From Blushes 49. Also published as “Peek A Boo” in New Blushes 2.24.
There are several people already sitting in the waiting room: a woman with a child, another with a teenage boy, plus three men. They all look up as she enters and walks across, high heels clattering on the polished floor, to one of the unoccupied chairs. The men especially (and the boy) keep looking because she is an extremely good-looking young woman: 18 or 19 perhaps, a tallish girl with a thick mass of chestnut hair, lustrous brown eyes and a notably full, ripe mouth. Above the high heels and shapely ankles and calves is a dark blue coat which hides further detail. Detail which the eyes of the men would clearly like to see. She briefly meets the stare of the two men opposite, then lowers her gaze. Her face is slightly flushed — at this unconcealed male interest no doubt. She crosses one leg over the other, but carefully, modestly, under her coat, so that the eager eyes see nothing. Her hands clasp in her lap. The lustrous eyes blink. She is evidently nervous.
Perhaps to decrease the tension of these riveting eyes she reaches for a magazine from the low table, but she has scarcely opened it when the door opens again. It is the nurse. ‘Oh Miss Dowling. Would you put this on.’ She holds out a pale pink item of clothing. It is a dressing gown. ‘Just the dressing gown,’ the nurse adds. ‘Take all your clothes off. Except your shoes. You can keep your shoes on.’
The girl has taken the dressing gown and her face is now a bright scarlet. Everyone of course is looking at her, the men even more voraciously than before. She stutters, ‘Wh... where?’
One of the men opposite, fortyish, in working attire, interjects, ‘She can change here. No one’s going to object.’ He grins a bit wolfishly.
‘You said it,’ the one next to him blurts out. ‘She certainly can. In fact... I wouldn’t mind giving her a hand.’ He laughs and the first one joins in. The boy does too. The third man, older than the other two and of more middle-class appearance, smiles. The girl is now covered in confusion.
The nurse is also smiling. ‘We do have a room. The other side of the corridor. You can leave your clothes in there.’ She goes out.
The pretty girl doesn’t know where to look. The first man says, ‘Come on. Don’t be shy. No need to go out there. No need to be standoffish. We’re all friends here.’
She shakes her striking head of hair. Getting to her feet. ‘No... I...’
The second working-class-looking man is getting to his feet too. He is fatter than the first one but of a similar age. He puts his considerable bulk between the girl and the door. Grinning at her. ‘No, you don’t need to bother with going out. Come on.’
‘No!’ she yelps.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he tells her. ‘D’you want to be reported?’
At this point there is a buzz on the intercom. A voice says ‘Mr Blinder.’ This is evidently this man standing. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, I’m not in a hurry.’ Turning to the woman with the boy. ‘You can go in.’ ‘Alright,’ she says. The boy says, ‘No…’ but his mother tells him, ‘Come on.’ ‘No. I want to see...’ ‘Come on Trevor,’ she insists. Reluctantly he follows her out.
‘Now then,’ says Mr Blinder. ‘As I was saying you don’t want to be reported. Antisocial Activity. What are you, 18, 19? They can be pretty sharp with a girl that age. At a Rehab Centre.’
The buzzer goes again. The voice says ‘Mrs Cartling.’ The woman with the small child gets up, gives the distressed-looking girl a quizzical look and then goes out. This leaves only the three men. Forlornly holding the dressing gown the girl, Miss Dowling, turns to the third man, who has on smart looking trousers in contrast to the working jeans of the other two. ‘Please. Please... do something.’
He smiles. ‘Why don’t you just do what they say? It’s nothing really, is it? No reason to cause a fuss. It’s only the three of us here — and I expect we’ve all seen a girl undressed before.’
She looks desperately round. ‘Please...’ she tries once more. ‘Please... let me go out.’
The standing one, Blinder, shakes his head, more confident now there is this support from the other. ‘No way. You heard what the gentleman said. What’re you bothered about. Come on. Or we will report you.’
That threat obviously means something to her. The threat of being sent to a Rehabilitation Centre. And it is not surprising. What you hear about those places is enough to make any girl think twice. That of course is what they are for. To keep young people in the 18 to 25 age bracket on the straight and narrow as it were, to deter all that antisocial behaviour, casual lawlessness in young people, that was such a depressing feature of life in Britain a few years ago. Rehab Centres have been set up to control it and they are proving very effective. There are separate establishments for males and females and they all have a tough reputation. The cane and the birch are in common use for both sexes — and a complaint from a member of the public, if it is corroborated, can get you there. A complaint from these two men here in the doctor’s waiting room, especially if the third man added his name to it, could easily be enough. From what one hears it would be no use pleading that it had all been trumped up. The word of a girl in that suspect age group would have little chance against that of three older men.
