A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (5 page)

‘Might do,’ Gustav said in a serious tone.

‘I think I’ve got you worried.’

‘Worried,’ he repeated haughtily. ‘If I may remind you, dear boy, you have never won.’

‘There’s always a first time.’

‘That’s wishful thinking.’

‘We shall see.’

‘We shall see what we see, Richard,’ said Gustav.

Greta remained cross-legged on the glass table looking from face to face: they had set jaws, the same intense expression and she just wished she knew what they were talking about.

Gustav pulled her ear playfully and she came to her feet. He stood back, his hand nursing his chin. He leaned forward, ran his palm over the curve of her rounded tummy, then took her hand in a gentlemanly fashion to help her down from the glass table.

‘Good girl,’ he said and gently slapped her bottom.

She sat back in the chair. Richard had tossed her dress over a sofa and it was so far away across the room she couldn’t be bothered to go and get it. Richard had said in the market that she wouldn’t be needing her black dress any more and there was no reason to think that she would need the white one either. She had been
selected
, and it was exciting not knowing what for.

G
USTAV PUSHED A VIDEO
into the machine. The screen came to life and Greta watched a girl riding into view bareback on a pony. The girl, too, was bare except for the leather straps around her neck, wrists and ankles. The pony slowed and the camera moved in for a close-up, the girl’s hair glittering like copper in the sunlight, her tanned skin freckled over high cheekbones.

‘We have stables in the country,’ Gustav said.

His voice was far away and she barely heard him. Greta was transfixed. The girl was dazzling, ethereal, flawless. She had the most startling eyes Greta had ever seen, as shiny as polished brass, and in them she perceived both knowledge and serenity. Beauty carries its own burden, guilt over unmerited good fortune, or irritation at being admired. But as the girl slipped smoothly down to the ground, naked, as free as the wind, it seemed to Greta that she must have gone through those feelings and submitted to the understanding of who and what she was. Greta noticed that the pony had practically the same colour hair as the girl. Its eyes were pure amber.

The film cut to another scene inside the stable. The girl was towelling down the pony, her pretty bottom peeking back at the camera, her svelte slender body moving like a well-oiled machine. She was tall, strong, perfectly formed, an unspoiled, diamond-cut girl brimming with refinement and grace. The camera operator must have called because she turned with a smile, shook her auburn hair and stood with her head erect, hands loose and motionless at her sides. The scene went blank.

‘Wow, she’s really come on,’ said Richard.

‘You still think you can compete?’

Richard glanced at Greta. ‘Actually, yes I do?’

‘It’s your money.’

‘
Our
money,’ Richard corrected.

He glanced at her again. She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand anything, but couldn’t ask because that was the rules and she was wondering about her prize.

Richard must have read her thoughts. ‘Do you ride?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, of course. Since I was little,’ she replied and was so happy to see the look of relief cross his features.

‘Would you enjoy spending some time in the country?’

‘Yes. Yes. Very much.’

‘It will be a...’ he looked for the right words. ‘... an education. You’ll learn all sorts of new things.’

‘I like new things,’ she said and blushed.

Greta stood.

Richard looked for a moment at Gustav, then back at her. ‘We’ll need a few weeks and we really should make a start,’ he said and paused. ‘Next weekend?’

‘I’m sure that will be all right,’ Greta answered and shrugged. ‘I don’t think they’ll mind at work.’

Richard glanced back at Gustav. ‘Well?’ he said.

Gustav thought for several moments. Greta was biting her lips.

He spoke first to Richard. ‘I’ll make all the arrangements,’ he announced, then turned to stroke her bush affectionately. ‘Good luck...’ he paused, as if searching for a word, ‘Pegasus,’ he then said, and his stern expression became a rare smile.

Greta was so relieved to see Gustav smiling she was suddenly a little girl and uncontrollably happy. She stood, clinging to his neck and he swung her round in a circle. He put her down again and led her back to the chair where she’d been sitting. There was a sticky puddle on the leather seat and she went obediently down on her knees to lick it all up.

She stood feeling a bit silly and Gustav nodded with approval as he grabbed his keys.

‘Let battle commence,’ he said and high-fived Richard as he left the room.

Gustav had to return to the country and after he’d gone, Richard took her by the hand and she skipped barefoot up the stairs to the loft below the eaves. She really adored having nothing on. It made her feel more feminine, her full breasts rolling with her movements, like the girl in the film, her nipples hard, burning with the blood rushing into them.

