Hot Pursuit (7 page)

But with her senses still stretched and acute, Anne saw through the charade. She pondered over the reply, not sure why she found it unsettling but positive that it didn't bode well. For the first time she began to wonder about her new friend and, without the distraction of arousal, it was easy to see that Lucy might be in trouble. She was alone, her only clothes were her coat and her boots, and now it seemed as if she was watching pointedly out of the window. ‘Are you running away from someone?'

The brunette stepped away from the window. ‘No,' she said quickly. Seeing she needed to give a fuller response she said, ‘I'm not running away from anyone. I'm following someone.'

Not sure she believed the explanation, but sensing the topic wasn't one Lucy wanted to discuss, Anne made a deliberate attempt to change the subject. ‘In the service station,' she began. ‘How did you know I'd respond to you?'

Lucy's insincere smile became genuine and she walked back to the bed. Touching the back of Anne's hand, she sat down beside her and said, ‘I have a gift. An ability. I only need to look at a person and I instinctively know how best I can please them.' Sliding her hand up, making contact with Anne's bared breast, she brushed the nipple and added, ‘It's an ability that's always served me well in the past.'

Anne drew a heavy breath. The temptation to surrender again was close to overwhelming but she resisted the urge, not sure it would be fair on Lucy if the woman had other plans. ‘You wanted some of my clothes,' she remembered. ‘Should I go to the car and get my suitcase so you can pick from what I've brought with me?'

Lucy continued teasing Anne's breast, seeming to ignore the question. ‘Did you enjoy what we just did?' she asked.

Anne giggled while her cheeks burnt crimson. The rush of excitement that flooded from her nipple was already inspiring a need for more. She met Lucy's penetrating gaze and said, ‘Do you need to ask?'

Lucy nodded. ‘I thought as much. But was it enough for you?'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Would you like to try something bolder?' Lucy asked with sudden enthusiasm. She held the tip of Anne's breast between her finger and thumb and rolled the bead of flesh. The pressure she applied bordered on being too much but, although the touch hinted at becoming painful, Anne found she wanted to experience more.

‘I've just shown you a pleasure you'd never experienced before,' Lucy explained. ‘And I can show you a million other joys, if you'd like. But it will have to be your decision. Would you like to try something bolder?'

Anne clutched her hands in her lap and squirmed happily against the bed. ‘I'd love to,' she whispered honestly.

Lucy grinned. ‘Then come with me.'

Anne frowned and glanced past her toward the window. ‘I thought you were following someone,' she remembered.

‘I am. But you could still come with me, if you wanted. It would be an adventure.'

Anne didn't need to contemplate her response. She didn't ask where they were going because she suspected that Lucy didn't really know. And she didn't ask what they were going to be doing because she thought she already knew the answer. Eyes wide with excitement, and her smile growing broader, she was fully aware of the commitment she was making when she said, ‘If you're taking me on an adventure, then yes: I want to come with you.'

Ginger's pet blonde was suspended from the ceiling.

The ropes that bound her breasts bit cruelly into her swollen flesh and the weight of her own body pulled incessantly downwards. She was naked – save for the handcuffs holding her wrists behind her back and the spreader bar that kept her legs apart – but she was relatively untroubled by her situation. The pain in her chest was enormous, and she always found the discomfort to be gratuitously satisfying, but she willed herself to wait for Ginger's return before she savoured the perverse pleasure. Unless her mistress was there – taunting and tormenting in that special way of hers – Ginger's pet blonde didn't think it was worth acknowledging the anguish.

Spinning slowly, first clockwise then anticlockwise, she had a perfect view of the entire room. She supposed it was as plain and functional as the rest of the motel's suites. The twin beds and inoffensive decor struck her as pleasant but unremarkable and, with arousal constantly nagging at her thoughts, she found her concentration drawn elsewhere.