Linda Dowling knows all this. With the older man giving her no support she is isolated. She could cause a scene and maybe one of the doctors would come in — but there would still be the word of these men. Making up some story about antisocial activity. And the thought of a Rehab Centre...
She finally accepts what seems to be inevitable. Putting down the dressing gown and her hands going to the buttons of her coat. ‘That’s more like it,’ says the standing man, Len Blinder. He sits down again, an expectant look on his face. This look is matched by the expression of his companion, and indeed that of the older one. The first of these two, who is called Stan Crouder, says, ‘Good girl. If you’re a good girl there’ll be no problem at all.’
The coat is unbuttoned and coming off. Underneath is a light-coloured patterned blouse and a darker skirt. With the coat removed these garments indicate a slim-waisted but otherwise ripely rounded form underneath. She puts the coat down. Hesitates. Hoping against hope for some way out of this sick-making situation. But there is no way out. She reminds herself of the alternative: the Rehab Centre.
Hands go to the belt of her skirt. Unzipping. And then making herself slide it down. She has a white waist slip on so we are not there yet. ‘Keep going,’ rasps Crouder. Hands go to the blouse. Just think of the Rehab Centre. Unbuttoning. Oh look! Look at these. Big, ripe-looking tits in a flimsy white bra. She puts her blouse down. In her head now is coming the thought of getting it over with. Of getting the dressing gown on. If she has no choice. The waist slip being slid down. Oh look! At this! A brief pair of white knickers hugging her ripe hips. Sheer stockings to mid-thigh and a white suspender belt fastening them. No tights: girls are supposed to wear stockings and a suspender belt, these are more feminine than tights and if young women are more feminine they will be less likely to get into antisocial behaviour. That is the theory. Len Blinder produces a wolf-whistle. ‘Knickers now,’ he says.
Linda gives him a darting, sick look. The full dreadfulness of taking all her clothes off — her knickers, her bra — in front of these two dreadful men, not to mention the other one, has really got through. Even if she can immediately get the dressing gown on it is... impossible. If only the buzzer would go. Or the nurse...
As if in answer to a prayer the door opens to admit the nurse. Her eyes take in this little scene: the three men and the partially undressed, cringing girl. It doesn’t seem to throw her. ‘Hello. How are we doing. Anyone ready yet?’
Stan Crouder quickly says, ‘No. Not really. We’re getting her ready. Can’t the doctor have a cup of coffee? We won’t be long.’
The nurse smiles. ‘Well I’m sure he could do with one. Alright. I’ll tell him.’ She gives the girl another look and then goes out.
So that is it; there will be no help from that direction. Linda feels like bursting into tears. ‘Come on then,’ Crouder says. ‘Let’s see some action. The doctor wants all those pretty frillies off. Let’s see your meat.’
There is nothing for it. Does she want to be sent to the Rehab Centre? So in that case... there is no option. She reaches for a suspender strap. The stockings, slipping off her shoes first... and then the suspender belt. And now... don’t think. Just do it. Reaching behind for her bra strap. Released from their constraint they spill out. The bra is slid off. Whistles from the two men. She has truly marvellous tits, like large, pale, ripe fruit with big, deep red nipples. Her arms cross over them... and she makes a move towards the dressing gown. But Blinder gets there first. Grabbing up the pink garment. He has guessed what is in her mind: to put it on before she gets her knickers off. He grins that wolfish grin.
‘No, sweetheart. That’s not being a good girl. We want to see you in the altogether first. We want to see that pretty puss. And we want a proper look at those tits. Come on, get your hands away. And get the knicks off.’
The soft ripe lips are trembling. She is very close to tears now, but she has to do it. She abandons the defence of her luscious boobs. They swing out heavily as her hands go down to the brief knickers. The big tits sway, jiggling, as she works the tight knickers down. Her reddish-brown bush: a thickly luxuriant growth. All eyes on it. As well as on the stunning tits of course. She steps stumbling out of her briefs. She is crying now. She knows she is not going to be given the dressing gown. Not until they have had some fun. Blinder, red-faced, says, ‘Let’s see you dance, honey. Let’s see a nice dance. The can-can? Get those legs up. And those tits bouncing.’
