A Study in Shame (10 page)

To my astonishment, it began to go in quite easily, but it was an overpowering sensation, tighter than a fuck and just plain wrong. Another push and I began to get tight, but I wasn’t giving up and tried again, telling myself that it was supposed to be a punishment after all, and that Morrison certainly wouldn’t let me off. I was sobbing on my dildo gag as I struggled to accommodate the mass of his cock, and then I’d done it, my ring stretching wide to take the fat rubber knob.

My mouth came wide with my bottom hole, until both were gaping. As my fingers found the switch, I turned the horrible thing on, and I’d have screamed if I hadn’t been so well gagged, as all eight inches of thick rubber cock were jammed in up my straining anus. Now I was being buggered in earnest, the fat black cock pumping inside me to set me clutching at the coverlet and shaking my head in reaction, and not just to the sensation of having a prick up my bottom, but in pure beautiful shame.

It was only then that I realised why the instructions recommended the fingers for the best anal sex. The great rubbery balls were slapping on my empty cunt, a firm reminder that it was my bottom hole that was penetrated, but they weren’t touching my clit. I began to squirm, right on the edge and desperate for friction, but it just wasn’t going to happen in a kneeling position. More ashamed of myself than ever, I rolled over, to sit myself on top of Morrison, the dildo still pumping in and out of my bottom hole as I spread my cunt across one fat furry thigh and began to rub.

It had been an extraordinary weekend, but that did nothing to improve the prospect of Monday morning. Mr Scott was sure to be in a bad mood, as he always was after seeing his wife, while unless I managed to avoid the office floor completely I was going to have to endure taunting and jokes from Stacey Atkinson and her friends. I was still sore as well, with my bottom and thighs now coloured with a dozen peculiar hues ranging from old gold to Imperial purple. Some of that was from the spanking Magnus had given me, and being buggered by Morrison, including faint marks on my wrists where I’d been pulling on the cuffs in order to get the dildo deeper still up my bottom.

I wanted to be very sure they didn’t notice those, and I was determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing me react to what they’d done in any way at all. Fortunately, I had several pairs of tight running shorts, which I put on in place of panties, and an old-fashioned and extremely prim blouse with long cuffs that made me look as if I’d stepped out of some office movie from the eighties but successfully hid the marks on my wrists. I was still feeling jittery as I went down in the lift, and doing my usual thing of dreading reality while enjoying a fantasy about the very thing I feared. In this case, being made to show off my bruises by Stacey and her friends.

They’d corner me somewhere quiet, perhaps in the old print room, bend me over a photocopier and hold me in place while they turned up my skirt and pulled down my shorts to inspect my bottom. First they’d enjoy a good laugh over the state of my cheeks, before realising the bruises weren’t all from their paintball hits. Stacey herself would have worked out that I’d been beaten and force me to admit what had happened by twisting my arm painfully tight behind my back. I’d admit to being spanked by Magnus, only to have my bottom cheeks pulled apart and my anus inspected too, after which I’d have to admit to anal sex as well. They’d laugh at me, spank me, stick a marker pen up my bottom and another in my cunt, at which I’d lose control and end up masturbating in front of them, spread out on the floor as I came over my own humiliation.

‘Miss Salisbury? Lucinda?’

It was Stacey. I spun around, dropping the cup of coffee I’d been pouring for myself down the front of my skirt and all over the carpet. She gave me a surprised look and immediately bent down to help clear up the mess I’d made as I turned to the sink to try to do something about my skirt and to hide my blushes, apologising out of sheer habit. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. I was, er … daydreaming.’

‘Never mind, at least you can go upstairs to change your skirt. Look, Miss Salisbury … Lucinda, I want to say sorry myself. We went too far last Saturday, and it’s really sweet of you not to take any action over what happened.’

She was holding out a memo, which I took. It was a formal warning about her behaviour, from Mr Scott himself, with an additional note to the effect that had it not been for my intervention she’d have been risking dismissal.

I smiled and shrugged. ‘It’s nothing, really. I probably deserved it.’

‘No, you didn’t. You were just trying to win, which is what it’s supposed to be all about, isn’t it? And it’s not as if you owe us any favours. Friends?’

