Love My Neighbour Ch 03

Thus far. I am a plump forty six year old woman, at this moment impossibly randy, who has recently seduced a sexual god, just in his mid twenties, my toy-boy. Just now I'm supposed to be a school girl and he, the lecherous old headmaster who, in between driving me the verge of madness with lust, has compelled me to piss through my knickers, strip, be hosed down in the bath with cold water and then, instead of screwing me stupid - which is what I needed - he took his pleasure in my mouth. Now I am stood in his front room, 'the study' in our fantasy, waiting to find out what he is going to do to me next.

What did he tell me, 'We stand up straight with our hands placed upon our the back of our head, looking at the floor. Our legs are kept apart, well apart'. I adopt the pose prescribed, with my back to the mirror, facing one of the two chairs. He left me on my own, standing like that, for quite some time. The position is cunning, it's dull so you begin to think; at first randomly, shopping-lists, kids' teas, does your bum look too big: but gradually these introspections focus upon your immediate situation, gosh my nipples are stiff, I wish my slit was not quite so wet, that sort of thing. Eventually, I began to review my evening. 'Why does this man want me? I'm not that young, nor that pretty, OK I've big boobs and a lovely round bum, with good broad hips, and I'm not ugly either, in fact I know I look good for my age. I seduced him first, no doubt about that. Why does a twenty odd year old demi-god take his pleasure in a dumpy, middle aged woman? Why am I dressed as a school girl anyway? If he is a demi-god why, in defiance of his instructions, did I wear knickers, big knickers?

But then, he responded so quickly. At first simple role play prompted by my costume; I do adore adopting a different persona, and his rapid response turned me on so very effectively. Then he teases me, building my expectations and then dashing them cruelly, over and over again: alternating pleasures with humiliation or pain to keep me reigned me in. Plucking my bum hair, that was mean, in fact that hurt. Making me run up and down stairs was worse. But then I have to count myself lucky, he's not simply thrashed me; if he did would I have continued with him? And after every punishment, every humiliation, he makes me desperate for him once more. Then my dark desires, or rather their obviousness, becomes my greatest humiliation; far greater than I felt when I pissed in my pants before the camera. Worse, these reflections have, yet again, made my sex flow freely and caused little farting sounds to keep escaping from my pussy. He is so good at teasing me; but I'll get even, he cannot make me wait like this, I need to come, I wanted to stamp my foot.

My reverie was finally broken, "let's take your record." He has entered the room completely silently and sat in the chair opposite to me. "We need the truth so go and fetch the old cane."

I thought that we had avoided that, I thought that I would not have to face a thrashing. I returned to my flat to fetch it, so many questions now welling in my heavy heart. I returned with the horrible object and handed it to him; I know now that if he beats me I'll accept it, possibly welcome it.

"Bend over facing the mirror. Grasp your ankles." He raises my skirt and separates the cheeks of my bottom. He slips the cane between them and lets go. I'm gripping the cane in the crack of my bum. "Hesitate and you get the cane. Lie and you get the cane. Drop the cane and you get the cane. You're one mistake away from that cane. Clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Have you ever kissed a man, or a boy, deeply using your tongue?"

"Yes sir."

"Have you ever allowed a man, or a boy, to fondle your breasts?"

"Yes sir."

"Have you ever allowed a man, or a boy, to see your breasts?"

"Yes sir."

Suck your breasts? Stroke your privates? See your privates? Finger your privates? Slip one finger, or more, inside of you? Lick your privates? Lick your privates and finger your hole?

To each and every query I had to reply, "Yes sir." I had done every single one of these with James and enjoyed them: that cane clenched between my buttocks acted as a constant reminder that I dared not lie to him. Then he started to go through my activities with other women.

"Have you ever kissed a girl, or a woman, deeply using your tongue?"

I consider, remember his reaction to the photographs of Lesbian love and answer, "Yes sir." The fact that it was the truth was, to me, irrelevant.

"Have you ever allowed a girl, or woman, to fondle your breasts?"

"Yes sir."

"Have you ever allowed a girl, or woman, to see your breasts?"

"Yes sir." He questions me ever more intently, establishing that I enjoy the pleasures of my own sex every bit as much as the delights that men can offer me. I watched James in the mirror as he quizzed me and as we explored my Sapphic inclinations his already turgid member inflated, progressively, with every positive answer. Now I know what my revenge is going to be, I can make him endure agonies of unbearable lust.

"Do you masturbate?"

" Very occasionally sir."

"That's against school rules; isn't it girl? You're supposed to ask a master to relive full blown hysteria, or if you just require simple comfort you should share your cot with a chum."

"Yes sir, but sometimes -"

"Don't answer me back girl; does a girl clutching a cane between her buttocks like a sword in its scabbard give cheek? Shall I unsheathe that sword and wield its fearsome blade?"

"Please sir, no sir; please don't beat me sir, please don't pound my soft bottom with your fearsome rod."

"Perhaps you'd prefer the tawse?"

"No sir, not that sir, if you must thrash me please use the cane sir." We can both hear the very genuine fear in my voice.

"Well then, just how often is 'very occasionally'? And don't you dare to lie to me."