Dr Fitchley says, ‘Oh hello Linda. There you are. I was beginning to think no one wanted to see me.’ He laughs. ‘Not that I mind a little break. Anyway how are you? Take the gown off, will you?’
Linda has the pale pink cotton dressing gown belted round her statuesque form. She has her black high heels on but otherwise is nude apart from the gown. Her body under the gown is trembling, shaking, from what the two men have done. Making her dance nude and then inevitably grabbing her. Their hands all over her nude body. If the other man hadn’t finally stopped them... she shudders at the memory... they might even have tried to screw her right there, in the doctors’ waiting room. While pretending it was all fun of course. And Dr Fitchley... he must have known something of the sort was going on, the nurse must have told him, but he did nothing, didn’t come out and put a stop to it.
Linda shudders again. And now she has to have her examination from Dr Fitchley. That won’t be pleasant either although she has to have it. All girls in the 18-25 age group now have a three-monthly medical. It is all part of the strict surveillance routine that has been brought in to control their behaviour. The doctor’s report goes to the Central Records Office and is filed away with everything else. That record can trigger a recommendation for a spell at a Rehab Centre in the same way that a report from a member of the public or an official can. The task force set up to combat antisocial behaviour in young persons did a very thorough job.
Linda has the dressing gown off now. Try to forget about the two awful men — though what if they’re still there waiting for her when she gets back? Don’t think about that desperate possibility. She tries not to. Standing in front of Dr Fitchley nude in her high heels. He is fiftyish, with a fussy, precise manner but no doubt enjoying this part of his job. Especially when the girl in for her routine check-up is as mouth-watering as this Linda Dowling. His finger and thumb gently squeeze one of Linda’s large nipples. They are erect of course after what has happened in the waiting room. Although what those men were doing was so hateful Linda couldn’t help her body reacting to it. She is moist between her thighs and her nipples are still sticking out in this embarrassing manner.
‘Got you all excited, did they, young lady? Those two gentlemen?’ Dr Fitchley’s voice is soft, seductive, as now he has both hands mounding the big tits. `Got you hotted up? So that you’re ready for sexual intercourse?’
Linda vigorously shakes her splendid head of chestnut hair. Dr Fitchley is trying to get an admission of promiscuous behaviour, or a tendency in that direction. And if this goes on her report...
‘No…’ she gasps.
‘But you seem to be, Linda. These are certainly aroused. And...’ One hand slides down. To the bright brown bush. ‘Part your legs. More... that’s better. Yes as I thought. You are aroused, Linda.’
‘No!’ she squeals, shuddering on the hand which is between her legs . ‘No. I’m... not really... please... don’ t put that on the report.’
Dr Fitchley is stroking her there. Making it worse of course. His plummy, precise voice. ‘I have to make an accurate report, young lady. On what I find. On what I can see of your reactions. Your emotional and physical state. Have you... mmmm... been having much sexual intercourse lately? The young man listed on your file. What is the current frequency with him? And are there any other sexual partners you haven’t told me about? Any at all. We should have everything listed.’
Linda stutters out an answer: that she is still seeing her boyfriend Gregory. And he is her only partner. She feels sick; sick at having to tell intimate details of her private life; sick also at what Dr Fitchley is doing with his hand. At last the hand comes out from between her legs. ‘Well we’ll have to see. Let’s get you up on the couch. Nice and relaxed, on your back.’
She has been expecting this of course but that doesn’t make it any easier. An examination lying on the couch. Dr Fitchley has let go of her but there is more to come. More to come when he has her on that white-covered couch. And he hasn’t said. About the report. What he is going to put in it. Whether he believes her. But she is telling the truth about Gregory. She hasn’t been with anyone else. Being such an attractive girl men do sometimes ask her. Sometimes strangers, older men, will stop her and get into conversation and it’s usually evident what they’re after. Sometimes make a quite unambiguous suggestion, perhaps related to the Rehab Centre, a threat like that that the two men in the other room have made. But so far Linda has managed to get out of those awkward, nasty situations. Without having to agree to anything. So she hasn’t done it with anyone except Gregory. But Dr Fitchley may nonetheless say something else: ‘Easily aroused!’ ‘Sexually excitable.’ Something like that could get her the dreaded letter from the Social Affairs Department. The Rehab Centre...
