When the lock clicked, I was opening the tin on the side table, searching for a good Scots toffee. I resignedly put the gilt-wrapped square back in. The toffee was quite vile in The Village. It tasted of burnt oatmeal chaff, as if it were constituted by some recluse who admired the taste of ersatz German sawdust brot, circa 1944.
A young woman in a white pullover and a chocolate skirt came through the door, stopping as soon as she spied me sitting at my ease. “I love the cowl on you,” I said. “Creates that subtle air of mystery and frames the face wondrously.”
She started sharply and spun over the railing in a easy tumble, landing crouched and on her feet, looking to the source of my voice. In the process she oiled off the white pullover and faced me unencumbered. The eyes so large in her face were quite enchanting. Mouth slightly open but otherwise relaxed.
Definitely top crust material. The Russians call pretty female agents such as her Blackbirds. Nightingales if they’re sexually skilled operatives.
She paused, her eyes darting about her gaudy main room. Personally I thought her flat somewhat garish, but then I presume overly colorful was still in style. Just passing through Chelsea on the way here, the continuing trend towards large bright primary colors and dingy buildings had struck me.
A yard long pair of dark-glass spectacles were on the wall to one side, foot high letters were saying NO on a door, it was all jarring colors. This bird was quite mod, I was felt sure. However, I’d lost a lot of my taste for bright colors in the past few years.
Best if I continued to be at my ease. Minimize threat and evoke curiosity. Sprinkle the old oil on.
“Hello,” I purred, “my name is Emma Knight, Mrs. Emma Peel, and you’re Tara King. We have a few mutual friends, little bird, and I rather fancied having a friendly little chat with you before popping around to see them. Just you and me.” I hoped my smile was enchanting.
She was non-committal, so I mentally sighed and proceeded to elucidate.
“I’ve been away for the most hideously long spell, and I’ve been frightfully amiss in my correspondence with Mother and Father.” She came erect, but was still in fighting stance.
“The dear old sods are probably dreadfully unhappy with me, as is dear John. John Steed. Did he ever mention where I’ve been this time? You remember me, don’t you? On the stairs leading up to Steed’s flat? I informed you Steed likes his tea stirred anti-clockwise?”
“You’ve gone missing,” she says. “Three years. Mother should wish a word or two with you, you know.”
“I know,” I agreed. “It’s on that very topic of my going missing which utterly intrigues me. Before re-contacting our Masters, I should wish a bit more knowledge first.”
“Where have you been?” she asked, taking slow steps closer to me all the while. “What did you do? When you motored off with Peter Peel it were as if the earth split and swallowed you whole. Why the disappearance act? In addition, where has the male half of the sketch gone to?”
At about that moment she spun in a martial kick, intending to brain me in a most disagreeable manner. Spread me over the West End like berry marmalade. I flipped back over the chair, landing on my feet and my hands out. Feet placed so, and ready. Tara continued with two more spins intending to do me a nice one, but I grabbed her foot in passing and threw her belly down over the back of the chair.
Suddenly I had her arm, and had it in a good lock behind her. My other forearm was pressing her neck down. We both paused before she continued the fall over the chair, wrenching her arm out of my grasp.
“That must hurt, my dear,” I breathed. She stood there, facing me, and whipped off her skirt. Now she had a weapon of sorts, but I decided to deliberately ease things a tad. I leaned forward, elbows on the back of the chair, becoming vulnerable.
I was breathing too hard. Obviously I should have done my exercises more diligently during my tenure in The Village.
“Ravishing legs,” I offered. “Those look like bite marks on the innards of your thighs. Has Steed been biting you on your thighs? He was never that beastly when we were together.”
She blushed deeply, but failed of an answer.
“According to procedures, I must consider you to have defected,” she offered. “I shall subdue you and call in Mother.”
“Lot of bally rot,” I returned. “Is Rhonda still pushing the old sod about? Or has she downed tools and gone slacker?”
Tara threw the skirt at me, confirming my judgment that she had the bottom lead weighted like a Paris flic’s cape. I ducked into it, letting it fall off my turning movement. Tara pivoted to meet me in the midst of her latest salle’, seeking to put a fist into my throat or an elbow under my chin. Dove had done her homework on the mats.
I turned my back to her in a twirl and got her alongside the ear with the back of an elbow. Poor dear went down like a pole-axed Corgi.
This was not a productive encounter. Very sticky. Time for oil.
