The Best of Kay Jaybee (11 page)

As the last of the come smeared her, she stood, and with a deft movement, freed his arms and removed the collar, although the buttplug was firmly left in place, the lead dangling, as if he'd suddenly grown a tail.

His shoulders cracked as he lowered his arms, and he took a second to rotate his neck – but only a second, for his companion was pointing to the paint-splattered floor.

He barely noticed the pain in his knees as he hurried to hit the concrete, keen to fulfil his part of the bargain. With every move of his body, the dried emulsion broke and splintered, piling new sensations on top of old, as he licked his own juices off the skin he'd dreamt about touching for over six weeks. As his tongue hit her nipples, she grabbed the clamps that were still adhered to his. Twisting them, she made him howl into her breasts with a gorgeous rush of smarting torture.

It was all she needed. A final dose of enjoying the agony she'd steadily inflicted on him. Leaning in closer, reaching round to pull the dildo from his rear, she started to spasm against his lapping tongue, the abrupt loss of the plug making him whine further.

He kept working, licking her tits faster, marvelling at the climax that rocked her, despite there being no contact with her cunt at all. She'd got off on pain. His pain.

Disguising his paint-peeling skin beneath his clothes, he didn't say anything as they made themselves presentable for the outside world. They hadn't talked all evening, and speech now didn't seem necessary. Something was nagging at him though. A realisation he hadn't expected: once wasn't enough.

She was the one who broke the silence, and as if reading his mind, said, ‘You want to do this again, but you want it to hurt more. You want me to decorate your arse and then beat it.'

It wasn't a question. It was a fact. This was going to happen again.

And the truth was, he couldn't wait.

Maggie

Maggie peered through the crack in the barn door, wondering if the whispered rumours were true. She was worried for them; the villagers could be a formidable force if they turned on you, and the reaction from the church would be truly terrifying. Maggie knew she was risking her own damnation by even thinking about it, but she couldn't help it, the idea of them fascinated her.

Creeping behind the back of the charcoal burners hut, the men disappeared into the woods. Previously Maggie had only known them as belonging to the huge category of people that made up ‘her betters,' but now she'd heard them call each other Peter and John. Hesitating for a second, Maggie looked carefully around, wary in case others were watching, and then, slipping away from her work, she followed.

Maggie had learnt to move through woodland without making a sound from an early age, an essential skill when bagging rabbits with her widowed father. She'd grown up a lot since those younger days, forced to act as a replacement for her mother as keeper of the house, whilst working on the farm, preparing meals, and ignoring the constant put-downs from her father. Maggie lived increasingly in fear of him and under the shadow of an unsympathetic church, which was constantly suspicious of any girl with a quick tongue and an enquiring mind.

Maggie knew she was wicked. Nearly every night as she lay behind the makeshift curtain which separated her from her brothers, as they slept on the straw covered attic floor, she let her treacherous fingers stray between her parted legs, up towards her ripe brown nipples and back again, driving herself to a state of exquisite but silent delight with the lightest of touches, acquiring herself a one way ticket to hell. As she lay beneath her rough blanket night after night her mind filled with forbidden images as she longed for a husband to be found for her to supply her needs, to save her from herself, and to take her away from the constant demands of her family.

She paused by the thick trunk of an oak tree and listened hard. They were out of sight now, but faint sounds ahead guided her forwards. The trees were thicker here, the woodland unmanaged. Maggie stiffened and her heart pounded in her chest as she heard a stifled groan. What were they doing? She crept forward, keeping her body low to the ground.

Finally she caught sight of her quarry, almost hidden behind some as yet un-coppiced beech trees, just beyond a small clearing. Maggie stuffed her sleeve into her mouth to prevent herself crying out. Somehow she'd known it would be true.

Years of conditioning had told Maggie she should be disgusted, outraged. She had imagined herself ready to pile in with advice, to beg them to stop and save their souls. Instead she felt her nipples harden and an unmistakable tingle spread between her legs. They were kissing as tenderly as any young lovers. She couldn't tear her eyes away. Naked from the waist, hose pushed down to their shoes, each fondled the others stiff cock with one hand, whilst they, oblivious to her voyeuristic presence, murmured into each other's mouths with insistent, probing tongues.