It would have been too easy to contemplate her own reflection in the mirror behind the door. The suspended bondage never failed to make her feel excited and she knew it always made her look at her most desirable. The muscles of her long, athletic legs
were more clearly defined than when she wore the highest stilettos. Her gradually decreasing arc first exposed glimpses of her own firm bottom, and then enticing snatches of her bare thighs and trimmed pubic triangle. The bondage at her wrists and ankles presented her as though she was nothing more than a sex object – the living embodiment of her superiors' desires – and she shivered at the unforgivable arrogance of the thought. It was unthinkable to hold herself in such high esteem and, if either her master or mistress learnt she had such inflated opinions of her own importance, Ginger's pet blonde knew the repercussions would be devastating. Not wanting to be caught admiring herself, fearful Ginger might read her thoughts if she noticed the vanity, she quickly tore her gaze from the mirror.

The master sat, slumped, in the room's only chair. Beside him, the familiar shape of his bulky, black briefcase sat like a faithful dog.

The glow of an ignored TV set splashed colour over his cheeks and the volume fought to make itself heard above his wet, guttural snores. Ginger's pet blonde knew he had fallen asleep during some banal gardening programme – she remembered his weary complaints that the female host should have been wearing a bra, and that her azaleas looked in need of a phosphorous fertiliser – but she couldn't understand why he hadn't simply gone to bed. The half-melon of his pot belly flopped over his belt, straining the starched white fabric of his vest. His slippers were askew on his stockinged feet and a half-drained mug of cocoa sat on the occasional table beside him. The drink's surface had developed a light skim of cooling milk that now sagged in the middle.

Ginger's pet blonde thought Donald looked as though he was catching a little rest in readiness for
the remainder of the evening and she trembled excitedly at the prospect of what that might entail. If the master and his favourite were both going to torment her she knew the night would be memorable. They could both be maliciously cruel and the punishment they had shown her so far had whet her appetite for a lot more. Her backside was still raw from an earlier discipline and her nipples ached from the torment of Ginger's punitive pinching. The knowledge that she was being prepared for further abuse left her weak with anticipation and each tremor added a delicious prickle to the torture of her suspension. She quietly relished that discomfort while reminding herself that all pleasure should be deferred until Ginger had returned.

A newspaper was spread over Donald's lap, his relaxed fingers seeming to point to a large, boxed, classified ad. When the suspended bondage twisted her another few degrees to the right, she was easily able to read the carefully phrased text:

KITTEN HAS RUN AWAY
Answers to the name of LUCY.
Owner, Donald, is distraught.
Playmate, Ginger, pines for her return.
Substantial reward for help and information.

A mobile telephone number followed the text.

Indifferently, Ginger's pet blonde read the ambiguous advert, wondering who it was aimed at, and why the master had insisted on such careful phrasing. She didn't think Lucy's escape was such an egregious crime – the master seemed to be enjoying the pursuit and she was personally revelling in the thrill of walking amongst the norms – but there was no truth in the line that Ginger was pining for Lucy's return.
Admittedly, her redheaded mistress seemed darkly enthusiastic about the chase, and surprisingly eager to recapture Lucy, but she most certainly wasn't pining. Ginger's pet blonde was re-reading the advert for a second time when movement at the door broke her concentration.

Dressed all in bright red – cloak, dress, stockings and shoes – Ginger stepped into the room with the majesty of a returning monarch. In her right hand she held a short leather riding crop. Her sharp gaze flitted in Donald's direction and, when she saw he was asleep, something close to a smile crossed her scarlet-painted lips. ‘I see the master has taken his bedtime cocoa early this evening,' she remarked dryly.

Not sure how she should best respond, aware that the redhead's mood had been explosive all day, Ginger's pet blonde said nothing. She watched her mistress pull the cloak from her shoulders to reveal the splendour of her backless dress and the magnificence of her bare, freckled shoulders. Maintaining her hold on the crop, handling it with a familiarity that came from years of diligent practice, she lifted her grin upwards and said, ‘Perhaps it's as well that he's asleep. It will give you and I an opportunity to reach an understanding.'

Although her tone was light, and her voice was little more than a whisper, Ginger's pet blonde could detect an ominous warning in her mistress's words. Before she had the chance to say that she thought they already understood each other, or ask what she had done to merit any wrath, the woman was advancing on her.

Placing one finger over her lips, shaking her head from side to side, Ginger said, ‘You won't make a sound. You aren't going to wake the master.' Without another word of warning, she viciously swiped the crop across the blonde's buttocks.

