Love My Neighbour

Last time I visited James what an afternoon. First, he screwed me stupid, forceful, yet at the same time gently, making me come over and over again. Next he humped me doggy whilst we watched ourselves in the big mirror at the head of his bed: you can adjust its angle to the wall for that extra kinky view. God do my tits wobble when I do that, I look a proper whore. After this we showered, he has an amazing shower, huge and powerful; then we went back to bed where he coaxed me into coming again. Not very big orgasms but lots of lovely comforting ones that burn to a slow golden glow inside. His parting words had been, "You'll next be my fuck-toy on Saturday."

This time no anger at his presumptuousness, just a wet, warm, sloppy pussy, I could not wait. Saturday was a good day, the kids were going to visit their Dad and I could stay all night, and lots of the next day. On Saturday afternoon a letter appeared in my box by the front door, heavy quality blue envelope with 'for the attn. of Mrs. J. Hesmondhalgh' written on it in black ink. Inside a single sheet, 'My place, eight o'clock, sharp. Dress code, high class whore. J.' I still have that letter. I preened and cleaned myself and worried what to wear, slut I could do but high class tart was a different proposition.

Eight o'clock, I'm wearing a short black dress my friend Elspeth has lent me. She has never been slim and she made it in the mini-skirted sixties, she doesn't normally wear it, it was in her dip. show at the Chelsea College of Art where she was awarded honours: if Elspeth had stuck to painting, instead of getting pregnant again and again, she'd be rich and famous by now. The embroidered outlines of bodies and gashes of red silk sewn into the lining are a bit odd and I won't tell James its name, 'miscarriage of justice in a mini,' it's meant to be displayed mostly inside out, but its demure exterior shows me off to good advantage and it has a built in bra that pushes me up, yet keeps me in! Apart from stockings, heels and suspenders, I'm otherwise naked underneath. Tonight bright, but discrete, make up and red nail polish.

He greeted me with a sloppy kiss, "I specified high class whore not fashion model" then, unexpectedly, he lifted my skirt and checked that I had no panties on; I wondered what he would have done to me if I had. He kissed me again, harder and longer, squeezing my breasts and then led me to the little room, which he had fitted out as a tiny dining room. He'd gone to a lot of trouble and he was a skilled chef. We had smoked salmon roulades with champagne, big prawns, bigger than any I had ever seen before, clear beef soup - I now know to be consommé - which was both rich and light, lamb cutlets with buttery new potatoes followed by a home made treacle tart called Judy, all smothered in cream, which was, appropriately, the only heavy part of the entire meal. I had to sit on a small round stool with my the skirt of my dress hitched up high, showing off my suspender highlighted, plump, white, thighs - before I met James I simply thought that they were fat, but he clearly has a thing about them - and after each course he knelt in front of me, spread my knees and licked my pussy until I almost came. By the time coffee was done I was dribbling with anticipation and he carried me to his bed room, stripped us both naked and made love to me slowly and tenderly giving me a succession of small climaxes which continued for a little over a whole hour, then he rolled me onto my tummy and took his pleasure in my bum, which makes me feel really wicked. When we were done we cleaned up, finished off the champagne and fell asleep cradled in each others arms, I was transported back to being adolescent, once again.

In the morning I awoke first, so I dug James in the ribs to get his attention, "Your mission, should you choose to accept it is to make love to me until I'm totally satisfied."

"Now that's what I call Mission Impossible," he retorted brightly - damn all morning people - rolling me onto my back and spearing me with a long hard thrust of his pelvis. "God you're wet, you little slut."

"And you're stiff as a telegraph pole, you wicked gigolo."

"Wanton hussy".

"Depraved toy-boy." We continued to trade whispered half insults until his repeated thrusting in and out of my slippery passage pushed me over the top. We tried eight different positions that morning: missionary, doggy, me on my back knees folded against my chest, I really like that one, me on top facing him, me on top with my back to him, he really likes that one, me sat on the shelf behind the bed with him stood in front of me, that mirror, the one over the shelf, was bloody cold at first but still a position to try again, me bending over the bath with him behind, finally, he shafted me standing in the shower, with my legs wrapped around his waist, God is he strong. Even then he was not done, when we were showered he wrapped me in a towel, sat me in the chair in his bed room, splayed my legs over the arms and licked my gaping crotch until I was coming hard, dizzy with excitement.