I helped her up and threw her upon the maticassar couch. Her pupils were clear and equal in size, her vitals robust, her hands a bit callused, and her large breasts soft and lovely upon an accidental touch. Not so accidentally I had a second go at them. It was borne in on me what a long time it had been. Just for old times sake I had a whiff of her scent and oils. A long time.
Her eyes were open and tracking when I raised my head again.
“If I promise not to have any inquiries as to affairs at the Ministry, can we call it truce for a trice?
“I haven’t had any American coffee for the longest, and I saw Raisin bread in your box in the scullery. It’s bit early yet, but what say we be immensely civilized and have a nice tea? Do you have any cucumbers? I’ll make us sandwiches to go with the toast.”
“No cucumbers,” Tara replied.
She really should keep cucumbers about. A nice fresh cuke was my only non-speaking companion during those boring nights in The Village.
I raised up and proceeded at a sedate to the cook’s domain, deliberately turning my back to her. I could hear her moving deliberately, so I continued at my humble pace.
“You’ll want some information to present to Mother,” I offered, “so if you don’t wish to offer any crumbs, I shall offer you a few of mine.” I had the cover off the toaster by then, a four slice Phillips from Holland. The coffee was already on and begun as I brought out the sliced bread. I love sliced bread, I never could cut the leaves straight when I was growing up and sneaking a morning slice with cinnamon and sweet.
I puttered about, being a perfect hostess even though this was her establishment and not mine. One learns to adapt.
“The last time we met,” I spoke into the air, “I was under an erroneous impression that my dearest and nearest had returned from jungle climes, suitably battered and mostly unrecognizable due to a quite literally smashing time when he force-landed in the Amazon.
“Wonderfully romantic, the image was. Faithful old had come back to me through thick and thin, a bit changed, but full of the future. The two of us, etcetera. I were supposed to feel remarkably boomps-a-daisy and not notice a few inconsistencies.
“Truth to tell it were all bally rot.
“I was gassed whilst on the way to our ancestral, and a team of creeps of the first water took me in hand and bundled my non-protesting body off to places unknown.” By this time Tara had positioned herself on the other side of the breakfast table, eyes glinting as she followed my every move.
Back to the toaster, the heavenly aroma of hot raisin bread caressing the insides of my nose. “Butter?” I asked? She nodded a yes, and I garnished the four slices with a thin - no, THICK - dab of Pure Essex butter. There’d always been rationing of a sorts in The Village, things simply unavailable at times. It had assisted in presenting the image of a good life in some People’s Paradise, the erratic shortages did.
I sat in one of the armless wooden chairs and bit down on the hot buttered cinnamon raisin bread. Three years. “They didn’t have raisin bread where I were. A most pleasant sort of place, if limited, The Village. But all in all, Colney Hatch as a summer camp, truth be told.”
I finished my two slices and asked Tara if she wanted all of what she had. She waved it away and I snatched one of her slices.
“Smut on my nose?” I asked. Tara was staring at me devouring my toast. Her toast.
“Do you mind if I made myself a few more slices?” Without waiting for an answer I inserted another two slices of that tremendous raisin bread in the pop-up.
“Didn’t they feed you well at that Borstal you were at?”
“Not raisin bread,” I returned. “Rather pleasant all-in-all, as I previously stated. If Wormwood Scrubs had been built as a colorful retirement tract by the sea, with all the amentities, The Village was what you would have wound up with.
“Pleasant appearing, serene, colorful little houses, teevee pick-up cameras everywhere to keep track of you, and absolutely no contact whatsoever with the outside world. No news, no magical mystery day trips to Hurley, no summers in Marienbad, no popping around to see Aunt Maude to inquire of her gall stones. Nothing. It was hermetically sealed and so dreadfully boring it drove me mad. Utter bonkers. More coffee?”
Watching me ravage my slices of toasted raisin, she finally found voice again.
“No toast there?”
“No reliable toasters. And lacking many varieties of food at odd intervals. There would be these peripatetic shortages, as if our vaguely western and quite unlabelled food were being imported from some distance. Gave the intended illusion you were actually in Latvia or Manchuria or someplace else quite horrid in reality.”
“But you were actually in ...?”
“A moment,” I asked. I firmly told myself that enough raisin toast had passed these lips for the day.