She shook herself and tried to stop thinking about her breasts as she glanced around at the modern pieces of equipment, running and rowing machines, wall bars, a weight press and an odd-looking wooden bench with the two front legs slightly higher than those at the rear. Straps with buckles were attached to the legs and the leather top was sloping at such an angle that it would be most uncomfortable as a seat.

Richard was studying the bench as he spoke. ‘Did you like our game today?’ he asked her.

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, yes I did actually.’

‘We shall play lots more games in the country,’ he added and she smiled.

He walked around the bench, patting the leather top in the firm tender way you would stroke the flanks of a horse. Greta looked more closely and could see that the deeper colour at the centre wasn’t part of a pattern, but was stained from use, although from what use exactly she couldn’t be sure.

‘It’s an ancient design copied from a drawing in a book of fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm,’ he told her. ‘Do you know the story of Polly Flinders?’

She was running her fingertips over the leather surface and paused to shake her head. Richard recited the poem:

Little Polly Flinders,

Sat among the cinders,

Warming her pretty little toes.

Mother came and caught her,

And whipped her little daughter for spoiling her nice new clothes.

‘Gustav had it built in Canterbury,’ he added. ‘It was used in olden times to discipline girls.’

Goosebumps prickled her skin and her armpits felt damp. She swallowed hard. Richard had been speaking in a friendly voice, but now he looked stern and she really did want to be good.

He patted the top of the bench again. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let’s make a start.’

She didn’t know what he meant, but was coming to see that it was better to just be obedient and trust Richard. He knew what was best. She was standing with the high side of the bench in front of her, at the level of her belly button. He took her shoulders and she leaned forward, her stomach resting perfectly over the dark stain on the angled top. She spread her feet for balance. It came as no surprise that in this position it was easy for him to strap her ankles. Her breasts hung low and heavy below the bench and her arms fell naturally against the back legs, her wrists at the level of the remaining two straps which he tightened securely. It was quite comfortable, her bottom forced up in such a way that she knew it was going to receive some attention.

Richard crossed the room and she saw his reflection in the long mirror as he removed something from a drawer. He returned with the same sort of gag that he’d put on her that morning. She took the ball into her mouth and he tightened the buckle at the back of her head. Her hair was hanging over her face and he tucked the obstinate curls below the strap.

‘Pegasus,’ he said. ‘That’s really quite clever.’ He stood back. ‘Are you ready?’

She nodded. She was ready. She was going to be strapped or smacked or flogged and her bottom was ready, pushing itself forward, perky and curious.

She watched out of the corner of her eye, through stray locks of hair, as he opened a tall cupboard and spent a long time peering inside. She had no idea what he was peering at, but he reached a decision, removed something and closed the door. As Richard drew closer she saw a short-handled whip coiled in his hand and tears slipped one after the other down her cheeks. She had been telling herself that discipline was good for her, it’s what actresses need most. She thought the strapping with the belt had been a bit of a lark, and it’s all very well being brave and brazen after the event. But the whip in Richard’s hand looked deadly serious. So did Richard.

‘How many do you think you need?’ he said.

She couldn’t answer through the gag. She shook her head.

‘Shall we start with six?’

She wasn’t sure what to do. Six lashes with that horrifying whip seemed such a lot. Was he suggesting more? Would he settle for six? She just didn’t know. It was all new to her. She nodded her head hopefully and he looked pleased.

‘So you want six?’

She nodded firmly.

Richard disappeared from view. She listened to his footsteps on the wooden floor and then she heard the whip lash the air, once, twice, three times. He was flexing his muscles, checking the angle of descent, getting into practice. A chill ran through her. She closed her eyes and bit down on the rubber ball.

And then it came, slicing through the still room and searing her white bottom just below the small of her back. The sound was tremendous, a terrible crack like a jet taking off into the sky. The pain was shocking, electric, totally beyond any pain she had ever felt or imagined.

‘One,’ she heard him say and braced herself.

Her body broke into a sweat. She sucked hard on the rubber ball. Spittle was rolling from the corners of her lips, snot ran in files from her nose. The second strike fell just below the first, just as painful, just as fiery as it bit into her creamy soft flesh, and the whip she realised was fiercer than a belt, the leather finer, sharper, cutting deeper, and she panted for breath and waited.

‘Two,’ he said.

Four more, she was thinking. That’s not a lot. I can take that. I’m Greta May. I can do anything.

