Wilderness Road Ch. 02

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Athletic

March (2)

I quite like painting. It’s a mindless, stress-free sort of activity. Unlike some of the jobs I’ve had, there’s that immediate sense of having achieved something tangible. This morning, the room was a strange half-pink, half-blue hybrid like a newborn’s room where the parents were hedging their bets. Now just a few hours later it was completely blue. Well not simply ‘blue’, according to the label it was the colour of Mount Fuji.

One reason we’d bought the house because we really liked the area. It was green and leafy without being too far from the city centre. I impulsively decided to go for a walk, my breath steaming in the cold air as I strode across long, inky black shadows cast by the lampposts lining our street. I headed towards the park, which was a short walk away down the hill towards the river.

As I walked I remembered what Charlie has said about seeing Abby out running and I wondered if she used to run this way, perhaps completing a couple of laps of the park before jogging back. I used to run myself, although I’d gotten out of the habit since the move. Today was the kind of day that made me feel that I ought to dig out my running shoes from the back of the closet. I pictured myself a couple of pounds lighter, lithe and athletic, my hair shining in the sun as I jogged through the park, motivational music pounding through my ear buds.

All day I’d been wrestling with my conscience. It seemed to me that the journal I was reading was very personal and private, and not written for public consumption. Reading it felt like spying on Abigail or “Roxy”, as it seemed she was known.

On the other hand, why had she left it behind if it was so private? In any case, surely the right thing to do here was to try and get it back to her. And, I reasoned, the best way of working out where she was, was to examine it for clues. Perhaps it would tell me more about her relationship with Terry.

Yes, that’s what I was doing, I convinced myself. After I got back, I had a quick shower then retrieved it from the bottom of my underwear drawer. I wasn’t being nosy, I was simply examining a key piece of evidence for clues, like a heroine in one of those crime novels I was so addicted to.

I resolved to try to read the whole thing, however long it took. I skimmed the first few pages, which only contained some half-finished sketches of a garden plan (which, judging by the state of the garden, she must have abandoned), and notes about things like dental appointments. On the next page, there was a cryptic note that read simply:

D called. Again, I told him I wasn’t interested in taking him on, not after what happened. I made it clear I didn’t like being tied up, not with someone who wasn’t a long-term client anyway. And certainly not after what S. and P. told me about the way he treated them. I recommended several girls who are into that kind of scene and I’m sure they’d be perfect for him but some people just won’t take no for an answer.

When I flipped over the page, I found a lengthier piece:

I often wonder how to describe myself. Escort? Call girl? Certainly not ‘prostitute’. That conjures up images of desperate teenage drug addicts giving hand jobs in an alley for small change. People may laugh, but you know I genuinely consider myself a sex therapist. I know that makes some people roll their eyes, as if it’s just a euphemism for ‘hooker’, but I honestly think that I can help people with their sexual issues, or at least help them live out long-held fantasies.

Take “C”, for example. To anyone who knew her, she was a typical suburban housewife, happily married with a fifteen-year-old daughter. Physically, she had a fair complexion and was a little on the plump side but without being overweight. Who would have known what dark thoughts lurked beneath the sunny, open grin that she always greeted me with?

Although I’m bisexual, I generally prefer female clients and I knew the first time I spoke to C that she’d be a lot of fun. You see C’s ‘thing’ was being seduced and spanked by a lesbian. We’d talked about it over the ‘phone several times and she told me she’d had that fantasy as long as she could remember. Although she was completely happy with her marriage and primarily attracted to men, she sometimes found herself guiltily browsing though lesbian porn on the internet.

Her recurring fantasy, the one that she wanted help with, was based on this guilt. She fantasized about an older lesbian boss, finding out about the kind of websites she was visiting in work-time and what might happen.

Another reason I describe myself as a ‘sex therapist’ is that I take a lot of trouble to fulfil the client’s requirements. I’m not just some bimbo turning up in a tight skirt and an eye-wateringly low top. I always make an effort to have the right look. In this case, I wore a smart but fashionable black skirt suit over a silvery grey blouse, my dark hair scraped back off my forehead and held in place with a matching black Alice band. More importantly though, it was emek escort about acting the role of a dominating boss, someone who expected employees to do as they were told.

I’d meet up with C every Thursday at a hotel room in town. I believe she told her husband she had an aromatherapy class. All of my clients would pay for the room and my time, and C was from a wealthy family so she’d book us a suite: two interconnecting rooms, a bedroom and a lounge complete with a desk. I’d get there early and make it look more like an office by pulling the desk into the middle of the lounge and placing chairs on either side.

