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Friday, 15 September 2017

The Hostage

From Whispers 1
He never knew who would be coming, but none of the circle ever did. He waited at home as usual on the third Saturday of the month, half expecting a ‘phone call to say it had been cancelled, looking down the drive from time to time and hoping to see a car, which he probably wouldn’t recognise, bringing whoever it was to be this month.
When the car came it was Freddie, whom he’d met once before; the girl in the back of the car was blindfolded, which lent a tang of mystery to the whole thing from the word go. Freddie said that Julia had arrived safely, though he didn’t say where she’d ‘arrived’, but George knew she’d be back home by Sunday night; no doubt she’d relive the thrill of her own weekend with him when he, in his turn, told her about his. They would both tell little lies, of course, but even that was part of the game.
They left the girl with him and said they’d collect her on Sunday afternoon.
When they’d gone he’d made two cups of tea and gone upstairs with the key in his hand. She was sitting on the mattress with her hands in her lap, blindfolded and either too frightened or too lacking in imagination to have attempted to take it off. She’d fumbled with the cup and saucer but had managed, whispering a timid ‘thank you’. When she’d finished he’d suggested that she might like to lie down; suggested, not having either the heart or the self-confidence to make it more like an order.
She’d felt about with her hands, not knowing what she was sitting on. ‘It’s OK, it’s a bed,’ he’d said. She’d swung her legs up and tilted sideways and had banged her head on the wooden headboard. A little ‘Oooh,’ more of surprise than pain, and then she’d wriggled her bottom down the bed until there was room to put her head down.
George had seen her dress — it looked like an evening dress, he thought — had seen her dress ride up her legs until bare thighs showed at the tops of her stockings. And a hint of loose blue knickers. She’d seemed not to be aware of the fact of her déshabillé.
George had left her for a while, carefully locking the door behind him, but it had seemed peculiar for him to be downstairs with a perfect stranger upstairs, a prisoner in his house. After half an hour he felt that he really ought to be up there, keeping an eye on her.
Now, with the sun tending lower in the blue sky and the night still to look forward to, he leaned on the cluttered mantelpiece and looked at her, and found himself forgetting that this was only one of Harry’s games and the people in the game only part-time players. It felt real; certainly the excitement felt real. He wondered how it felt for her; the thing was, of course, never to break the spell of pseudo-reality, so he couldn’t ask her.
But she just lay there, unmoving when he’d expected her to sit up, silent when he’d expected protests, the tops of her thighs still bare and faint golden hairs on her legs luminous in the slanting sunlight.
‘Don’t give me any trouble,’ said George after a bit, feeling that the conversation had begun to lapse.
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t do it anymore —’
‘Do what?’ said George.
‘I don’t need any more — my bum’s still sore —’ she fell silent, her hands clutching pathetically at the edge of the bed. ‘I’ll be good —’ she said at last. ‘Honestly —’
George watched her from his mantelpiece then began to pace slowly around the room until he was standing at the foot of the bed, the soft tuck of those loose blue knickers at the tops of her legs drawing his gaze.
‘You’ll be good then?’ he said, more of a statement than a question, wondering about her sore bottom.
‘Yes, honestly —’
‘Turn over — on your tummy.’ He wanted to say ‘pull your dress up’, too, but wasn’t that sure of himself.
‘Please don’t —’ she said, but turned over and lay with her hands flat against the mattress. ‘Please.’
George felt the excitement of her unexpectedly obedient response to his ‘Turn over’. The backs of her legs were visible up to the lacy edge of her knickers. ‘Please —’ she whispered, and he put his hand on her calf, soothing her panic, or at least meaning to, but making her tremble instead.
‘Are you going to — to cane me again?’
‘Cane you? Ah — no, probably not. Not so long as you’re being good.
‘I am — I am —’ she stirred against the mattress and lay her head to one side.
‘Pull your dress up, then.’
‘Oh —’ her hands plucked hesitantly at her dress. ‘You — you’re going to do it, aren’t you. You are — I know you are!’
‘Not if you’re good.’
Her dress inched up and over the cheeky plumpness of her bottom in the French knickers. The weals of her caning were plain across the part-knickered rounds of her bottom.
‘Please.’ Her dress settled into the small of her back.
‘Now take your knickers down.’
‘You’re going to do it, aren’t you. You are — I know you are!’
‘Down — come on, or I certainly shall cane you.’ At least I would if I had a cane, George thought.
With little lifts of her hips and timorous movements of her hands, the girl inched her knickers down, red cane-marks prominent on the satiny cream of her tight young buttocks.
‘That’s right,’ said George, and touched her flinching bum-cheeks, finding the weals hot and faintly swollen.
‘Please!’ she pleaded, and squeezed her thighs together, and George walked round the bed, eyeing her from all angles while he thought what next he would have her do...

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