Number three fell in the same pattern just below the first two, right across the indentation at the top of the crease between her cheeks and she felt an oily trickle ooze from her pussy. It had opened like a flower. The pain of those three stripes was so intense it was almost a pleasure and she pushed her arse out, spreading her cheeks still wider to receive the next.

‘Three.’

And then four, the lash so hard, so uncompromising she felt the sting across the ring of her anus and she found the word bugger floating through her mind. I’ve been fucked and buggered and whipped. I’m a slut. And I’ve been whipped because I’ve been bad. I’ve been disobedient. I deserve everything I get. Her arse was on fire and her vagina was a swamp, a sopping drenched quagmire of sweat and pussy juice, pushing open and winking crudely between her thighs.

‘Number four,’ he said. ‘Two to go.’

As if she needed reminding. The fifth crossed the bottom half of her split bum cheeks, the tender flesh of that neat little curve screaming as every nerve ending caught fire. Liquids were pouring from her mouth and nose, from the inflamed lips of her vagina. Her white arse was the centre of her body and concentric circles of intense pain radiated out across her back, down her thighs. Greta was beginning to understand why she needed this. She needed to prove herself, show Richard that his trust was justified and Gustav had no reason to doubt her.

‘Five,’ he said, and his voice had changed, grown muffled.

One more, she thought, and pushed her hips out, showing him her split gash and puckered arse that he’d buggered so methodically that morning. The pain was transforming to pleasure and she didn’t understand the weird alchemy of this but with the pride rising in her body was an irrepressible desire to feel the weight and hear the cracking sound of number six. She clamped her teeth on the rubber ball and braced her legs.

Then it came, harder, cutting deeper, roaring through the air, the pain barrier exploding, taking her in its embrace. It was excruciating, unbearable. There was a snake uncoiling inside her tummy, its head rising as the sixth whiplash crossed the soft petal flesh of her labia. The snake hissed and roared and raced screaming through all her curling corridors and passageways, wet and creamy, licking over the walls of her anus and across the slippery cavern of her burning vagina.

‘Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me,’ she mumbled, her voice lost, and she heard the whip drop to the floor.

‘Six,’ he said, and it was such a relief when she felt his cock sink deep inside her, completing the thrashing in the best way, the only way. This is what she craved. She wanted to be fucked and fucked and fucked again. Fucked hard and long. Beaten and strapped and stropped and fucked in the arse, in the mouth, in the cunt. She was a wild creature born for fucking and like a thirsty animal she lapped up every drop.

He started to come immediately and so did she, the force of their orgasm extinguishing the pain and she rocked back and forth across the leather bench, her body singing.

Richard withdrew with a sucking sound and spunk ran in a stream down her legs. He stepped round the whipping stool, removed the gag, and she thought how brilliant the design because his cock, stiff still, was at the exact level of her mouth. She stretched forward to slip it between her teeth and tasted her own fear and juices, sweat and sperm. She lapped over the silky skin, pushed the tip of her tongue in the fine furrow at the crown of his cherry red helmet, and as she gave it a thorough clean it occurred to her that once you’ve been tied up like this, lashed to a stool and flogged, there was no way back. This was the beginning. She was reborn, a new being in a brave new world.

He slid his cock from her mouth and whispered. ‘Six more?’ and she wasn’t sure how to react, whether he was just testing her, teasing her, seeing if she really was obedient.

She nodded timidly.

‘Next time,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to spoil you.’

He disappeared and she breathed deeply, appreciative of his kindness. She was panting for breath, sweating on the leather top, her face streaked with tears, her bum stinging and contented. When he returned he was unscrewing the lid from an old-fashioned jar of ointment.

‘Witch-hazel,’ he said, ‘it’s going to hurt but it’s good for you.’

That came as no surprise to Greta. He rubbed the unguent on to her burning cheeks in gentle, circular movements and although it hurt like hell as he promised, the whipheat weakened and the pain faded to a candleglow.

‘Thank you, Richard.’

‘I have to go away, Pegasus, just for a few days,’ he said. ‘Are you going to be good?’

‘Yes, Richard.’

‘What I want you to do is... everything.’

‘Everything?’

‘When a girl has been properly disciplined her impulse is to feel grateful and loyal to the one who carried it out,’ he said.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Don’t be. You mustn’t be grateful Greta. I want you to be free. Don’t think. Do. Just follow your instincts and intuitions wherever they take you. Can you do that?’