When she turned up, I’d slip easily into my role as ‘angry predatory boss’ dressing down an errant employee as she took the seat opposite me.

“Well, I’m sure you know why I’ve called you in today. I spoke to you last week about being careful about what kind of websites you visit on work time, didn’t I?”

“Yes, madam,” she’d say, staring at her shoes.

“Well, let’s see: hotlesbians.com, lesbiansex.com, ilovelez.com. Do you think these sites are appropriate for a workplace?”

“But I didn’t.. .I mean, how…?” she’d stutter, nervously wringing her hands.

“Are they appropriate?” I’d interrupt.

“No madam, I’m very sorry.”

“Well sorry just isn’t good enough. I warned you last time that your job was at risk, didn’t I?”

“Please Madam! I need this job!”

“Well you should have thought of that before you visited those disgusting websites,” I’d snap angrily.

“Please, don’t take my job. How will I explain it to my family? Please, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything, eh? Get up, let’s have a look at you,” I’d say sternly.

She’d always stand motionless, head down, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, as I circled around her pretending to decide what to do next, although we both knew where this was going.

“I think perhaps you need to be taught just how seriously I take this,” I’d say, taking her hand in mine and leading her towards to bedroom.

“Please Madam, what are you going to do?” she’d whimper, as she followed reluctantly.

“Bad girls like you need a good spanking,” I’d reply.

“Please no! Not again!” she’d protest.

“Come along, you obviously haven’t learned anything from last week.”

We’d argue back and forth for while, a well-rehearsed dance we both knew would only lead to one place. Eventually, she’d concede that she really needed her job and she did say she’d do anything to keep it.

Soon I’d be sat on the edge on the bed, C draped across my lap, as I tugged her sensible grey office skirt stretched up over her bottom.

She always wore a skimpy pair of virginal white panties beneath, the thin gusset disappearing between her plump buttocks.

“Well C, do you think this is suitable office wear?” I’d say, running a finger along the already damp cotton.

“Sorry Madam,” she’d moan, wriggling as I started to slap her fleshy buttocks.

I’m not a hardcore dominatrix, so I wouldn’t hit her particularly hard. Just enough to sting, to make her bottom blush pink as I berated her. Just enough to humiliate her.

“How dare you look at those disgusting websites in my office!”

“Sorry Madam.”

“I bet you touch yourself too sometimes, don’t you?”I’d insist as my hand slapped her buttocks.

“Ow! No Madam!”

“Be honest, you’re only making it worse for yourself!” I’d insist, making her yelp by spanking her harder.

“Sometimes,” she’d confess in a very small voice.

“I bet you do all the time, you disgusting girl. I bet you slide your knickers down to your knees and play with yourself under the desk,” I’d say, as I did just that. Wriggling the damp tangle of white cotton over her hips, down to her knees then slapping her inflamed buttocks again.

“Ow! Please!” she’d cry.

“I bet while you’re supposed to be sorting through my emails, you’re surfing those disgusting websites with one hand between your legs,” I ‘d insist, sliding my fingers between her thighs and along the moist furrow between her blushing cheeks.

“Oh! Please!” she’d gasp as my fingers probed her moist, fleshy folds.

“Tell me!” I’d say, giving her sore buttocks another swat.

“Ow! Sometimes,” she’d confess.

“Sometimes what?”

“Sometimes I play with myself,” she’d moan, wriggling excitedly as I eased her thighs wide apart as I continued to stroke the hot, swollen flesh of her pussy.

“What a naughty girl you are,” I’d say, my fingers seeking the sweet spot at the centre of her wetness.

“Yes, I’m so naughty,” she’d agree breathlessly as I dipped a finger inside her clasping centre, and painted her juices along her slit, gently stroking her engorged clit.

“Again! Louder!” I’d order.

“I’m so naughty, such a bad girl,” she’d wail as I continued to tease her throbbing clit.

“A disgusting, horny little slut!” I’d insist, sliding two of my slim fingers between her slick pussy lips, using my other hand to slap her sore-looking eryaman escort bottom.

“Yes, I’m such a slut, a fucking horny slut,” she’d agree happily, her whole body squirming and writhing in my lap, pivoting around my fingers now buried deep inside her soaking wet pussy.