"Mission accomplished," I eventually moaned. "I can't come again, it'd be too much. After breakfast you're going to come in my arse, then in my pussy and following that in my mouth, then you'll be 'all orgasmed out' too."

"Now that sounds high class whore, even if you look is princess," but before breakfast he bit each part of my anatomy and told me why it was so delightful; flattery will get you everywhere including a sucker to offer to cook breakfast for you, even after they've already guaranteed to fuck you silly.

When I finally had to leave he was unexpectedly formal, "sorry but I have to be away until Thursday. I'm out of the country"

"Can't do Thursday," I replied, "Friday, it'll have to be Friday."

"Be here at eight sharp slut, ready and willing."

'We'll see about that,' I thought. 'Slut be damned, naughty school girl more like.' My daughter had most of the clothes I needed already but I had to get a couple of things, which might be hard to find, well to find in my size. In the end I made excuses and raided the school lost property cupboard, I know Valerie, the secretary, Valerie and I go back a long way, a very long way: I giggled as I remembered some of the things we had been up to.

At ten to eight I looked in the mirror and nearly backed out, but then I thought 'what the hell.' I was dressed in a stiff white blouse and a school tie, with a sensible, underwired, white bra beneath, a grey cotton skirt that fell just below my knee, white cotton knee socks and black, low heeled, shoes. My skirt concealed a pair of baggy blue cotton knickers, which I had gone to a lot of trouble to obtain, even back then they were way out a fashion. I was free of make up, well apart from a smear of the faintest of pink lipsticks and a smattering of freckles painted across the top of my cheeks. I tied my hair in bunches using black hair ties with cheap plastic butterflies attached. My only jewellery, two gold studs in my ears. I was actually in full blown regulation school uniform, well apart from the lipstick. I had also retrieved, a cane, a tawse - a leather strap split into three at one end - and a plastic paddle with large holes in it, from my box of toys. I hoped James was not into this stuff, my ex and I had had these for party props but we never really used them on each other. I like a little rough; hair pulling, nipple biting, bottom smacking, that sort of thing, but one flick of that cane on my bare bottom had convinced me that it was not my scene. The paddle incidentally was the worst, it stung as much as the other two and was far less likely to cut the skin so it could be applied both more often and more fiercely. I decided I could return for these if James really wanted them but gladly left them on the hall table for the present.

James opened the door and I could see he was angry, "I told you slut not slattern. You're a very disobedient, lazy girl, too bone idle to even change out of your uniform after classes. It's not even the regulation uniform." He raised my skirt. "And what the devil are those underneath you skirt, young lady. Come into my office and we will decide your punishments."

'My God he's quick on the uptake' I thought. "Please sir..."

"How dare you presume to answer me back," he roared as he grabbed one of my bunches and dragged me along by the hair into his front room. "And how should a contrite and penitent little girl stand?" He found a ruler in his work box and began to smack his palm with it ominously, rulers can hurt more than you'd guess, my ex and I had played with those too.

"Oh please sir I can't remember, I've been a good girl for such a long time." He was a convincing actor, I hoped, and his angry tone was beginning to get me moist as I thought what he might do to me. It most certainly was not going to be night of thoughtful passion and would definitely involve a lot of bending over.

"Yes I am quite new here, I don't know your specific history: yet," spoken to me in a very stern tone. "But I do know the rules! 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. That's better. Now, girl, what are the uniform rules in this establishment?"

Of course I had no idea so I had to keep quiet.

"For God's sakes, I'm waiting," he barked, tapping his foot with impatience. "Right grab the hem of your skirt at the back and lift it high. Yes, higher, I want to be able to see your bottom or, in your case, not see it. How long are skirts here at St. Trinians?"

The hint I needed so desperately. "Please sir, I'll remember sir," forcing out a pretend sob, "at least five inches above the knee and taller girls ought to set their skirts at seven inches above the knee, all sixth formers must wear skirts that are at least six inches above the knee. Girls whose pubic hair is frequently visible should see matron who will wax it away for them."