"If I'm by myself, rarely more than once in a day, sir."

"Once a day!" Outrage in his tone, "once a day!" Voice rising. "You little wanton whore; slut, strumpet, tramp, prostitute, harlot, Jezebel, he spits the words out. Have you ever fucked a man, let him sink his hard prick in you soft cunt and then rutted until you dribbled his seed?"

I think of James, doing me doggy in front of the mirror, "yes sir," I reply, somewhat vacantly

"I suppose you were really wet at the time, making it easy for you, enjoyed it, did you?"

"Yes sir, I was sir and I did sir." I wish he wouldn't do this to me, my pussy is pouting and pouring juice again; these games of pretend, I love them yet hate them, I feel so helpless, so manipulated and so, well so sexually charged. Wouldn't? I wish he couldn't do these to me; James, I realise, is addictive, I know that I could not give him up if I wanted to, the sexual highs he delivers me are so euphoric, he is the crack cocaine of sex.

"I suppose you've allowed yourself to be buggered too."

"Yes sir."

"Was that nice?" spoken with withering sarcasm.

"Quite pleasant sir and men seem to really enjoy it, sir."

"You have committed this depraved act on a regular basis?"

"Not exactly regularly sir, but - well sir, some men don't like to couple with a woman in the usual way when it's her period so then, when they get all hard, they avail themselves of her bum instead."

"I am disgusted. With you yes but more, with them. That men should obtain pleasure from shafting a woman's arse; naturally I have to do that but it is only to ensure that their rectum is free of contraband. If they wriggle too much I do sometimes lose control but I can reassure you that I do not enjoy climaxes gained in that manner in the slightest. For one the tightness of the bottom makes them so intense and, for two, they last for so long, you feel like you're going to spasm and squirt for ever."

'Oh, so he is beginning to enjoy anal,' methinks.

"That reminds me, my special tool seems quite functional once more and I still need to carry out your second deep search." He rises.

"Come here, kneel in front of the chair and bend over it."

'No, no, no,' shrieks a voice inside my skull. 'For pities sake don't do this, not now,' of course he's going to bugger me and I need a good, long satisfying screw.

"Some girls find this a little uncomfortable, if you do, you can bite on this." He places the cane in my mouth, I taste my own sexual exudate; Oh my God, my juices have flowed so copiously that I've been dribbling down the cane. Why, oh why, do I blush every time James reminds me just how wet I get? And every time he sees my hot shame he grins; he's grinning now.

He lubricates my anus and then slides in gently, pushing slowly until his whole length fills me up. Then, equally slowly, he withdraws completely. When he spears me for the second time that delicious, dirty feeling I get form anal sex floods my prostrate form. He repeats these long slow sequences of penetration and withdrawal, over and over: and every time he opens me up my body is raked with desire. I'm in heaven, awash with sweet sensations: I'm in hell, consumed by an all pervasive want for an orgasm. Eventually he begins to use faster, shorter strokes until he grunts with satisfaction. 'He's come again. He's come again,' the repetition thought through clenched teeth. I could weep. I could weep with rage, I could weep with disappointment but above all I could weep with sheer bloody frustration, I have to come, and soon at that.

He withdraws, collects the bowl and returns with warm soapy water. He cleans us both up: I'm still face down, draped over the chair, shaking with emotion, no emotions; conflicting emotions which writhe around one another like snakes in a pit. In my state of urgent, unrequited lust I could have killed him for what he had just done to me, except that suddenly my bladder peppered my brain with signals, urgent dispatches.

"Please sir may I urinate?"

"If you must," he replied languidly.

I grabbed the bowl, squatted over it and peed before both him and the mirror with absolute inhibition. In one short evening he had debased me to a level where I simply did not care; that realisation was the thought that made me blush, yet again. James clearly revelled in my discomfiture and understood that its nature was shifting from shame at what I was doing at his behest, to shame of my own motives. 'Just wait,' I thought, 'you wait you weak little man, wait for my revenge.' I knew that he had obsessions and frailties that I could exploit and I was now frantic to bind him to me just as tightly as he had bound myself to himself. I finished, cleaned up and even licked my hands, before he could give any direction or make any comment.

"One more orifice to probe, but you were gyrating your hips constantly whilst I was examining you and your jigging about has rendered my special tool totally useless. I doubt that its function can be restored tonight, we'll have to finish off in the morning."

"Sir. Please sir. Please complete my assessment tonight." The written word is fickle, in no way can it portray the wheedling tone I that I had adopted.

"Are you sure? That might take some time."

"Sir, absolutely sure sir. Please sir, if you left my fate hanging over me like this I would not sleep a wink."

"Golly, I suppose we ought not to deprive our pupils of their rest; I don't suppose that we are allowed to do that anymore. And we do need to go through why, and exactly how, you masturbate. Sit in the chair. Splay your legs over the arms. Look at yourself in the mirror. So, tell me, exactly how do you abuse your intimate parts so frequently?"

"Sir, I rub my little button over and over until I am satisfied."

"Show me your little button." I splay my labia and point. "Explain exactly how you rub it."

"Sir I use several different ways, how should I begin?"