The more I taunted her, the more aroused she’d become, her whole body shaking and convulsing as I caressed, stroked and penetrated her soaking wet pussy.

Usually she’d come like this, her whole body suddenly tensing in a moment of silent tension, before convulsing and shaking, her pussy clasping my fingers as she let out a long, low animal groan of pure pleasure.

Sometimes instead of spanking her, I’d make her undress for me. Ordering her to strip out of her sensible office clothes, watching on sternly as she reluctantly slipped her panties down over her legs. Making her stand in front of me, awkward and vulnerable, trying to hide her plump nakedness, one arm barely covering her ample boobs, a hand over her neatly trimmed mound.

Then ordering her to kneel on the bed, telling her to show me what she’d been doing whilst she should have been working. Crossing my legs and squeezing my thighs together in an attempt to subdue the delicious itch spreading between my thighs as I watched her, one hand massaging her voluptuous boobs, the other sliding between her fleshy thighs, her breathing laboured as she touched herself for me. Insisting that she spread her thighs wide apart so I could see how wicked she was. Telling her to expose herself to me, telling what a bad, bad girl she was. I’d watch from the shadows trying to ignore the dampness in my knickers as she closed her eyes, almost forgetting I was there, losing herself in her own pleasure.

“Please may I come, Madam?” she’d pant, her eyes squeezed shut as her hand moved faster.

“Not yet, slut.”

She knew not to come until I’d given her permission, I knew she loved the delicious torment of waiting for me. Her body simmering, ready to boil over. Cruelly, I’d make her wait until she was right on the edge, pleading with me breathlessly as her fingers swirled around her honeyed lips, her hips undulating uncontrollably.

“Come for me, you wicked girl,” I’d say when I heard her breathing becoming shallow and ragged and I knew she couldn’t hold back any longer, and then almost instantly she’d oblige, her fingers dancing wildly over her wetness, her naked body racked with great sobbing breaths as she achieved her sweet release, another very satisfied customer.

Whilst I’d been reading my hand had sneakily slipped between my legs, as if it had a mind of its own, my body betraying me whilst my mind was occupied. I’d been gently caressing myself down there and now I could feel myself becoming a little moist under my grey sweatpants.

After my hot shower, I’d just slipped on a white t-shirt, not bothering with a bra. Looking down I noticed my nipples denting the taut cotton and I couldn’t resist drawing a fingertip across one, sending little electric tingles up and down my spine. The words from the journal had made me so hot, my mind filling with lurid images as I reclined on the bed and closed my eyes. I slipped a hand down the front of my sweats, my knees automatically falling open, my sex-starved body responding as I began to stroke the silky material of my already damp panties.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway and I hastily withdrew my hand from my pants as if it had been scalded by the heat within. I twisted around to look at the little silver alarm clock on my bedside table. Seven o’clock already!

“Hi honey, I’m home, are you upstairs?” I heard Jay shout over the sound of the front door slamming closed.

“Yes, up here!” I shouted, hurriedly getting onto my feet and skipping downstairs, hoping that he wouldn’t notice my flushed face or the scent of my arousal lingering on my guilty fingers.

That night I lay in bed, unable to sleep. I twisted and turned, my mind tormented with images of Abby and her client, C. Whenever I closed my eyes, there they were. Abby sitting on the edge of the bed in a severe black skirt and jacket, her dark hair scraped back off her impassive, cruel face, her dark eyes glittering, her hand poised in mid-air. And C. draped across her lap, her smart office skirt rucked up, her skimpy lace knickers stretched between her knees, exposing her pale, plump buttocks.

It had been like that all evening, my mind elsewhere as I’d cooked and eaten dinner with Jay, and only half-listened to him talking about his day. Even as I brushed my teeth, I’d kept thinking about what I’d done and feeling guilty over my solo pleasure.

I was brought up to be a good Catholic girl in a loving but traditional and religious family. I’d been taught that girls like me just shouldn’t do this sort of thing. I’d sat through countless sermons about temptation and the sins of the flesh but it was exactly those thoughts of wickedness, penitence and punishment ankara escort that led me back around to thinking about Abby and her client. Now here I was in bed, unable to sleep, my mind going over the same fantasy again and again.