Maggie slipped a hand inside her rough brown dress, and hastily rolled down the bindings that held her chest, partially freeing her breasts. ‘So,' she thought with envy, caressing her hard nipples, her body responding to the sight before her, ‘that's what it's like to be in love'.

The younger man, John, was kneeling down now, his mouth slipping over and around the tip of his partner's dick. Licking, teasing and coaxing, as Peter wriggled his fingers through John's hair to steady himself, his hips thrust as far forward as they would go. Maggie hardly dared even breathe in case she was spotted, but as Peter groaned his urgency increasing, she lost concentration and stepped back. A twig snapped beneath her flimsy leather shoes. John pulled back. He sat up, alert, pulling his partner down to the ground, covering his mouth to stifle his moan of loss. ‘There's someone there' he whispered. Both men looked panicked; terrified. They knew the price for what they did.

Maggie saw their faces and immediately understood their horror as they grabbed at their discarded garments. Madly she rushed forward, babbling, unthinking, ‘No, it's alright. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry I found you, but, oh, you looked so beautiful together. I know it's wrong to watch, but don't be afraid I won't tell anyone, I promise I won't.'

The men looked at her in horror. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?' John turned to Peter, he spoke bluntly, all trace of his previous gentility gone. ‘We will have to kill her.' Peter nodded. It was so obvious, why hadn't she thought of that? Stupid girl. Perhaps her father was right after all, maybe she was useless.

‘No, please, Sirs. I'm Maggie, Sirs, I'm the farm labourer's daughter', she begged, rashly continuing, ‘it was so lovely. Please, I won't tell anyone.' Neither man moved; could they trust her? They seemed to notice her dishevelled clothes for the first time. ‘What were you doing while you were watching girl?'

‘Oh please, Sirs,' cried Maggie, her face turned beseechingly from one to the other, before she became wary of her status, and humbly lowered her gaze and mumbled, ‘I know I'm bad, but I can't help it, it feels so nice, and watching you I…'

Peter cut in, ‘They say we are the wicked ones, Maggie. What do you think?' John grabbed her chin and held it firmly, boring his own dark eyes into hers to evaluate her answer.

‘I just think you are in love, Sir.' John let her go and carefully looked her up and down. Maggie felt as though he was analysing her very soul. He turned to his partner. ‘I think she may be just what we've been searching for.' Peter was nodding slowly, as if considering something.

‘Is she wet? Have we really turned her on?'

‘I'll see. Stand still, girl.' John commanded her in a voice used to giving orders. Maggie began to shake, fear and uncertainty flooded through her. Were they going to kill her? How would they do it if they did? What use could she be to them? The man called John was going to touch her. It was wrong, she would go to hell. Yet, despite her terror, her whole body was urging his fingers on.

Gripping a shoulder each, the men, grim faced, set to work on her body. John slipped his hand beneath the layers of her skirts, and recoiled slightly at her lack of undergarments. He nodded to his partner, ‘She is indeed wet. Sodden. The girl is obviously a harlot.'

Peter frowned, but said nothing as he moved a hand down the top of her dress, causing Maggie to sigh beneath his hurried touch, her eyes wide at the effect of the illicit contact. In unspoken agreement, the men pulled the dress over her head and threw aside the bindings that remained crumpled beneath her tits.

Naked before them Maggie felt herself rooted to the spot under the heat of their inspective gaze. Certain that she was already well on her way to damnation, Maggie knew she didn't want to run, and her impatience grew as she mentally willed them to fall on her.

‘If we do this,' Peter spoke to John, as if Maggie simply wasn't there, ‘one of us can marry her. It would all stop, the gossip, the looks. One of us at least would be accepted, which would certainly help the other one. Yes? We do agree that the inconvenience of having to service a girl occasionally would be worth it?'