“It had many of the appearances of a jolly place, The Village did. You had your own individual bungalow, and no work to go to. You puttered about and played chess and carved wood or reefed sails in a boat they had in the harbor.” She gave me a look. “A Portland cement fake with wooden decks and sails, but firmly seated to terra incognita for all that.”
A noise out in the flat. “In here!” I called out. Tara started, staring at the door.
“This would be your lady friend, I should imagine,” I supplied. “She has her own key and Steed should have rapped on the door first. You two been together long?”
A tall thin lass came into the kitchen, suddenly alert on finding another female in their breakfast nook.
“Shan’t you introduce me?” I innocently asked.
“Lady Diana,” Tara said, “I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Emma Peel. Mrs. Peel? This is Lady Diana Forbes-Blakeney.” The thin wench edged close enough to touch hands for a second, one eye on her girlfriend all the while.
“You aren’t by any chance the Emma Peel who’s gone missing for the past three years, are you?” she inquired.
“The same,” I supplied. “Tara has been kind enough to supply me with the information that Mother, and I presume Father, wish to have a word or two with me on that very subject.”
“Mrs. Peel states she has been away on an involuntary holiday,” Tara told Lady Diana. “A pleasant seaside resort where it was impossible to leave.” Turning to me suddenly, she asked me another question.
“So just how exactly did you come to be here and not there, wherever there was?”
“It was all Number Six’s fault.”
“Number Six?”
“I was Number Twelve. None of us were supposed to have names. They gave us all a number and had taken away our names.
“Number Six utterly destroyed the camp, or broke us all out, or something equally momentous. I was there, and I am still unsure as to what happened exactly.”
“You’ve broken out of this prison and have made it back and have come directly here?” Lady Diana asked. “When did you escape?”
“Eightish, this morning, I think...” A long silence.
“Where did you start from?” from Tara.
“Wales.” Sudden comprehension on their faces. “Which is why I have a tick under my saddle, and wish words of my own with Mother, or Father, or bally bleeding anyone in the Ministry who could give me a few good answers to my inquiries.
“Three years I spent in Wales. Three years I couldn’t climb the bally hill or even go to the ‘Loo without some nasty bussard in a bally room somewhere watching me on the telly while I did my necessary. I’ve a right head of steam going and mean to have some answers before I tuck my wing over my head and say good night.
“But it’s none of yours,” I sniffed.
In a quick veer, I managed a smile and asked Tara; “Is this the one that bites? Pretty enough bird.”
They exchanged glances, then glared at me.
“I took the precaution of tossing the flat first off, and found ladies unmentionables of two very different sizes in the drawers,” I answered their unspoken question. “As the sainted one of 22B Baker Street might say, “The Jig Is Up.”” I had to smile at their faces.
“Do lose the straighted puss, please, the pair of you,” I put in. “Due to aforementioned circumstances I’ve lacked female companionship of any intimacy for three years. I envy the two of you. Also, I’m not about to bite your ear for a few thousand quid or anything nasty in the blackmail line of endeavor.
“I shan’t shimmer out after I’ve shimmered in, by the bye. You are welcome to call up Mother and alert his crew of sods that I await his displeasure. As he should await mine. Do shop me to your masters, please.”
“You’re taking the prospect extremely big,” Lady Diana noted. “How did you know the undies weren’t all mine?”
“I’ve become quite Confucian and Que Sera, Que Sera in the past three bally years. I had to, or go off the deep.”
I did my best to leer at Lady Diana. “As an aside, Lady Diana, you’re a proper bit of sweet. However, you’re quite slender and you’re lacking a spinnaker reach of any size up front. Miss King is a delightfully Reubenesque lady in many ways, and she could no more pop into your knickers or brassieres than I could fly to the moon.” Careful silence.
“I absolutely drool over the little black leather outfits, by the bye. I have some of my own. Or did. I shall have to pop over to my own flat one of these days and see what is left.
“Maybe I might drop bye some night and we could compare fit?
“Speaking of the odd thing, did the Yanks ever get back to the moon after that first time? And how long did that little war of theirs in Asia last?”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The first thing I did was sneak my hand about the door and wave a nicely aromatic bag of fresh cinnamon raisin bread where it could be seen (or smelled) by Tara, or the slender lady Diana.
“Peace offering,” I said.
“Mrs. Peel?” Tara asked from the other side. I swung the door open and found myself facing an almost starkers Tara and a Webley service revolver. A great deal of weapon, with fantastic stopping power. Tara was obviously a little exasperated at my finessing my way through the lock again instead of knocking.