What if Abby had come back unexpectedly today to retrieve her journal? What if she found me in the bedroom, my hand down the front of my sweatpants, the grey Lycra stretched taut over my knuckles, playing with myself like a horny teenager as I read it? Touching myself as I read her private, intimate confessions? Of course, she’d be angry and my feverish imagination pictured her sitting on the bed and dragging me across her knees, squirming and pleading for mercy as she yanked my loose pants over my wriggling buttocks.

I ran my fingers up over my stomach and squeezed one of my boobs, teasing myself over my thin cotton pyjama top as I conjured up a harsh yet feminine voice: “Did I give you permission to read my journal?”

“No,” I’d whimper, feeling a surprisingly strong hand on the back of my head, pushing me down. (Somehow she’d know who I was. Hey, it was my fantasy, it didn’t have to make sense!)

“No!” she’d repeat her cruel hand connecting smartly with my one of my buttocks, my thin white panties providing little protection.

“Ow! Please!” I’d squeal, instinctively reaching behind to protect myself as my skin burned.

“Not so fast,” she’d say, grabbing my wrist and expertly twisting my arm behind my back.

“Ow! You’re hurting me!” I’d protest as she eased my sweatpants down till they were a baggy grey pool around my ankles.

“That’s the idea, young lady. So what have you got to say for yourself?” she’d ask, stinging my backside again, making me jump.

“No! Please! I’m sorry,” I yelp.

“You’ve been a bad girl haven’t you? Reading my private journal and playing with yourself, how disgusting,” she’d insist, raking her sharp, red fingernails across the tender skin of my bottom.

“Stop! I wasn’t, honestly,” I’d plead.

“Well, let’s see, shall we?” she’d purr menacingly, her lips suddenly right next to my ear, and I’d moan and squirm helplessly, my arm still locked behind my back as I felt her experienced fingers slide between my hot pink buttocks.

“Well, you certainly feel awfully wet, girl” she’d chuckle crudely, making me shudder by drawing a finger along the shamefully wet gusset of my panties. “But perhaps I ought to check, just to make sure.”

Then I’d feel her tug at my knickers, easing the waistband over my hips, peeling the clinging material away from my slick pussy lips, till they joined my sweatpants, a tangled scrap of white around my ankles. I’d feel the cool air on my moist lips and my face blushing as she spread my buttocks and exposed the shameful extent of my arousal.

“You should see how wet and swollen you are, you wicked girl,” she’d chuckle as her fingers traced my slick contours, massaging my pussy as I twisted and groaned.

I’d never been touched by a woman like that, and I wondered what it would feel like. To feel the flat of her hand slapping my soft, yielding buttocks? To feel her beautifully manicured, crimson fingernails raking across my tender skin? To feel her cool fingertips exploring the slick contours of my slit?

Gosh, it was making me so horny! I glanced over my shoulder at Jay, as my hand strayed between my legs. He was obviously asleep, snoring quietly to himself. Ever since reading the journal I’d felt quite horny but he’d been fast asleep when I went to bed. He was quite a heavy sleeper and that made me bolder. I turned over, away from him, feeling my taut nipples rubbing against the loose pink cotton of my pyjama top.

My body felt so aroused, yearning to be touched. It wouldn’t hurt to touch myself a little, I thought as I unbuttoned my top. I’d just play with my breasts a little I promised myself, just enough to take the edge off my desire so I could go back to sleep. I bit my lip, suppressing a contented gasp of pleasure as I squeezed the warm, soft flesh of my cupcake boobs and dragged my thumb across an erect nipple, flicking it this way and that, feeling it spring back as hot sparks raced through my body. I licked my fingers making them nice and wet then painted the moisture over my stiff peaks, making myself shiver hotly. I played with them for a few pleasurable minutes, caressing my breasts and coaxing my nipples to full hardness as I grew hotter and hotter. The more I touched myself, the more my sex-starved body demanded more.

It was Jay’s fault I was in this state, I reasoned. If he’d stayed awake, maybe he could have helped me out. Wasn’t that his duty as a husband? Very carefully and slowly, I reached down with my free hand and eased my pyjama bottoms and knickers down over my thighs, closing my eyes and imagining it was Abby who was baring my derriere. The sensation of the duvet rubbing against my bare thighs felt so wrong. It made me feel guilty and excited and nervous, all at the same time. I paused when they were around my knees, holding my breath while I listened to the reassuring sound of Jay’s deep, even breathing. I ran my hand over the smooth skin of my buttocks, then slipped it in between, teasing my slick cleft, trying to imagine what it would feel like to have wicked Abby fingering me.

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