I found myself smiling stupidly as a great weight of stress I’d never really known was there began to drain away. She was holding her arms open and I went forward, to let her hug me and to return the hug. I could feel the strength of her arms and the size of her full firm breasts as they pushed against my own, so quickly kissed her and pulled away in case she somehow realised my instinctive reaction. Now she was smiling as she threw a quick glance towards the door, then pulled up the hem of her skirt.

‘Look at this. That’s from when they charged the flag. Mike Baker got me, after I’d got him, but the referee didn’t take any notice at all! Then I got disqualified for tripping him up, but that was when we heard the horn go. You were brilliant!’

She was showing me a rounded bruise, much like the ones on my bottom and legs, but on her inner thigh, well above her knee.

Now I couldn’t help smiling, although I very definitely was not going to start comparing bruises. I lied instead. ‘I’m not too bad, actually. None of you got me from all that close to and I had thick undies on.’

‘With yellow ducks on. We saw. Look, some of us are going for a drink tonight, would you like to come?’

***

I couldn’t refuse, and I couldn’t help but imagine that it was some sort of trick, which made for a classic fantasy. They’d take me to some perfectly ordinary pub or bar, where I wouldn’t be suspicious, get me drunk and then take me somewhere quiet to deal with me. I’d be stripped naked, my panties stuffed into my mouth to shut me up, tied up with my own stockings, my hands strapped tight behind my back and my ankles lashed together. It would all be on cameraphone, every awful detail as I was put across Stacey’s knee and spanked until I was in danger of swallowing my panties in my pain and humiliation. Only when they’d got my bottom red and rosy would they let me up, by which time I’d be in a state of helpless arousal, allowing them to make me their plaything as I knelt naked on the dirty ground, licking eagerly at their pussies and between the cheeks of their bottoms. They’d film me as I kissed Stacey’s anus, before spreading me out on the cobbles so that she could sit on my face to get her orgasm while I masturbated in front of them.

Of course, it was nothing like that, as I knew perfectly well it wouldn’t be, just friendly banter over a few bottles of wine at one of the bars on the plaza. They did tease me, not in a nasty way at all, but joking about how gingerly I sat myself down in my chair and about my duck-patterned knickers, and they were no crueller to me than they were to each other. Inevitably, it got to me, but I knew full well they weren’t like me and would be horrified at any suggestion of the sort of thing I’d have liked them to do with me, which was just as well as they were all from the company and anything more than a hug and kiss would have risked a breach of my terms and conditions.

None of them lived nearby, so they began to drift off one by one long before closing time and I was finally left to my own devices, sitting outside the bar with a nearly full glass in front of me and my head full of naughty fantasies. I wanted to play, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Charlie was in, so instead of heading back for my building I made my way to her shop. The lights were out, and I knew she didn’t live there, so I walked on, checking the Wharfingers before starting back along the side of the long fence opposite Magnus’s warehouse.

The depot had about as many lorries in as during the day, despite the time, with powerful floodlights creating pools of deep shadow among the lorries, ideal to take me into and make me suck a few cocks. Unfortunately, the security was as good by night as by day, but as I passed the alley beside Magnus’s warehouse I saw his car, parked exactly as it had been the afternoon before when I’d gone down on his cock. Evidently, he was working late, but I had no doubt he’d be able to find the time to give me what I needed and quickly crossed the road. A light showed high on the side of the alley, which was presumably an upper storey of his warehouse, although I hadn’t explored it, but that was all.

I pulled out my phone, meaning to ring, but thought better of it, because if the front door was open I’d be able to strip first and walk naked into his office as he worked over his accounts or whatever tedious task he was at, which was sure to be a nice surprise. That assumed he was alone, and if he wasn’t the whole thing would simply be embarrassing and not in a nice way, so when I tried the door and found it was open I slipped quietly inside and stood listening as my eyes adapted to the dim light. I heard voices almost immediately, Magnus’s bass rumble and another, also male but quieter, more diffident, and which I was sure I recognised. Puzzled, I shut the door and moved a little further into the warehouse. I heard Magnus’s voice again, although it was impossible to make out the words, and the other, a single clear word. ‘Please.’

