Claimed: A Forced Submission Romance (8 page)

While staying pressed forward to keep their mouths in full contact, Sandy heaved herself to her knees on the bench seat. Then she reached under her skirt to tear out the crotch of her skimpy panties with a single sudden yank. Placing her hands on the bewildered fellow’s shoulders, she swung a knee across his lap to straddle him, chest-to-chest. And he just sat there, not quite passively receiving her oral attentions – his tongue swirling across her teeth and mixing it up with hers – his hands now each in full possession of soft, yet firm and swollen breasts, manipulating them like a pilot maneuvering his plane through the storm.

Steadying herself against him she positioned her dripping bush over his straining member, locating him by Braille – like the expert she really was not – then, slowly and deliberately, mewing gently into his mouth, Sandy lowered herself onto his pole, pushing herself down until their pubic hairs entwined and they could come together no more.

“Oh, my fucking God!” her mount moaned, pulling his mouth away for a moment, before Sandy chased him down to pierce his lips and parry her tongue with his once again.

“Ah! Ah!” they both complained, their sighs and moans mutually swallowed. Holding herself still and deep for a long moment, Sandy slowly began to lift her weight from his lap, dragging her dripping labia against the induced suction, her stretched pinkness conforming seamlessly to the veiny surface of his iron shank. Slowly, she raised herself until only his plum remained insinuated, her vagina gasping about him, vainly trying to suck, or pull, or coax him back inside. Sandy could feel the imminence of her orgasm, building in pressure, pushing up her spine to arc in flashes behind her eyes. She could feel the sap rising in the anonymous colossus between her legs, and could hear the urgency in the ragged breath of her partner. Slowly, deliberately, resisting the terrific need to push past the apex to her climax, Sandy lowered her loins inexorably down, down to the very bottom.

She could feel the body beneath her beginning to shake as its tenuous control began to crumble. Then the sequence began. Pulling herself suddenly back up his column of stone to the very tip, Sandy felt the electricity surge along her spine, whipping her into a frenzy. Pounding herself into his lap she began bouncing on his spurting pole with wild abandon, slapping her bottom against his thrusting hips and biting his lips to keep herself from screaming. Their violent conjunction, squeaking the seat and rocking the one in front, went on at length.

When their mutually muffled moans finally ceased, their breath coming in panting gasps, and they finally held still, their genitals seeming to be suddenly fused, they slowly became aware, once more of their surroundings. “’Ere, ‘ere, you two,” the driver called back, trying to see what the commotion was in his rearview mirror. The only response, though, was a few quiet giggles and a smattering of light applause from some of the more appreciative passengers.

Holding tight until the ensuing quiet once again left nothing but the noise of the road and the wind, Sandy pulled her lips away and said, “Hi. I’m Sandy.” An open dreamy smile covered her face. “My God,” she thought staring vacantly into the strangers face and marveling at how much she’d enjoyed her naughtiness.

“I’m Mikael,” he whispered, leaning forward to peck at her lips. Sandy could feel him wilting inside her and gripped at his slippery appendage with her vaginal walls – to no avail. Shifting her weight with her knees, the flaccid tool finally slipped from its slick glove. Pungent juices flowed in a gush over Mikael’s hairy balls and into his gaping pants. “Guess I’d better clean that up,” Mikael whispered, his voice still hoarse and thick with sexual energy. They both looked around futilely for a moment before Sandy hoisted herself off Mikael’s lap and, standing bent kneed, cramped between the seats, wrenched off the remains of her panties and used them to wipe her own crotch.

Looking down affectionately on the limp, glistening penis, Sandy muttered, “Don’t worry, you poor thing. Sandy’ll fix you up.” Hands on his thighs, Sandy gently lowered herself between his knees. Mikael watched, unbelieving, as this beautiful foreign vixen slurped at his slimy slug and began to wash him with her tongue. In fact, he could feel his ardour rising again, but he could wait. He’d have her home in a while. “Have her at home,” he silently corrected himself, smiling down on her bobbing head.

Presently, hopping a cab from the depot, they arrived in front of his place. Sandy studied the building critically. Helping her out of the taxi, Mikael ushered her through the door of his flat, mumbling apologetically, “It’s not much, but....”