She was adorned with a short colorful Mandarin robe barely closed in front, with more than a bit of bosom showing. As well as all of her stems. Delightful legs, as noted previously. No new teeth marks on the insides of her thighs when seen from my vantage point.
“Come to pay proper respects,” I explained. “The last time I popped in, there was a decided air of discord between us. I have come forth, like the Greeks bearing gifts, to soothe the troubled waters.” With that I pulled a wooden case of French bubbly onto the landing from the corridor without her flat door. It made a marvelous tinkling noise, all that Champagne in glass. Lady Diana put her head outside the dinner nook door once she realized what the tiny bedlam portended.
“You’ve been rehabilitated,” Tara observed. “My, but that was quick, wasn’t it? Two days and I read the dispatch this morning striking you from the Wanted list.”
“Is that Moet Chandon?” Lady Diana inquired. “And are you all kitted up in black leather under your wrap?” Quite observant of her. Very little of Lady Diana was under wraps. An unbelted red version of the Tara King robe adorned her, revealing gauzy red underwear. Undeniably incestuous of me, but she had my shade of auburn. My fingers ached to run themselves with wild abandon through that flowing crown. Thrush was a bit on the bony side, but appetizing for all that.
I spread wide my apalaca, revealing my black fighting leathers. They creaked at the odd moment, and I sweat horribly in them, but I was absolutely dead sexy when thus enwrapped.
“I’ve a new Astin Martin cabriolet, Lord only knows where my Lotus went to, and I’m absolutely bonkers from lack of the proper feminine company,” I said. “Therefore I’ve dropped by to offer you a visit to the “Venus” with me. What say we all dance a bit of wing and buck and meet a new lady or two?”
“That’s a private club,” Lady Diana offered. “And a year-long waiting list.”
“Number Six has generously discovered I’ve been a member in good standing since early of last year.”
“Number Six?” Tara asked. Full of questions that bird. “Isn’t he the fellow who demolished that day-camp-cum-prison of yours?”
“There is no Number Six,” I explained, flashing my pearly whites at them. Comprehension once more dawned. Everything had been made nice and tidy in the aftermath of whatever had happened to me and the facility in Wales.
Lady Diana recovered first. “Would it be proper if we all wore leather, do you think?”
“Absolutely first class,” I smiled back. “Shall I lend a caressing hand or two? I should appreciate assisting you lasses into something tight and smelly and dead sexy.
“Or you might assist me out of mine and we can go to the “Venus” later? It’s all hours, but no license past elevenish.”
Tara restrained her lady fair, and declined the assistance.
While they scurried into their bedroom to change, I put on a few slices of raisin bread into the Phillips toaster. Am absolutely addicted to raisin bread toast since my return. My particular opium of the masses, very Marxist actually.
Afterwards I neatly put my plate in the sink, shook the crumbs out of the toaster, and wandered forth in search of naked females.
Fortunately I found two ravishing examples still in the process of dishabilleing. I leered and fondled extremely enticing rumps whenever possible. Lady Diana laughed most enticingly when I caressed her swans down seat, and was at pains to present the item in question to my wandering fingers whenever possible. Tara was not amused.
After I had complimented her on her spinnaker sails a few more times she lost the glare. When I stood behind her I reached across to caress her belly, Tara finally lost eight or nine degrees of frost. Lady Diana then acquired a glare.
I sat upon the bed and apologized. “It’s been more years then I wish to count, dead sweet birds, since I’ve had a nice lady to do strenuous, rigorous and perverted things with. I badly need to find someone of acceptable quality at the “Venus”. Less than senile and still breathing would suit my fancy at this second in time.
“You two met on a sparring mat at the Manor House Grounds, did you not? Not very romantic, but a great place for grappling the flesh and being close. Who would win most matches?”
As expected Tara was the hardier of the two. Much into physical contact sports, LaCrosse at St. Cyprians, that sort of thing. She slapped my hand when I casually felt one breast. She smiled, however, whilst doing so.
Three years... No, four years, four and part of a fifth.
Like the Tiger chasing the pickanninie girl, I was going to melt down into rich butter soon. Unless fortune and a pretty young thing smiled my way tonight. Ready to swing onto the tiles.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The burly Majordomo recognized me as a member, which was fascinating, as I had never been here before. At least he didn’t greet me as Number Twelve.