John nodded, they had considered acquiring a token wife before, but they needed a woman they could trust, someone who wouldn't go running off to the local priest at the first moment's freedom. Having a prisoner for a wife would simply be too tiresome and lead to more local interest, not less. He looked critically at the shivering girl. ‘She is very low born; the farm labourer's daughter. Questions would be asked. Marriage by rape is one thing, but it is generally conducted between the correct classes.'

Maggie's chest was aching through lack of attention as she stood, her eyes still cast down, waiting for their next move. The hush seemed to go on forever as Peter considered John's words, before he finally spoke, ‘We could pretend it was a genuine love match. I'm sure she could convince people of that, especially if her life depended on it.' He turned to Maggie, ‘Could you, girl?'

‘Oh yes, Sir' she stammered, wishing she had the courage to say ‘Touch me, it wouldn't be rape, I want this.' She was yearning so hard for them to stroke her, smooth her, do something, anything, that she was afraid she might howl out in frustration and alert the whole village.

‘It has to be you,' John spoke to his lover over Maggie's head. ‘You have more experience with women.'

Peter nodded gravely, gripped Maggie by the shoulders and, without preamble, began kissing her savagely. If John hadn't moved behind her and clasped his smooth un-calloused hands around each breast, Maggie would have sunk down under the ferocious mouth. After initial shock of the longed for onslaught, she kissed Peter back as hard as she could, her mind bursting with all the illicit fantasies she'd ever had as their teeth clashed together.

Peter broke away, his breath was short as he instructed John, ‘Rub your fingertips over her nipples, she'll love that, we want her to be willing after all.'

Clumsily at first, John did as he was bidden, and slowly began to caress each teat, watching with fascination as they puckered beneath his touch, sending waves of desire coursing through Maggie's body, and forcing mewing noises from her lips. John continued to inflame her chest as Peter bent down and ran a finger between her slick legs. Maggie whined with pent up lust as she rubbed herself against his extended digit.

‘She's nearly there, keep going.' John quickened the pace of his kneading whilst Peter flicked at her nub with one long rough finger, whilst slowly inserting another into her pussy, sending Maggie soaring into her first genuine orgasm.

The force of her release sent Maggie to her knees. She threw her hands over her mouth to stifle the scream climbing up her throat. The two men grabbed at each other above her crouched, come racked body, their initial caution at being observed forgotten in their renewed need for each other, both turned on far more than they had expected by the creature that had fallen beneath them.

Momentarily abandoned, Maggie sat between their legs, panting for breath, her bare legs scratched by the bracken-covered ground, as she inspected the bulges in the men's hose. Cautiously, she reached up, fascinated, and tentatively stroked the material that stretched over each set of balls. Their reaction was instant. Pulling apart, startled, they looked down at the incredible girl who smiled up at them, and continued to caress their taut bodies.

Peter stepped back slightly, checked in an unspoken enquiry with John, and pulled down his hose. Maggie didn't need to be told what to do, and instantly gobbled at the proffered cock. John watched as Peter closed his eyes, a look of indulgent pleasure on his face, before pulling off his own hose and, positioning himself behind Maggie, pushed his dick between her legs, robbing her eager body of the last traces of virginity. With blissful relief, she gasped for air around the thick shaft that crammed her mouth as she found herself filled to the hilt.

As he felt his own self-control ebbing away, Peter pulled out of Maggie's mouth, pushed her, back first, onto the splintered ground, with John still wedged between her legs. Peter pulled John's buttocks apart and jammed himself firmly between his flushed arse cheeks. He alone could see how deliciously sinful the three of them looked, and vowed that this would be a position they would take turns to adopt as often as possible.

Finally they had found a girl they could get used to, a girl whom could provide them the respectability they needed, and it appeared, would do anything they wanted, and he thanked God she'd discovered them.

Peter decided he would visit Maggie's father the following day. As Lord of the Manor his request to marry the girl would not be refused, and he'd go ahead anyway, even if it was. The gentle moans of satisfaction that drifted up from the ground beneath him, assured him that Maggie was more than satisfied with their plan. And she was.