Now I was sure, and my curiosity was simply too strong to allow me to go back. I could see reasonably well too, by the dirty yellow light coming through barred windows onto the alley and high in the front wall. The staircase was at the back and I moved cautiously towards it, and up, a step at a time. It gave onto an open floor stacked with boxes much like the one below, with a desk to one side and a big comfortable chair deliberately illuminated by a single lamp. In the chair sat Magnus, his massive legs splayed apart, his trousers undone to expose his genitals, just as he had for me, and in front of him, on his knees, his mouth full of thick white cock, his eyes shut in ecstasy as he sucked, was my own boss, Mr Scott.

Neither heard my hastily stifled gasp of shock, both lost in the moment as one pleasured the other, and it didn’t look like a mutually satisfying blow job; it looked like an act of worship. I could only stare as Mr Scott worked his lips slowly up and down Magnus’s erection, which looked even bigger and thicker than when I’d been attending to it, desperately trying to get my emotions in order: envy, arousal, betrayal, a curious sense of pride and an urgent dirty need to crawl over and join my boss as he paid homage to Magnus’s virility. If I’d thought for an instant I’d be welcome, I’d have done it, but I’d obviously disturbed a very private moment indeed, and when I finally managed to tear myself away it was to move carefully back down the stairs.

Outside in the street I let myself lean against the wall, my breathing ragged as I struggled to make sense of what I’d seen. I’d had no idea Mr Scott was gay, let alone Magnus, or, rather, bisexual, as Mr Scott had been married for twenty years and had grown-up children, while there had been nothing false about the way Magnus had handled me. Yet I could understand him wanting to suck Magnus off, out of sheer awe for his size and virility, even if he had no desire whatsoever for an emotional relationship with another man.

That made sense, or, at least, it was the only explanation I was prepared to accept, but I still felt betrayed. After all, I was open-minded and Magnus could have told me. On the other hand, I hadn’t told him about Charlie, which was really no different. In fact, it was exactly the same, which made it much easier to play down the negative side of my feelings as I started back towards the building.

Up in my flat, I was still too bemused even to play with Morrison, but had a quick shower, pulled on a fresh pair of knickers and a nightie, then collapsed into bed.

Only as I lay there in the darkness did my arousal slowly start to win through against my other emotions. I’d never seen a man suck another’s cock before, and there was something immensely compelling about it. Mr Scott’s face had been perfectly illuminated, as strong and as masculine as ever, and yet he’d had his mouth wide around Magnus’s cock, a man stronger and more masculine still. I wondered how Mr Scott had felt, with his mouth agape around a cock presumably far bigger than his own. Sucking a man’s cock had always been a dirty act to me and I’d have been deeply ashamed of myself, even though it would have been an essential part of my pleasure. Surely he should have been more ashamed still, to take another man’s cock in his mouth and suck on it, feeling it start to swell, knowing he was giving pleasure he would normally have taken from a woman, and, worst of all, making another man come and swallowing down his spunk?

I couldn’t stop myself. My hand had gone down my panties and I was fiddling with my cunt even as I used the other to tug my nightie up over my tits. I had to come, and not over the elaborate fantasies I’d had building up in my head all day, but over the memory of my boss sucking my boyfriend’s cock. He’d been on his knees, just like I had, with his hand between his legs, just like I had. Presumably he’d been masturbating, although I hadn’t been able to see his cock, and that was what tipped me over the edge, imagining one strong powerful man so overwhelmed by the sheer masculinity of another that he was prepared to go down on his knees and suck cock while he pulled on his own.

My back arched, my muscles started to contract and I was coming, with the image of what I’d seen fixed firmly in my head, and only as I subsided slowly into the softness of my sheets did I wonder how I was going to look Mr Scott in the eye the next morning, never mind Magnus when I met him for our date.

What hadn’t occurred to me at all at the time, but which I found more than a little irritating when it came to mind the next morning, was that Mr Scott was a hypocrite. He was the one responsible for the wording of my contract, and he was the one who was always stressing how important it was for me not to do anything that might tarnish the company image, as I told Morrison. ‘And what does he do? He goes down on my boyfriend!’