"Thank you," he was pacing round and round me, "one of Matron's favourite jobs, she told me".

"Ouch! Ow!" he had hit the back of each of my pale plump thighs with the ruler, smack on the tender bit, just below the legs of my knickers.

"Now what's school code about underwear and jump to it if you wish to avoid the flick of my ruler."

"Please sir," my brain raced, he was hitting his palm with the ruler again, impatiently, which did not help my concentration, "please sir, girls must be over a c-cup if they are to wear a bra at all. All bras must be well fitting and must be approved by matron. When a pupil removes her blouse, or dress, her cleavage should be on clear display and this must be achieved through the cut of the bra, padding is not allowed; padding is cheating and good girls learn to make the best of what they are given. Only vulgar girls let their nipples show in public. Special dispensations will be made for girls with very large nipples but only after their needs have been closely examined and agreed by the committee for Morals and Ethics and the committee for Health and Hygiene." I was proud of that speech, especially that last bit, made up on the spot as it was: I do adore role play.

"Big committees those," he mused, "just about every damned member of staff on one or the other, even the groundsman is on Health and Hygiene; tells me he needs to know when the girls are skinny-dipping so that he can be sure that the pool's clean." James's clever adoption of the part of a lecherous old head was so convincing that I really started to flow, whatever happened tonight I knew that it was going to be an interesting and exciting evening, one for the story books. James was in full flight. "Then I have to pay him, and that dratted boy of his, overtime because they must ensure that the changing rooms are all left clean and tidy after the girls are satisfied with their dipping. Don't know about that, I inspected last time and they had missed two rumpled condoms, I dread to think what the girls had got up to with those." I smiled, I remembered what I would have got up to with those all those years ago.

But he had paused, and had given me the chance to think, so I took the opportunity to continue. "Girls are not normally allowed to wear any other form of underwear unless they are not yet used to tampons, when, during menstruation, they may wear cotton panties to keep their towels in place. During the evenings of designated holidays girls may wear bustiers, waspies or corselets: providing, of course, that their form does not conflict with the rules governing the acceptability of bras and that they do not contain any form of gusset or otherwise obstruct their pudendum in any manner. Older girls may wear suspenders and nylon, silk, or other stockings manufactured from a similar material, providing that the latter finish at least two inches below the crotch: on the anniversary of the foundation of our college these should be of the type described as fishnet."

"Well done, excellent recall, I had quite forgotten some of the details myself. You may drop the hem of your skirt, at least for the present. So, your skirt is too long and you're are wearing illicit underwear, to whit one pair of monstrous blue knickers. Haven't seen anything quite like those since I was a lad, used to be school regulation I believe."

"Yes sir, as a girl my mother wore them everyday, sir."

"And you are impertinent, and disrespectful too. Oh my are you going to get suffer."

"I know sir," answered in my best contrite little girl voice. Crunch time, "Please sir, I know where the old head kept a cane and a tawse and an evil paddle that we only saw him use once, should I fetch them for you sir, so that you can administer discipline without delay?"

"Not just yet, anyway we need to catalogue all of your crimes before we select an appropriate punishment. You do, of course, have a regulation bra on?" he enquired rather wearily.

"I hope so sir."

"We will, of course, have to check," he droned with, I hoped feigned, despair.

He's so good, I know that I am now sporting a large dark patch in the gusset of my pants and I really would like to move on to the next scene quickly: bite my nipples, finger my clit, ravish me, fuck me now, the teasing bastard: but James is not going to be hurried, I have to undo my tie and then peel off my blouse, pretending to be innocent and demure throughout this performance: I had set the rules for tonight, I must abide by their consequences.

"Well stand up straight, hands behind your back. You consider that to be a regulation bra. You are what? 34E, 36DD, 38D, not exactly small anyway, and you claim that's cleavage you've got on show. Stand still." He's off back to his work box and returns with a felt tipped marker, which he uses to trace the upper contour of the bra across my chest. "now take off that bra," he orders. He is so incredibly believable, my pussy is pumping, listen carefully and you can actually hear it; but nothing's dribbling down my leg, these thick cotton knickers are really soaking everything up, that stain must be huge by now. "Look in the mirror. See there's a clear inch, perhaps even an inch and a half, between your bra and the top of your nipples. You consider that such a bra exposes your cleavage? Put your blouse and tie back on. No leave the bra, you'll have to do without until matron has sorted you out. Right, I saw that insolent look, ten star jumps, or if you prefer you can bring me that cane?"