The Bride Wore Rubber

If I had been a newspaper journalist reporting on the wedding I would have used the headline, ‘The Bride Wore Rubber'. Red rubber to be precise. Not in dress form, but sparingly, in the manner befitting the chief slave of an exclusive S&M club owner.

Thin straps of rubber circled her neck and supported a harness, which looped around her ample tits, pushing them up unnaturally high. Her flat stomach was bare, but her legs were encased in rubber stockings, which moulded themselves perfectly to the contours of her body, outlining her firm thighs and slender calves. This skin-tight covering stopped short of her backside, revealing her round, tanned arse and her shaved pussy in all their glory.

There was an elegant dignity about the girl. She was tall, slim, blonde and conventionally beautiful, but there was more to her than that. A quiet strength seemed to emanate from her, a strength that the addition of a red eye-mask, blinding her better than any bridal-veil, didn't diminish. A leather lead was clipped to a matching choker which was, in turn, secured around her slender neck. The choker, in deference to the occasion, was studded with three small diamonds.

As the time for the ceremony drew near, I stood amongst the oddly semi-dressed assemblage of guests. They had broken into two clusters, one on each side of the club's dancehall, leaving a makeshift aisle running down its centre.

At the end of this aisle, awaiting his slave-bride, stood Michael. I don't know his surname, but I do know he is a very influential man, with powerful friends, who like to play dangerous games. He gave off an air of quiet, arrogant control as he surveyed the scene before him. He, unlike his guests, was wearing full wedding regalia, a grey morning suit, cravat and top hat. Handsome in a rugby player kind of way, Michael stood head and shoulders above his best-man, whose chest was bare, and whose black leather trousers squeaked slightly as he paced up and down, waiting edgily for the procession to begin.

From my privileged place at the side of the crowd, I glanced towards the doors. The increased noise of activity coming from behind them indicated that the bridal party was almost ready. I looked towards the rather uncomfortable reverend, who was waiting for what, I'm sure he hoped, would be a swift service.

I tensed, as did every guest in the room, as Mendelssohn's
Wedding March
struck up over the club's sound system, and the hall doors swung open.

The immediate whoops and cat calls from the overheated guests showed their instant approval of the party's attire.

Holding the bride's lead was a large man, who, like the groom, wore a morning suit. A whisper from the crowd informed me that he was the bride's future brother-in-law. I could see the family likeness. The solid chin, the square frame to the body, the arrogant dark blue eyes.

The bride followed him, blindly, sedately, humbly, on all fours. She crawled along, her breasts swinging beneath her, her arse burning with sharp red wields, that had obviously been administered by a whip only moments before. In addition, the bride had received an extra facet to her outfit. A string of red Thai beads had been threaded into her anus. I could only imagine how she must feel, debased and humiliated before this mass of largely familiar faces.

Two bridesmaids completed the group. Both similarly bedecked in skimpy white rubber harnesses and leggings, their faces were solemn and bowed. These were Michael's other two personal slaves. I wondered if they were jealous of their colleague's status, or if they were relieved that it wasn't them blinded and on all fours in front of the entire club membership.

As the bride reached the makeshift altar, the crowd bunched forward, each person eager to watch the ceremony at close quarters.

I slipped to the front of the room, manoeuvring my way to a space behind the vicar, where a hired, wide-eyed, camcorder operator already stood, his mouth open in disbelief.

On reaching her Master, the bride's blindfold was eased up, and she kissed his shoes, as the lead was passed to the groom.

Michael looked down approvingly at his slave for a second, before allowing her to stand next to him. She rose with amazingly controlled poise, making sure the beads didn't have a chance to escape from their intimate confinement, and therefore denying her intended the excuse to publicly punish her.

The vicar began the service and, with what seemed an alarming adherence to tradition in the circumstances, the wedding speeches and vows began, just as if we'd been stood in any church or registry office in the country. I listened intently over the background buzz of the guests' subdued chatter. The bride's name was Mary. I wondered if her husband would ever use it, or if she'd be called Slave for the rest of her life.