Trembling, she lies on the couch. Dr Fitchley looking down at her. Jiggling one of her large boobs. And then his hand sliding down. Cupping the thick bush of bright brown hair. ‘What did you say, Linda? With that young man? What is the present frequency...?’
They won’t be waiting for her, will they? The two dreadful men. No, they won’t, they can’t be. She is half afraid to go out. Dr Fitchley has at last finished and Linda has the dressing gown on again. The ordeal on the couch is over and she doesn’t think he’s going to send in a report that will get her into trouble. So all there is to worry about now... are those two men. But they must have gone now, presumably seen one of the other doctors for whatever they came in for... and gone. They had their fun — that really awful fun — and they must have gone.
Linda tells herself this but she doesn’t completely believe it. They could be waiting. And if they are... Waiting to say she has got to go with them... Well, there wouldn’t be any real option...
Dr Fitchley gives Linda’s bottom a final squeeze as he sees her out. Her heart is in her mouth. She is now half convinced that they are waiting for her. Walking along the corridor in her high heels as if on egg shells. Please God...
A sudden yelp. Ooooh! Someone, one of them, is suddenly there. In front of her. It is... no, it isn’t. It isn’t one of those two. It is the other man. The older, middle-class looking one. She lets out a great sigh of relief. Although...
‘Hello. Miss Dowling. Everything all right?’
She hasn’t thought of this one. Her thoughts concentrated completely on the other dreadful two. ‘In here,’ he says. ‘Nurse has put your things in here.’ He is opening a door on the other side of the corridor. Ushering her in. It is presumably the changing room that the nurse said she could change in but the men wouldn’t let her. A small room with a couple of chairs, on one of which Linda’s clothes have been placed. She is still shaking from the shock, fear...
‘Your tormentors have gone,’ he says. ‘I told them I thought they’d done quite enough. They’d had their fun but anything further would be out of line. I think they got the message. They could be reported for harassment of course.’
He tells her to get dressed. His name is Mr Ranbourne, Philip Ranbourne, he says. And he wants to know her name, her first name. He is charming and friendly... but he wants Linda to go with him. To his house. A cup of coffee and a nice chat. What Linda clearly needs, he says, after what has happened, is someone to look after her. Because that sort of thing obviously can happen to a very pretty girl if she hasn’t got someone looking after her.
But in spite of his charming manner... does this Mr Ranbourne want anything different from those two men? Anything different from the other men, the strangers, who from time to time accost her in the street with their barely veiled suggestions. Because there is for one thing the vivid memory of the waiting room. This man, Mr Ranbourne, doing nothing to stop the other two. While they made her strip nude and then forced her to that awful dancing — a can-can — in the nude. And after that mauling her all over... and only at the very end did he attempt to stop it. He had simply sat and watched it all, not missing a detail.
Linda tells him she has to get back to work — but he counters this by saying he can have a word with her boss, there won’t be any problem. ‘So come on, my dear. Get your things on.’
There is that too. He is clearly intending to stay and watch. While Linda takes the dressing gown off and gets her things on. He has seen her already of course. Seen everything. But that doesn’t really help. She bites her lip. He smiles. Steps forward and gives a little tug at the belt of the gown. ‘Come on. You don’t want me to go and find those other two again, do you?’
Once again Linda is in a situation where there is no choice. Her hands go to the belt. Untying it. She half turns away, as the gown parts and her ripe nude boobs spill out. Why is she worrying? she tries to tell herself. She has just been nude in front of all three men — and then there has been Dr Fitchley as well. She slips it off her shoulders. then reaches quickly for the little pile of clothes. But Mr Ranbourne immediately closes in...
‘No need to be in such a hurry, Linda.’ Taking her arm. Pulling her round to face him. The big boobs are there between them, swaying heavily with Linda’s sudden movement. And her full, ripe mouth, slightly open, anxious. Mr Ranbourne’s two hands to go to the nude boobs. `No need to be in a hurry, dear. Let me look... at you.’
Linda stumbles. She is pushed up against the wall. Mr Ranbourne still has hold of her tits. ‘What a lovely girl,’ he murmurs. ‘Exquisite. And much, much too good for those dreadful common men. Oh dear me yes.’