Ten star jumps braless, when you're a 36DD is not only embarrassing but quite painful, and to make it worse, I could see my tits flopping up and down in the big mirror he had hung on one wall; I had definitely looked sexier. The expression on James's face, however, made it all worth it, I was surprised he was not drooling down his chin and, in reality me, just about old enough to be his mother: question is does he like plump, older or both, I hoped both?

"Now blouse and tie back on. Right, so; wrong bra, wrong skirt, wrong underwear. I think that we had better check that your nether regions are not excessively hairy too. Drop those blasted knickers and sit in that chair with your legs splayed as far apart as they will go."

I complied, with docility, but really I was thinking, 'thank God, he's not going to use the cane and now he's going to fondle me and I'm going to come, I'm going to come straight away and then he's going to be angry and then, oh something rough and really dirty. First he knelt between my legs and just looked, closely, I could feel his hot breath on my labia.

"Well you look hairless enough, shaven if I'm not mistaken; you're not supposed to do that for yourself, you are supposed to request matron to wax you, I'll have to check for stubble."

The little squelching sounds my pussy had been making for ages now had become distinctly audible, so loud, in fact, that finally I began to blush; I hadn't done that in the last ten years, or more.

"Ah, so you're ashamed of something down the are you? Oh dear, you do realise that that means that I'll have to search you for hidden contraband. Anyway, the presence of stubble is best detected with the tongue you know, very sensitive instrument the tongue. I'll check for stubble and carry out your inspection simultaneously to save us precious time; I hope you are at least clean young lady."

'Yes, yes; oh yes,' I think, 'not long now', he's licking my clit and fingering my pussy at the same time, 'bliss, rapture,' just as I'm about to explode he stops, abruptly.

"Listen, young lady, I cannot examine you properly if you wriggle and squirm about like that and your moaning and sighing is distracting me, the better you keep quite and still the sooner we shall be done with what, for you, must be a disagreeable business."

It's not disagreeable, I don't want to be done, well I do want to be done, but done by your snake like tongue and probing fingers, done over and over and don't stop, even when I beg you too. He's at it again, a warm itch builds in my brain, I can feel the coarse cotton of my blouse rubbing over my swollen nipples, feel his light stubble brushing my over

mons

as he licks my engorged clitty, I'm - I'm fucking angry and truly frustrated, he's stopped again, right - right as I was about to come. 'Gotcha,' I thought, 'you're going to wipe those two probing fingers all over my tongue, you've pulled that one before.'

"Well that all seems to be alright, now open wide I need to see if you've secreted anything inside your mouth?"

I revel in my small sense of triumph, a tiny but heartening compensation for my disappointment, yes he rotates those two, previously intrusive, and now incredibly sticky digits, over my tongue forcing me to taste my own sexual juices.

"One last place to check, kneel on the chair, legs well apart, bum high in the air, face to the upholstery. Hands on head." Now hold that position and don't move, I have to get the equipment." At first, who cares? Yes I am knelt there with my pussy and puckered anus in full view, but they'll be delightfully abused soon enough. Then the waiting starts to gnaw at your stomach, you begin to feel disgraced: here's me, in my forties waiting for a gorgeous young man to return and do, God alone knows what, to me.

I cannot resist, I lift my head to sneak a peek, "yeouch," he was standing right behind me waiting with the ruler and now my bum is burning with fire, that one was really meant to hurt, and it did.

"Now don't move, not one single muscle, until I get back. In fact shut your eyes so you don't even need to blink."

I wait, and I wait, I am so exposed, he can prod my pussy, finger my arse, shaft me, bugger me, beat my backside; for God's sake do something! I risk another quick glance, "yeouch." He's back, watching me silently, ruler in hand. I keep really still now, my sex lips drool with the anticipation, my nipples harden with dread.