Still Sandy couldn’t help turning up her nose. “It’s a little seedy,” she observed, trying not to be too brutal, but inside, she decided definitely “No! There’s no way I’m staying in this grotty little cave.” She looked around again, to indicate that she was weighing the options, then settling a grim smile on Mikael, Sandy said sweetly, “If you get me a hotel room, Mikael, we could make love all night in comfort.” Flexing her feminine powers of persuasion, she found that she didn’t even need to resort to pleading; her coaxing, she realized, much pleased with herself, could be very, very subtle. A delightfully warm glow of satisfaction, very much like the prelude to another climax, tickled her nervous system as Mikael acceded to her wishes, and hired them a modest hotel room for the evening.

The room, only minutes from Mikael’s flat, was neat and clean, and the bed more than adequate for their calisthenics. After the heat of their passion on the bus, their sex that evening was calm and gentle. Mikael was, in fact, a thoughtful lover, and Sandy felt warm and safe, sitting with him eating the room service meal she let him think was his idea. Their urgencies both dissipated, the last intercourse of the night was nearly laconic in comparison. Sandy gently and insistently wrung a final ejaculation from her exhausted mate, then she laid back basking in the easy companionship his warm body offered next to hers.

Much later, Mikael quietly rose from the bed and gathered his clothes, trying to dress without waking the slumbering beauty before him. When Sandy opened her eyes and propped her head up in her hand, Mikael said, awkwardly, “I really should get back to my own place. You know, stuff to do, people to see, and all.” Sandy smiled at him, understandingly. He wasn’t even going to ask for her number, but that was all right.

“D’ya know anybody who might be going into London tomorrow? Who could give me a lift?” Without really knowing why, Sandy added, “for fair exchange.” Maybe she was just trying it out. How would this new idiom she was cultivating, really feel?

“You won’t be leaving here too early, will you?” The question was so neutral, Mikael’s voice so mundane, for a moment Sandy thought, as she silently shook her head, she might just have to turn on the charm again, but, on second thought, why? What they’d had was obviously already over. “I’ll call around, see what I can find,” Mikael said, giving her a friendly wink.

“At least he doesn’t despise me,” she thought, remembering, with a shiver, the other guy on the bus. Then Mikael leaned over and kissed her – on the cheek, as a friend might.

“Thanks,” he said, almost sadly, as he reached for the door. “See you sometime,” although they both knew how unlikely that was. Still just as he gently closed the door, he called back in, “I’ll see what I can do about a ride,” and he was gone.

Sandy sat in bed nibbling on the breakfast she’d had sent up, when the ringing house phone made her jump. A voice on the other end introduced itself as Brandon, an acquaintance of Mikael’s, calling her from the lobby. “I hear you’re looking for a ride to London.”

Sandy smiled. “Thank you, Mikael, you dear, dear man,” she said silently, but aloud she answered with an eager, “Yes, I am.” One part of her realized what a chance she was taking, and smiling at the doorman as she got into the flashy old sports car, a very chilling thought struck Sandy. “He may just be the last person to ever see me alive.” A shiver ran the length of her spine, but she shook it off. Mikael had been a really nice guy, and Brandon looked okay – just on his way to London for a dear friend’s wedding, he’d said – and hadn’t it been chance that had brought her this far along. “After all, you can’t have life without risk,” she rationalized.

Later, as they left Blackpool behind, Sandy exclaimed, “Thank you again. This is so great.” The wind mussed her hair and flushed her cheeks. A sense of regret, which, coupled with shame, had been trying to regain purchase of her morality earlier in the morning, was all but blown away. She felt very much alive again. After a while, basking in the freedom of an open cockpit, Sandy asked, “How can I repay you – for the ride?” The question was loaded with innuendo, so she was not surprised by Brandon’s answer.

“From the little I heard from Mikael,” he snickered, a sly smile touching the corners of his mouth, “I’m sure we can work something out.” Sandy expressed her understanding with an open smile which he returned. They were quiet, each in their own thoughts for several miles, then, out of the blue, Brandon asked, “Ever do parties?”

Perplexed at first, Sandy felt her heart suddenly constrict as his meaning dawned on her. As much as she loved the recollections of most her recent experiences – her new-found power – such a question seemed almost too blatant – too raw. “Uh,” she sputtered, at a loss for the instant, but Brandon didn’t seem to notice as he went on to explain.

“I’m helping organize the stag – you know, for the groom – of the wedding I’m going to. One o’ me mates got the room reserved, and I’m trying to arrange some entertainment – a little bump ‘n grind, y’know – a little T ‘n A.” He turned again to admire the cutie seated next to him. “D’ya thnk you might be up for that.”