Tara was in a brown leather skirt and sleeveless blouse of the same material, and shiny brown lace-up boots that virtually caressed her femininity they were so high. White step-ins for her bum, with long brown gloves, completed her ensemble. A proper riding crop was stuck through her wide decorative belt.
Lady Diana was in a black leather French Maid’s costume, complete with lace cap and net hose held up with a black lace garter belt. Black leather step-ins and heels, with a plethora of make-up and a fetching bun on top. Laces and ribbons were everywhere. She did indeed look ravishable.
There was a widening quiet once we broached the main hall of the establishment. More than one “’Cor!” broke the silence.
One muscular lass with the demeanor of a lifer in the SAS came forward to introduce herself to me. She had a Sergeant-Major’s voice, no doubt gained from years bellowing on drill squares.
Not my first choice.
Then a giggling piece of buxom bosomy lady came over to fawn on me. Not my second.
Que Sera, Que Sera, the night was young and opportunity must knock if I bally well had to throttle it first. I snagged a large bubbly, but was saddened to find it tasted more of hair spray than sun-crowned fields in France. I was equally saddened to find little in the standing crowd that appealed to me. The floor was congested with bounders rather than bodies of charm and poise. One angular and pushy lass with a heaving bosom thought she was my perfect date, but I thought her as cold and hard as last night’s kipper. I told her to take a toss, she got huffy, and I told her not to get the breeze up.
A wrist hold quieted her, and I went to find my fellow agents. When I found Lady Diana appearing abandoned, I asked her to dance. She held me close and I let her lead.
It seemed the most natural thing in the universe to begin kissing her long noble neck. Que Sera, Que Sera.
Tara was a tad stuffy when she came back with two glasses of that vile liquid labeled champagne by the establishment. I parted from Lady Diana and waved Tara into my place. I took the cleaning fluid to their nearby table, and returned to the dance floor.
Few took any notice of the music, nor did we. I fitted myself to Tara King’s curvaceous back, holding her wonderfully female body to my own. She glanced back at me, but her attention was soon regained by Lady Diana. This member of the peerage had a liking for ear lobes and necks. I took to letting my own lips trace the little bumps of Tara’s classic spine. I could feel the immature and tender peach fuzz on the back of her neck with my lips when I put my mind to it. So could Tara, to tell from her sudden shivering.
We picked up the pace of the music as I fitted my thighs against Tara’s wonderfully measured rump. My hands held her close and Lady Diana winked at me as her own hands fitted themselves between my body and Tara’s pleasing soft rear globes. Both had swans down seats, if my memory served correctly. I let my hands slide down to Tara’s bottom, lifted her leather skirt, and joined Lady Diana in caressing that delightful arse.
I took to nibbling on one ear while Lady Diana did the other. Teamwork, as the Yanks are fond of saying, does it.
The music, as it was ever wont to do, ceased at a most inconvenient moment. Tara broke to the ‘Loo for a refresher, and Lady Diana and myself repaired to their table. I advised against the bilge they were charging extraordinary prices for, and Lady Diana agreed after a precautionary sip.
I skid my chair around and sat next to the thin one. Both our heads moved at the same instant, and our lips met in a head-on collision. No need for the St. John’s lads though, there were no injuries.
I allowed myself to drift, enjoying the near-forgotten sensation of a woman’s lips. Over four years. I need this.
Tara came back and moved herself and a chair between us.
“Rebus sic stantibus,” I murmured into her shell-like ear. Lady Diana had foresight and good taste. Tara’s ears were indeed in the nibbling class.
Lady Diana was busy on the other ear. There would be no objections from her corner if this progressed into the erotic night I now assumed it would.
“Things being as they are,” Tara translated. “Are you proposing we toddle on back to our place and continue this worthy endeavor?” I had not thought Canadians were into Classical education’s.
She looked me close in the eyes. Big lovely lashes. “Are you trying to seduce me?” she asked.
“Do you want me to seduce you?” I returned.
“You shan’t have to seduce me,” Lady Diana threw in. “I’m quite thoroughly seduced already. I’m quite primed to move upwards into Wild Abandon and after that to Thorough Debasement And Rollicking Depravity.” She put her tongue tip into Tara’s ear. Tara has such fetching groans to accompany her shivering.