"Go through them, one by one."

"Sir my favourite is to simply rub one finger round and round."

"Demonstrate." I start to rub my finger round my clit. I close my eyes, I relax, the warm glow inside builds really quickly, I'm - and he snatches my hand away. "That's enough of that, there's no need to get carried away. Were you going to have an orgasm just then girl?"

"Yes sir," I confess and I blush again: I've let dozens of men watch me play with myself before and when I come it really turns me on, watching their helpless, lecherous, pathetic, little faces as I achieve orgasm again and again. I feel so powerful, so in control of those sad, lust driven, voyeuristic, tiny men. But tonight James has, for the first time, made me feel self-conscious about it, I'm the pathetic, lust driven, inferior. My embarrassment subsides when I think, 'when it's my turn, you'll ogle and goggle helplessly, beg with your eyes, as you watch my lust being satisfied whilst yours just builds and builds. James is going to pay for this night in hard currency, yes he'll find it very hard indeed.

"What else do you do?"

I snap out of my reflections, "I stroke my first finger up and down my clitoris from tip to knuckle and back," and I demonstrate. My nipples go rigid, blood pounds through my pussy, my breathing becomes ragged and, once again, he pulls my hand away. This time I squeal out loud with frustration.

"You need to calm down girl and I know just the thing. Stand up, remove your clothes and then resume your seat and demonstrate your next technique."

The third method I think of as the 'windscreen wiper'. Sure enough, just as I approach climax, he pulls my hand away and now pincers a nipple between finger and thumb and twists it sharply. That brings me to earth with a bump. I slap my pussy gently demonstrating just the right level of force to use to elicit pleasure rather than pain. James practices this until I'm back at the very brink and then he applies a single, much firmer blow. I wince and sink to a lower plateau of pleasure. Pleasure, discomfort; pleasure, discomfort: my head is in a daze as we repeat this cycle, time and time again, whilst I disclose to him just how to locate all my most sensitive spots and exactly what to do to them to exploit their various proclivities and sensitivities to the maximum. I'm a fool, during my stupor of alternating ecstasy and frustration I have just taught James how to tease me using an, effectively, endlessly variety of stimulations. I am the one who will pay for that and eventually I do, many, many times over.

At last! James's 'special tool' has regained its functionality. It's not so engorged as before, true: but it will do me. Believe me, if you are good at foreplay and also take your time - and, as you will have gathered by now, James was and did - it's not what you got, it's the way that you use it. My muff oozed, I felt like I was melting, my very substance felt as if it were dribbling away through my softly pulsing feminine passage.

"Let's get your last deep search over and done with," he intoned, resignedly, "and then to bed," the latter proclaimed with apparent relish. He pushed my knees against my chest and, leaning over me, sank his manhood deep inside me; when his pelvic bone hit my pudenda I simply exploded, blinding flashes in my eyes, fireworks in my head, my nipples contracted down into red, engorged rocks, my pussy was slick with juice. I came, explosively, in response to that single thrust of his hips. He pulled back and, to my absolute despair, withdrew completely: in my head it was simple, second penetration, second orgasm: and it would remain so, one for one, for a very satisfyingly long time. He dragged me by the hair across the room to the other chair, he threw me over it, face down, and resumed his invasion of my womanhood. Three thrusts and I reached orgasm for a second time. One more and I would have been satisfied for a third time, but after three he stopped and spanked my bottom with his bare hand.

We had done this before, him making me come once, returning me to the brink of ultimate pleasure and then moderating my ardour with either mild pain or similar chastisement: I had requested this of him previously, but surely he was not going to tease me further tonight. He'd permit me one bite of the cherry, but as I went for that second succulent morsel he'd snatch it away, leaving my pulse racing and my sweet, sticky, juices dribbling. This time, however, I lost all count of my orgasms, all track of time. I came over both chairs, I orgasmed over his work box, I exploded on his carpets, I climaxed over, in and across his bath, in his shower was bliss, across his kitchen worktops, heaven, we copulated upon every surface in every room: me; splayed, twisted, turned, bent over, sitting up, even dangling down. In between he pulled my hair, tugged my labia, tweaked and twisted my nipples, probed my anus, bit my bum, bit my breasts, pinched the insides of my thighs, even slapped my face once or twice. Finally, he threw me on his large double bed, pushed my knees against my chest and just kept sliding his member in and out of my soaking pussy.

Despite my many previous single orgasms I climaxed over and over again, or perhaps I experienced one never-ending multiple-orgasm, the difference was academic. By this time I was so deep in elation that I was only half conscious, all I could register was the bliss, all I can recall was the warm satisfaction. I remember my moaning, sighing and panting was making it difficult for me to breathe regularly. After that James was bringing me a cup of tea: it was two in the morning. Six hours we had been at it, although I had passed out or slept a little, I didn't even know which. I did need to pee. So I carried the bowl into the bedroom, squatted over it and pissed in his full view with not a blush in sight. James laughed at me and my loss of this inhibition, I had no humility, I did not care, but I had resolved that I was going to bind him to me as tightly as I was bound to him; I was determined to transform my addiction into a mutual dependency.