When it was time for the groom to pass his slave her wedding ring, my stomach contracted as, rather than a ring, the best man passed the groom what looked like a silver staple gun, but what I soon discovered was actually a piercing device.

The expression on the bride's face showed that she hadn't expected that. I watched intently as the groom bent and sucked hard at Mary's left nipple, pulling it with his teeth until it stood proud and firm. Then, on a pre-arranged signal, one of the bridesmaids stepped forward and wiped a small cloth, presumably of antiseptic, over the extant nipple. Once that had been applied, Michael wasted no time before putting the gun in place, piercing and ringing his wife like a chattel.

The bride's cries of pain as the gold band was permanently secured onto her were partially drowned out by the booming voice of the clergyman saying, ‘By the giving and receiving of this ring, I now pronounce you Man and Wife, Master and Slave.'

I scribbled frantically into my notebook, as, like every eye in the room, I observed the silent, tear-streaked face of the bride. She was turned slowly, so that the whole room could see her newly swollen tit with its golden accessory. The congregation cheered manically as the vicar raised his arms and cried, ‘You may now kiss the bride.'

Nodding his thanks to the vicar who hastily departed from the room, Michael turned his bride to face him and, lifting her bowed head to his, kissed her tenderly, so tenderly that I wondered whether there was a genuine feeling of love there. This thought only lasted for a second, as he roughly pushed Mary to her knees, making the bead tail clatter as it hit the floor.

Michael called in a voice of authority, ‘Ladies and Gentleman, the wedding party will adjourn to my private study, you guests may amuse yourself freely, and then, in one hour, dinner will be served.'

His last few words were almost buried beneath the violent eruption of noise from the dance-floor, as an instant orgy exploded around me. It took only seconds for groups and couples of men and women, women and women, and men and men, to be pushed up against one another, mouths, tits, hands and cocks everywhere.

I, however, had been instructed to follow the wedding party.

When I reached the large, old-fashioned-style study, I was offered a leather chair in the corner of the room, next to my still stunned filming partner. My breathing had become rather shallow, and I was all too aware that the events I'd witnessed had had a rather unprofessional effect on me. I attempted to compose myself, for I was sure that things were about to get worse ... or should that be better?

In the centre of the room Mary was back on all fours, waiting submissively, attended by her rubber-clad bridesmaids, who stood, one at each shoulder.

The best-man hovered impatiently by the desk, and the groom's brother, now naked, loomed over his new sister-in-law. Michael, still fully clothed, lounged on a swivel chair, placed at the front of the room so he could observe everything that was about to happen just as clearly as I could.

There was a certain ritual to what happened next, although I'm not sure if it was a regular routine, or if it had been orchestrated strictly to celebrate the wedding, but everyone seemed to know exactly what was going to happen, and that expectancy added a taste of exotic tension to the air. It was rather like watching a cleverly choreographed erotic dance or side show.

A nod from Michael began the proceedings.

The bridesmaids both lay down on the floor, one either side of the bride, their heads beneath her body. Another signal from the groom, and Mary crouched so that her tits were lowered into their open mouths. Such joint stimulation must have been incredible, and I couldn't help marvelling again at the bride's self-control, as she kept perfectly still and quiet, despite the flickers of discomfort and pain that crossed her face as her recently wounded tit was fondled.

Michael was obviously enjoying what he saw, for he slouched down in his seat, undid his flies, and let his massive cock free from his trousers. I let out an involuntary gulp as I saw him and, for the first time, I felt a touch of envy for the girl in red.

Unable to stop myself from imagining how good it must be to have two independent mouths work over your tits, I had to force myself to concentrate very hard on the task I was being employed for. As my own nipples hardened beneath my satin bra, I risked a glance at my filming colleague, and saw he was having a similar wrestle with his feelings. The bulge in his jeans was unmistakable.

The best-man, who had been standing impatiently behind the desk, was summoned forward. Standing between the bride and groom, he peeled his body-hugging trousers to the floor. Sweat glistened on his skin, and his cock pointed directly to Michael, asking permission for some attention all on its own.