“I love being debauched. I’m a very bad girl,” Diana said. “Very very bad. I need to be spanked. Can you spank me, Mrs. Peel?”
“You shan’t sit for a fortnight,” I promised.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Time for the leathers to be removed. Tara removed her leather top and sat on the bed so that Lady Diana might unlace her high-thigh boots. Caressing the shiny leather all the while. Tara told me not to touch my leathers yet. I sat besides her and unhooked her bra. At the moment of release they spilled forward in their soft flowing beauty straight-aways into my hands and mouth.
Sweet large aureoles with small sere nips to the apex of them. I love large breasts. They fit so marvelously into the mouth and make one’s digits so deliriously happy as they move them about and adore them.
Four years.
“We need to undress...” Tara said. Such nipples, made for a night’s leisured nibbling. I love to nibble, they feel so wondrous between my teeth as they become firmer and harder.
“Diana,” she commanded, “we have to get these clothes off immediately. Will you listen to me, dammit?”
Lady Diana had merely moved the white panties to one side and was busily performing a decidedly wet-sounding inquiry into Tara’s large bushy quim. Fire trails were lying all through me at the sight of her mouth so busy and so happy.
Di was still dressed in her leathers, I yet had my own still on, and Tara eventually lay back on the bed. Such a pretty little bird Tara was, such lovely boxom breasts, they flowed like water when she moved.
“Oh hell...” Tara managed to murmur. “I’m going to have to punish you for this, my darling, you know that don’t you?”
I think Di bobbed her head. As her do was quite disarranged and her dark auburn hair was spilled between those sturdy Canadian thighs, it was a tad difficult to tell.
Tara waved her legs into the air as she came, groaning and hissing most delightfully.
As Tara relaxed on the other side of her orgasm, I arose and tapped Di on her shoulder. She arose to remove her leather maid’s costume, falling to the bed most gracefully as I gently pushed her down. I knelt to refresh myself with elixir of young lady.
Tara must needs come first, pardon the pun. She opened her thighs in anticipation. I breathed deeply of her. Four miserable years.
So much delicious hair, such a soft curvy Mons, the little sailor was white with rage even as I closed my eyes and took him into my mouth. I could see Di feasting on Tara’s breasts as I probed with my tongue for the hiding rod.
I hummed with pleasure as I felt it’s tiny stiffness with my teeth and lips. Having paid my respects, I must needs drink Tara down. She was quite warm and liquid, and I tasked myself to drinking it all down. Lick by lick. My spine shivered as she came on my adoring mouth.
If wetness of woman might be bottled, Chateau Tara King would be in the Gran Cru class. The Tattinger of pussy oil.
Four years. Only Di’s insistent arms pulling me erect broke the suction between Tara’s lovely groin and my mouth.
Tara panted and told us to undress, but otherwise she remained collapsed on her bed. Di assisted me in shedding my fighting kit, but it nonetheless took inordinately long. She continued in caressing me as she disrobed me, and the nervy lass was most insistent on discovering how hard her teeth could make my nips.
The cheek of her!
Nothing less than a total debauching of Lady Diana would do at that point.
Di had divine and overly large nipples to compensate for her meagre bosom. The springy rubbery texture of them in my mouth more than made up for any lack in sheer size in her breasts. I enjoyed the exquisite feel of lovely woman’s bosom in my mouth. Di chittered and shook in her own appreciation of her breasts being bitten with love and fervor.
Tara was standing erect by then, and guided Di to a prone belly down position across the bed. She pulled a pair of large paddles out of a drawer. They each had a condom rubber-banded to the handles. After spanking Lady Diana, I was sure, there would be other uses for the handles. Tara handed me one. Four years, but the long drought was being put down with a vengeance.
“Diana has been a most unruly child,” she intoned. “Did you see the manner in which she defied me? She didn’t listen to a word I said. She deserves to be punished for her disobedience.”
Tara beckoned me forward, indicating I should have first go with my paddle. “You’re the guest here, and it would be good manners to allow you to apply the first good swat on her rump. Isn’t it a lovely arse? If you wish you may kiss it first, though Diana appreciates the kissing after a good disciplining.
“Don’t do anything if you don’t wish to...?” she asked.
I answered by bending and beginning a series of good ones across that lovely slinky arse. It took only a few, with my whole arm into it, to turn Di’s cheeks red and sore. Tara then laid on a few more, bringing Di to a wretched state. Tears, sobbing, all that you might expect. Di’s cries sent little shivers through my belly.