Sandy studied him. His friendliness and forthright were a little disarming, still, she felt her heart unclench slightly. She mulled over the unexpected prospect. “He looks earnest,” she thought, “and really, I’ve ‘been there, done that’ already.” Turning in her seat, she said aloud, “Well, are they nice guys?” – certainly a pointless question, she realized, once she asked.

The negotiations that followed were simple and friendly. In the end, Brandon agreed to pay for several days’ room in a nice hotel, and assured her that the ‘gratuities’ from the twenty-five or so revelers would be substantial. Excited, Brandon got on his mobile, as soon as the agreement was closed, to give the good news to his cohorts.

Pleased with herself, for her part, Sandy reached deftly over the console to fondle Brandon’s package as they sped toward London on the motorway. Unzipping his pants, she leaned across into his lap and gobbled him up. It was not easy, bobbing her head without stabbing herself on the brake lever or knocking the car out of gear, but as the meat in her mouth swelled and stiffened to impressive proportions, Sandy could hear Brandon’s laboured breath and amazed exultations to his buddies still on the phone. Sandy felt his balls tighten, as, relatively quickly, he reached ignition. Struggling to stay in control of the speeding vehicle, Brandon tucked the still connected cell phone into his breast pocket, and firmly gripping the steering wheel, howled to the wind, as he exploded in ecstasy, shooting volley after volley of cum into the delightfully talented mouth servicing his loins. Sandy tried, with reasonable success, to swallow the copious load so that he wouldn’t get any on his trousers.

“I guess that seals it, eh?” Sandy remarked sardonically, sitting up and wiping her mouth.

Brandon laughed gleefully, eying Sandy, then he concluded his call with, “Got a winner, here, Malcolm. See you later, mate.” And Sandy graced him with a knowing, and rather self-satisfied chuckle of her own.

Brandon delivered Sandy to a nice mid-range hotel in Chelsea. He paid for three nights and carried her bag up to her room. As he put down her pack, she looked at him inquisitively and asked, “And just what will you be expecting of me tomorrow night?”

A little taken aback he shrugged and said, “I don’t know, exactly. Just a bit of a strip tease, I s’pose,” he paused, staring at her appraisingly, “then whatever comes naturally, I guess.”

Sandy smiled, relieved. “Okay,” she chirped. “That’s okay, then.”

Brandon turned to leave, saying, with his hand on the door handle, “So, I’ll pick you up about seven, tomorrow, right?” Then just as he stepped over the threshold he stopped again and turned, a sad, worried look on his face. “You’re not going to bolt on me, are you?”

Sandy felt both insulted at the suggestion and sorry for him having to ask it. “Of course not,” she said comfortingly and reached to give his hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry. See you, tomorrow, at seven.”

The underbelly of London was rather easy to find – a few rather circumlocutory inquiries of the cabbies, and voila, they dropped her off in a rather quaint lane lousy with local working girls plying their trade. The surrounding shops, while all a bit tatty, were obviously exactly what she wanted – places where the indigenous sex trade acquired its accoutrements. Sandy thoroughly enjoyed herself throughout the morning, and catching another cab, arrived back at her hotel in the early afternoon. She marveled at how much she had changed in such a short while, thrilled at purchases of exotic clothing she would have, only days ago, considered scandalous. Exchanging the neat jeans and T-shirts of North American traveling innocence for the glitter and borderline sleaze of sexual intent, Sandy felt like she was getting dressed for her debut.

Following a wonderfully invigorating shower, Sandy carefully trimmed her bush, pulled on her black net stockings, and slipped her feet into her new strappy, stiletto-heeled sandals. They had been an extravagance, “But,” she figured, “it’s sort of an investment, I guess,” refusing to pursue that line of thought any further for the moment. Standing naked from the thighs up, she inspected herself in the mirror. They’d been expensive, her spiky shoes, but man they were hot. “Yeah,” she said, addressing her reflection, admiring her flat tummy and thrust out chest, “they could do worse, those boys, a lot worse that you, you harlot.” Her laugh was more than a little nervous, as she turned to don the rest of her outfit: a silvery, low-cut, push-up bra with a front clasp; a matching garter belt to complement her stockings; and the G-string panties, to complete the set; all under a white stretchy top with a plunging vee neck, laced tight across her bare back; and a stretchy leather-look micro-skirt, similar to the one she’d got in Aberdeen, but in black.