The club's owner inclined his head, and the best-man (whose name I never discovered), walked to the bride and inserted himself between her parted lips. She immediately began to work him off as her new husband watched, his hand lazily gliding up and down his own shaft.

This continued for only a few moments, and then, while his cock was still hard, the best-man turned from the bride and crawled towards his Master, before begging him to finish him off personally.

Michael obliged without taking his eyes off his wife. Enveloping the best-man's cock in his giant hand, he yanked him roughly to a sticky climax, before dismissing him to go and see to the forthcoming wedding reception.

Meanwhile, the bridesmaids were still lapping Mary's tits to distraction, and the first signs that her stoic silence may be broken were apparent, as an expression of furious concentration settled on her face. Her brother-in-law, who'd also been observing her carefully, grabbed her yellow hair, and used it as a lever to pull up her hanging head.

‘Smile at your brother-in-law, my slave.' The groom spoke softly, but there was no doubt from the tone that only a fool would disobey his request.

She beamed brightly, like a seasoned professional hooker not wanting to disappoint a paying client. I was worried for a second that Michael would punish Mary for its falseness, but he let it go. I saw clearly at that moment that his wife would take anything from Michael, but that she loathed her new brother-in-law.

‘Good girl,' Michael continued to massage himself as he gestured to the bridesmaid on the left to move away.

Deprived of the stimulation of one breast, the bride failed to conceal a moan of loss, and Michael's brother swiftly admonished her with a sharp slap to the rump. The smack echoed around the tensely hushed study.

I tried to swallow down the spittle that had risen in my throat, anything to ease its dryness. I hoped the champagne would be flowing freely once the reception started, for by the time this was over I knew I'd feel like I'd trekked the Sahara.

I held my breath as Michael, displeased at his new wife's failure to contain her feelings of sensual depravation, gestured the bridesmaid to begin her second task.

As I watched the nearest bridesmaid, Julia, her short, bobbed brown hair damp with perspiration, I could see she was having problems with controlling her own arousal. Her nipples strained out at the end of her tanned breasts, and there was the unmistakable glisten of sex juice gleaming over the top of her shiny white rubber leggings. She picked up the end of the Thai bead tail that was still wedged firmly up the bride's arse, and waited.

Michael's brother pulled Mary's hair harder, craning her head up higher. Her fake smile was still plastered across her face, but I thought I saw hate flash in her eyes as she stared back at him.

Suddenly I realised what was happening. It was a contest. The bride slave was to keep her face happy and impassive regardless of what was about to happen to her gorgeous body. Expectant heat consumed me despite the cool of the room, and I wondered how uncomfortable those rubber suits must be, how much sweat must be gathering beneath their hugging touch?

Michael spoke again; his voice seemed to cut through the room like a whip. ‘Amanda, let go of her tit.' The second bridesmaid did as bidden, and rolled out from beneath her superior slave, waiting for the next instruction.

‘You will take your position between my wife's legs.'

Amanda's green eyes showed an unmistakable cruel streak, and I saw her salacious delight, as she moved to the back of the bride. Without getting in the way of her colleague, Amanda knelt down, pushed her red hair behind her ears, and pulled Mary's nether lips open, poking her agile tongue against the neat clit.

My eyes darted from the activities of Amanda to the bride's face. How was she doing this? How the hell was she getting an oral fucking and showing nothing but calm composure?

Michael's face swelled with pride as he observed her. I could see why he'd wanted this girl as his wife, and as I watched her, I also saw how much pride and pleasure she got from pleasing him. A strange union perhaps, but then, many marriages are.

The groom spoke again to the second bridesmaid, ‘Julia; one bead at a time please. Wait for my signal each time.'

He lowered his hand almost straight away, and Julia pulled at the bead tail. I could hear a small pop as the first bead was withdrawn. Perspiration freely dotted the bride's brow now, but still she managed to keep outwardly calm, as Amanda licked her with increased passion. Michael gestured again, and a second bead was withdrawn.