Such a lovely arse. When Tara bent to lay soft hands and kisses on it. I joined her and kissed the other cheek. By this time Tara’s fingers were poking into the secret places of her darling girlfriend. Tara put the handle of the paddle in her mouth, wetting it. She inserted the handle into that tender orifice, running it back and forth and twisting it. She then gave it to me so suck. I sucked the delightful flavor of female aristocrat and happily inserted the handle of my own spit-slick paddle handle.
Tara and I did this turn and about for a few minutes. Then she retrieved a jar of thick white jelly from a drawer, and coated her handle with it. Then she slowly levered the handle inside Di’s arsehole. Needless to say I was continuing to use my own paddle inside Lady Diana.
She was quite loud as she came. Pleasing to my ears.
Leaving the handles in, I turned Diana over onto her back. Tara then continued easing the handles back and forth inside Diana.
Then I began spanking Diana’s adorable hairy quim. Little quick sharp slaps, loud, not love pats. My attention was elsewhere, but I believe Lady Forbes-Blakeney placed her knees behind her ears.
Such a juicy wench! I placed my head between her legs and tasted deeply of her oils. If she were butter, I now spread her all over my face. With especial emphasis on my tongue. Delightful.
Four years.
I raised my head, eventually, having to come up for air.
“I really needed that,” I said aloud.
I enjoyed Di’s nipples for the next round of Tara “punishing” her woman. It appeared to be spirited cunnilingus from my viewpoint, but truth is in the perception. Thrills continued racing up and down my body, for I knew I was next in line in the Que.
I rose to my knees when Lady Di eventually pushed Tara away. They laid me down and leered down at me.
My first come in four years was on Tara’s pointed little tongue.
My second was on Lady Diana’s talented fingers. Tara had that little pointed tongue of hers firmly adoring my bung at the time.
My third... But I must be boring. There were, after all, so many...
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Tara woke me up when she arose from our bower of lust. Di sleepily hugged me closer, her hand for a moment enjoying the fabric of my Mons hair, as well as the continued dampness of my groin.
When I opened my eyes again. Tara was fitting herself into a decidedly complicated panty-like harness of red leather. It had D-ring secures on seven or eight axis, and she was tightening every one of them. From her groin sprouted a tremendous shiny black dildo, complete with cut head. She saw me watching, and she caressed herself, in a fashion, for me. It was quite long and looked tremendous. She turned about whilst wearing that almost-panty, and I winced to see it bang hard against the corner of her dresser.
She slipped yet another yellow condom on the member and leered at me. The hand with the jar of jelly pointed an index finger at me, letting me know who was the recipient of choice for her false penis.
“Japanese?” I softly asked.
“Dutch,” Tara whispered back. “The harness was made special custom in Belgium. Delightful little place in Antwerp, where they fitted the harness especial to you. Di has her own, hers is black.
“I appreciate French rubbers, so she has a trio of dildos... A moment, let me show you.”
She brought forth for me to view the four-star Cognacs of knobbed dildos. Primary colors all, and each sporting hundreds of minuscule knobs or feathers or tentacles. Frightening and inspiring. As well as large.
Diana spoke in my ear; “Do you fancy a nice massage from the inside?”
“I can hardly wait,” I returned.
It hadn’t been anywhere near four years for this manner of recreation, but I enjoyed that ... filled sensation.
Lady Diana had a proper lady’s index finger in my arse at the same time Tara was preparing me for a loose wet fit. I could feel her spit rolling down my arse cheeks. She was not a sloppy eater as was Diana, but I anticipated little need for the jelly.
The phone rang.
I panted and glared at Tara as she rolled over to the phone. “Let the bastards bloody well get no answer,” I said.
“It’s probably our Masters,” she replied. She was right, to judge from her monosyllabic words into the device. I was fuming. I kept staring at that sturdy male member of hers and feeling empty inside.
Tara handed over the phone to me. I recognized the voice on the other end.
“Mrs. Peel,” Steed intoned, “You’re Needed.”
“Not for the next bloody thirty minutes I’m not. Call round again in half an hour. Now sod off.” With that I hung the phone back in its cradle.
Tara rolled over me, giggling, and Diana attacked my breasts with those dexterous fingers of hers. Thirty minutes should be plenty of time for yet another orgasm. In the event, it was time enough for two.
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