The pain was sudden and startling. The blow was a blazing wire that seared through her cheeks. It was almost automatic for her to try and lurch away from the unexpected anguish but Ginger's pet blonde had endured suspended bondage before and knew that any unplanned movement could exacerbate the torment of her plight. Drawing deep breaths, trying to focus her concentration away from the tearing discomfort at her breasts and toward the pleasure that she knew would inevitably warm her cheeks, she clenched her teeth and mumbled barely audible gratitude.

Without acknowledging the thanks, and acting as though she had not heard, Ginger raised the crop and brought it down again. As before, she sliced with punishing force and fresh weals of burning flesh were wrung from her blow. ‘You won't make a sound,' she repeated. Her voice was quiet and calm but she spoke with unmistakable authority. ‘You won't wake the master.'

Always attuned to her mistress's every word, Ginger's pet blonde noted that there were no cruel threats or promises of wicked retribution. She knew that the master's favourite didn't need to employ such clumsy tools on her because they had a relationship where she was happy to endure whatever was deemed necessary and eager to obey every command. Smiling tightly as the crop slashed her backside for a third time, she relished the rushing heat of discomfort and began to wallow in the glory of Ginger's discipline. The crisp clap of the crop fell again and again and its sharp sting burrowed deeper with each blow. Ginger's pet blonde could hardly hear the echo of each slice because the blood pounding through her temples had quickly accelerated to a deafening roar.

Donald mumbled something in his sleep, wiped a callused hand against the salt and pepper razor stubble on his jaw, then shifted in his chair. He lifted
one buttock from his seat, farted loudly, and mumbled something about Scarlett O'Hara. The newspaper fell from his lap and, for an instant, Ginger's pet blonde stiffened as she feared the master might wake.

Ginger's brow creased as she glared down at him. The raised crop remained high in the air and the muscles on her freckled forearm were stiff with exertion. It was only when Donald released another sonorous snore that she sighed with relief. Smartly, she delivered another stinging blow.

Ginger's pet blonde choked back a scream.

Her backside was a wash of blazing pink skin, the heat warming and melting the soft folds of her labia. Each blow now struck with twice the poignancy, inflaming fresh torment where it landed, and adding a zesty sharpness to the dull ache that already lay beneath the flesh. The lips of her sex had become dewy with excitement and she doubted it would take much more than another stroke of the crop to push her beyond the edge of her climax.

‘You're doing well,' Ginger conceded gruffly. The reassurance might have offered more comfort if the redhead hadn't picked that moment to grab the spreader bar and artlessly pull her pet to a more amenable position.

The strain on her breasts was phenomenal. She glanced at the distended swell of her areolae and was shocked by the sight of her own grotesque orbs. Her nipples were the size and colour of dark red grapes and sensitivity radiated from them in waves. Ginger's pet blonde basked in the anguish and strained her neck to see what wickedness her mistress was now planning. The chance of experiencing more suffering made her heartbeat race with lewd anticipation.

Ginger maintained her hold on the spreader bar, tugging lightly as she raised the crop again.
‘Remember,' she murmured, ‘you won't make a sound. You won't wake the master.'

Unable to stop herself, anxious to confirm her absolute devotion, Ginger's pet blonde made the mistake of shaking her head in agreement. The incessant tugging at her breasts grew more uncomfortable and vicious bolts of pain seared through the tender flesh of each orb. This time the need to stifle her squeal was more of a challenge. Gasping feverishly, eyes wide with the worry of inadvertent disobedience, she struggled to resume control of her response.

Her mistress seemed oblivious to her dilemma.

She brushed the crop against one thigh, then the other, sliding the tip upwards on a taunting journey toward her pet's cleft. There was none of the anguish that had been inflicted with each stripe, but that didn't mean there was no suffering. Ginger's pet blonde stiffened from the threat of what her mistress might do, steeled herself against the possibility of being struck, and shivered with the pains of mounting arousal. As before, every minor tremor made itself felt through her bound breasts and the torment of her suspended bondage quickly moved from unbearable to inhumane. The muscles of her sex pulsed and grew slick with base excitement.