penelope? Wrong colour."

I nodded. "No, madam, wrong colour."

"Well, my little research pet," she said, "what do you think it is?"

I gulped. "Er, water, madam?"

Patricia chuckled. "Yes, of course it's water," she said, in a semi-condescending tone, "but a very special kind of water."

I felt a response was expected from me. In a voice that verged on breaking, I said in a hush: "Is it your water, madam?"

"Of course it is," she snapped. "Now switch that infernal machine off, we won't need it again today."

I leaned forward, my breasts still prisoners of Patricia's clutches, and the images disappeared. Then I heard her again: "Do you trust me, my pet?" Her face was brushing against mine.

My heart was thumping away. "Yes, madam, of course I do," I said in an almost hissing voice.

"You know I won't harm you, don't you?" she said, her mouth brushing my ear, her tongue flicking across my cheek.

"I know, madam," I said, in a voice so low I could hardly hear it myself.

"Well come with me, child," she said, her hands at last releasing my heaving bosom, "I need to get to know you better before I take you to my little pillory parlour."

And with that the lovely woman took me by the hand and pulled me from her desk. We walked out of the office, across its thick carpet, whose depth of pile had obviously muffled her earlier approach.

Standing outside the office was Charisma, wearing another of her mouth-watering one-piece leather outfits. She looked excited, animated.

"Charisma, my dear," Patricia spoke, "I'll be needing you down in the pillory parlour in about an hour. Get into something more suitable. No, make that an hour and a half, Penelope and I are going to be occupied for a while."

The black beauty grinned and said "I'll be down there waiting for you, madam" and turned on her heel, displaying gleaming leather spread tautly across her glorious backside. Patricia took me by the hand again and we went upstairs to her sumptuous bedroom, my heart thumping all the way, my pussy soaking my panty gusset with every step I took.

Inside, Patricia took me to the large area in front of her massive four-poster bed and turned me to face her. Then she lifted one hand beneath my chin and kissed me softly on the mouth. She tasted of honey and heather – she tasted divine.

"Do you trust me, my pet?" she asked, looking deep into my eyes.

"Yes," I whispered, and then she began to disrobe me.

She started with the cuffs of my blouse. After each cuff, she kissed me. Then she unbuttoned the blouse and pulled it from my skirt. Then she kissed me. Then she threw the blouse to the floor and reached behind me to unzip my skirt. It fell to the floor and I kicked it away, instinctively. Again she kissed me.

I was now standing before her in my bra – a black satin thing – and matching, full, black satin panties, no stockings. She reached behind me and unhooked the bra with one deft movement and pulled it from my breasts. I glanced down. My nipples were engorged. She kissed me once more.

Then, still staring deeply into my eyes, she hooked her thumbs into the upper sides of my panties and pulled them to my knees, allowing cool air to waft onto my pulsating, sex-juice pouring pussy. I placed my feet close together and the sodden garment fell to the floor. I kicked it away. Another kiss.

Again came the question. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course," my voice said, but my brain really screaming "Make love to me,

now

," but reining itself in.

Then Patricia walked away, to a large dressing table. She delved into a drawer and returned to me holding two leather loops, which she threw on the bed. "Lay down," she whispered, and I placed my naked body – I'd kicked my high heels off – in the centre, my hands flat by my sides.

My boss then took one leather loop and placed it around my upper thigh, and snapped it tight against my flesh with a velcro strap. It was then that I noticed another leather loop was attached to the larger loop. She placed my wrist in it, then snapped that strap shut, too. My hand and arm were now shackled, as it were, to my side.

Patricia repeated this exercise with my other thigh and arm, until I lay bound on the bed. Then she stood off to the side and stripped. This time the disrobing occupied far less time, as if she was in a hurry to consummate our relationship.

The expensive cream-coloured blouse revealed a shiny, black satin slip. The miniskirt revealed shiny black stockings and high heels. Then she slowed down.

The slip came off and I saw a black satin bra, black satin garter belt and black satin panties. Black satin! The words arouse me, the look arouses me. Patricia aroused me!

Then my lover-to-be took her slip and with one hand behind it, she pressed its smooth material against my weeping pussy. Then she traced it up over my mons, over my abdomen, fleetingly into my navel, then up between my breasts and finally laid it to rest on my mouth and nose. The aroma of my minge wafted over me.