His right hand slides down. Inevitably it seems: to the bright brown bush. The hand cupping her pussy. A gasping moan from Linda. The hand is pushing in between her soft thighs. ‘Yes, much, much too good,’ his soft voice repeats. Mr Ranbourne’s fingers are in at her. Parting the wet lips. Where Dr Fitchley’s hand was. Getting her aroused but, she hopes, not putting in the report that she is hot, over-excitable, easily aroused. But this whole experience, ever since coming in to the waiting room, has got her so that every nerve is jangling. She is in a highly emotional state. Able to burst into tears at any moment. Or equally... Mr Ranbourne’s fingers have found Linda’s clitoris... and she is shuddering. Gasping. Her hips begin to thrust in a rhythmic manner. It is happening in spite of herself. She was afraid it was going to happen in the consulting room, up on that couch, but it didn’t, quite. But now. She can’t stop it. It is coming...
Linda comes... and bursts into tears at the same time.
Mr Ranbourne says, ‘I’d like to play a little game.’
They are in his house. His sitting room. It is a large expensive house in an exclusive neighbourhood. Linda and Mr Ranbourne have had some coffee here in this attractive room. Linda sitting on the settee and her host opposite. She is in her skirt and blouse again of course. Her shapely legs in the sheer nylons. All her clothes put on again in that little room at the doctors — after that awful business: Mr Ranbourne bringing her off and Linda at the same time breaking down, sobbing. It was awful and it is pretty awful to have to sit here and drink coffee and try to act normally, relaxed, after a man has done that to you. After you have been squirming and gasping out, yelping, in his hands — like a wild animal in heat. All Linda can do is try, without a lot of success, to forget it. Mr Ranbourne has phoned her boss at work and said she won’t be coming in today. Whatever he has actually said it has apparently been accepted. So... Mr Ranbourne has her for the rest of the clay. If that is what he wants. What does he want?
‘Yes, a little game. Pull your skirt back a bit more, Linda.’
Mr Ranbourne has already told her to pull her skirt back — so that he can admire her legs. He wants it pulled back so he can see the tops of her stockings and the suspender straps — although of course he has seen everything, and had his hands everywhere, already. Nonetheless this is what Mr Ranbourne wants. Linda has her legs crossed, also as instructed, but her skirt has inched forward. She slides it back again... so that the whole undercurve of her thigh above the nylon top is again on view for Mr Ranbourne’s delectation. He murmurs approval.
‘That’s better. Yes a game, Linda. I have a pretty little playsuit that you’d look quite delightful in. And the game is... well you will see.’
Mr Ranbourne gets to his feet and Linda follows suit. He has evidently had enough of her sitting there showing her stocking tops and thighs. Now it is to be this game. A playsuit...? She feels a little dart of apprehension as she follows Mr Ranbourne out of the room. He scares her in spite of his charming manner. Of course if it hadn’t been for Mr Ranbourne those two men would undoubtedly have done a lot worse than they did. Screwed her probably — and maybe worse if that were possible. So she should think of that. But Linda is nonetheless scared. She suddenly remembers Gregory. She is due to see him right after work, but will Mr Ranbourne have let her go by then? Somehow she doubts it...
They go into a plain, brightly-lit little room. There is not much furniture, a settee along one side and a high wooden stool out in the centre. The floor is bare. On the settee is a camera — and something pink. It must be...
Yes. Mr Ranbourne picks it up. ‘Here we are. Get your things off, my dear. And put this on.’ He gives her the pink playsuit and reaches down at the far end of the settee and comes up with a pair of shoes. Black, flat-heeled, strap-over shoes. Also a pair of white ankle socks. ‘These and the suit. Nice eh?’
Linda doesn’t answer. The playsuit is a one-piece of brief shorts and top, of thin cotton. It doesn’t look too outrageous. But what is the game? Mr Ranbourne’s hand reaches to squeeze her bottom. ‘Get it on, dear.’
Another undressing session in front of male eyes. Not nice, but Linda is thinking mostly of what the game can be. She gets her things off — under Mr Ranbourne’s keenly observing eyes and not without attention from his hands. Nude, she grabs the suit on as quickly as she can, stepping into it and pulling it up and over her shoulders. Over the big boobs. There are buttons at the front, and a matching belt. It is a revealing suit but not desperately way out. The bottom part is tight over her ripe bottom and short — but not ultra-short; not one of those things that barely cover a girl’s crotch, her pussy. And the top — well again it is tight over Linda’s heavy boobs, clearly showing their shape and the outline of her large nipples. But... but what is the game? She pulls on the ankle socks and shoes. The latter are rather like schoolgirl shoes.
‘Super!’ Mr Ranbourne says. His hand gropes Linda’s bottom and then her tits. ‘Absolutely super. Don’t you think? Now I want you up on the stool. Kneeling. I’m going to take some pictures.’
Linda kneels on a towel on the wooden stool. Mr Ranbourne has the camera. ‘Stick them out, dear. Those lovely big tits. Shoulders back and stick them out. And a nice smile...’ Click. Click.
Is this the game? It is not really a game.
‘Lovely! Get down now.’ Mr Ranbourne has a smug smile on his face. As Linda climbs down he goes to put the camera back on the settee. He comes back... with a large pair of scissors in his hand. Cutting-out scissors. Linda flinches as Mr Ranbourne flashes them in front of her face. Snapping them open and closed.
‘Do you know what the Japanese used to do with their prisoners, Linda? Tie them up very tight in the nude and then snip bits of them off, with a sharp knife or scissors.’ He snaps the scissors again.
Linda gives a little squeal of fright. Mr Ranbourne laughs. He is kneeling down in front of her. ‘I’m not going to do that of course. Or at least I hope I’m not. I’m going to snip the playsuit.’
She squeals again. The cold of the scissors is against her leg. Going up the leg of the suit. Where the side seam is. Linda hears it crunch into the material. She gives a little whimper of fright. Her knees start to tremble. The scissors are crunching on up. ‘Please... don’t...’ she whimpers. Somehow having the suit cut while she is wearing it is extremely frightening. The fear that it is going to cut her — but also the very fact of the suit being cut like this...
Mr Ranbourne just laughs, a giggling sound of pleasure. The scissors crunch right up to the waist of the suit. Then he is round at the other side. The same there. The shorts are cut open up to her waist on either side. ‘And now. Linda...’ From the waist he begins to cut down. Diagonally across from her hip in a straight line to Linda’s crotch.
‘Must be careful, eh?’ His voice tight with excitement. The cold scissors proceeding across Linda’s belly. ‘No!’ she yelps out. ‘Please don’t...’
‘Just keep still. Or it might... cut…’ The scissor points have reached her crotch. She squeals... as the points are in her pussy hair. Snipping it. ‘No!’ She can’t keep still, her legs are like rubber. But if she doesn’t... Mr Ranbourne is telling her to open her legs. So that he can get in between...
She feels almost sick. Holding onto Mr Ranbourne’s shoulder for support with her legs now spread and the scissors in there. Right there. Crunch... Crunch... Right where her pussy is.
The hand, and the scissors, come out. The flap of cloth is dangling between her legs. Mr Ranbourne is starting on the other side, Linda’s other hip. The scissors... oh Jesus... and then at the back. A cut down from her hip at the back: but going more or less straight across first... to where the cleft of Linda’s buttocks begins, and then down. So that the whole of the bottom cheek will be bare. Down to where the end of the other cut is... between her legs.
When Mr Ranbourne has done this and the double-ended piece of material is completely cut off he does the same at the other side. That comes off too. There is nothing left of the playsuit below the waist except a thin strip at the back which has slid in between her legs. In front there is a brief triangle of the pink material running to virtually nothing at her crotch where pussy hair is springing out at either side.
Mr Ranbourne admires his handiwork. ‘How about that?’ His hand takes hold of what is left of the suit at the back where it starts to go in between Linda’s bottom-cheeks. Yanking it tight. She yelps out... as what is left between her legs pulls tight up into the lips of her pussy.
Mr Ranbourne wants pictures of course. All kinds. Kneeling on the stool and bending over it. Lying on the floor with her legs in the air. In every conceivable position in fact. When finally he puts the camera down is that the end of this dreadful game? No, it isn’t. The scissors are out again. This time… it is Linda’s boobs. Making a frightening insertion underneath the left one and the cold steel is in there. Crunch... crunch... again. In a circle. A large one because the boob in question is large. A large circular hole cut through which Linda’s magnificent nude boob juts out. And then of course the other one.
‘How’s that?’ Mr Ranbourne asks, eyes alight. His hands at them, at the big nipples. Bringing them up. Stiff. ‘How’s that!’
Continued in Games in a Playsuit (continued)