Authors: Lisette Ashton
‘Lie down on the floor,’ Joanne barked. She tilted her head in his direction so there was no chance of him missing the command. ‘Face up. Head beneath my ass. I want you to sniff me and tell me how good I smell.’
Beaming with gratitude, John did as she demanded. He adored being beneath her. From the moment he had left the front door of number three, from the instant he had manfully told Jane he was going to the pub, he had been waiting for Joanne to deliver this revered instruction.
Ignoring him, Joanne turned her attention back to the world beyond the window. ‘I wonder why there are so many cars this evening? Oh! Wait. That’s right. Ted and Linda are throwing another party tonight, aren’t they? I’m surprised her fanny isn’t worn out.’
The comment went over John’s head. He hadn’t noticed any more cars than usual when he walked from number three to number five, although admittedly his attention had been divided between his anger at Jane, his outrage about Tom, his impending visit to Joanne and the unexpected glimpse of the mysterious Ms McMurray. From his position on the floor, basking in
broad shadow of Joanne’s backside, he couldn’t see enough of the View to confirm or argue the point.
Not that he was bothered about cars, parties, or the curious comment about Linda’s fanny. His world was currently darkened by the glory of Joanne’s panty-covered buttocks and nothing else mattered. With his nose only an inch from her crotch, he drew a slow breath and savoured the sultry tang of her sex. Being so close to her and drinking in the intimate flavour of her perspiration, his erection bulged at the front of his pants with ardent enthusiasm. The need to climax struck him with a debilitating force but he resisted the impulse. Willing himself not to try and touch her, remembering that she had only asked him to sniff, he whispered lovingly, ‘You smell divine,
She ignored him for a while and then asked, ‘Where the hell is your wife going?’ Her question almost broke the thrall of his arousal. The urge to get up and see what Jane was doing and what Joanne was seeing was almost irresistible. He suddenly wanted to push the woman’s vast buttocks away from his face, move Joanne from the window and find out where his wife was going. But he knew better than to show Mistress Joanne such bursts of insurrection. Reminding himself that he wasn’t supposed to be involved in the conversation, John remained beneath her buttocks and daringly stroked his tongue against her crotch.
Joanne shivered and John allowed himself a moment to enjoy the rich flavour of her gusset. The musky taste that filled his mouth was somewhere between noisome and nirvana. His erection pressed harder against the front of his pants. He made a renewed effort not to spoil the moment by ejaculating before she had given permission. More firmly this time, he pushed his tongue against the gusset-sheathed centre of her sex.
She sighed. For an instant he was euphoric, believing he had elicited a response from her. It was only when she began to talk that he realised she had simply been drawing breath before speaking. The disappointment was crushing.
‘Now this is unexpected,’ Joanne murmured. ‘I think your wife’s coming here.’
He gasped. The impulse to get up had been strong before. Now it was a compulsion. He didn’t know if he was more horrified by the prospect of being caught with another woman or frightened that Jane’s presence in Joanne’s home would defile something special in his life. The most important thing in his mind was the absolute certainty that Joanne and Jane must never meet. Not while he was at Joanne’s. Not while he was lying on his back worshipping her gusset. He braced himself to suffer Joanne’s wrath as he tried to work out the best way to slide from beneath her.
‘No,’ said Joanne, laughing cruelly, ‘I was wrong. She’s gone past here. She’s headed further up the road.’
He released a trembling sigh and realised the instant’s panic had left him dizzy. Taking a moment to catch his breath, trying to convince himself that the prospect of his wife finding him had not engendered a rush of cold, black fear, John stared at the broad expanse of Joanne’s gusset and willed his arousal to return.
Joanne glanced back over her shoulder, shifting her buttocks so she could glare down at him. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be sniffing my hole?’
‘Yes, Mistress Joanne. Sorry, Mistress Joanne. You smell divine.’
She ignored his apologies and sycophancy, putting her rear back over his face and returning her attention to the street outside. ‘I do hope you’re thirsty down
she muttered absently. ‘I think it’s time for me to be a good hostess and offer you a drink.’
He held his breath and gripped his hands into fists. Her words suggested she was about to indulge him with one of his favourite fantasies. His ultimate fantasy. Mounting excitement made him tremble and vacillate between the choices of drawing his tongue against her gusset or lying with his jaws expectantly open. The hope that she might deign to piss in his mouth was more thrilling than he could properly explain. It was a treat she had allowed him only twice before but on both occasions he had been elated to bask in the shower of her golden spray. Anticipating that dark and deviant thrill, John squirmed against the discomfort of the hard floor. He silently admired her rear and tried to detect the subtle change in Joanne’s scent that would indicate she was about to relieve herself on his face.
‘No,’ Joanne muttered. ‘It looks like she’s going to the Graftons’. Maybe I was wrong about Ted and Linda’s party being tonight.’
She managed to sound completely distant, uninterested in him and his efforts to please her, concerned only with the mundane events occurring outside the window on Cedar View. John marvelled at the way she was able to feign such cool impartiality when he felt sure she shared his intense arousal.
‘What with the McMurray woman going over there before,’ Joanne continued, ‘maybe it’s Charlie and Rhona who are throwing a party tonight?’
John didn’t respond. In truth, he wasn’t listening. He stared up at the black fabric covering Joanne’s buttocks and sex and privately beseeched her to release her hold on her bladder. The scent of something briny touched his nostrils but he wasn’t sure if that came from his anticipation, imagination or a genuine change
the air of the room. He was so close to the thinly sheathed centre of her sex, he knew he would detect any difference before she did let go. He felt certain she was just about to do it and the thought made his erection throb with painful force.
‘No. I was wrong again,’ Joanne said distractedly. ‘I guess Ted and Linda’s party is still on. Your wife’s going to the Shelbys’. She’s probably off to see Denise. Again.’
With his concentration fixed on the crotch of Joanne’s panties, John didn’t want to question her about that statement. He wanted to lose himself in the black vision of loveliness that was Joanne’s panty-clad buttocks. But she had said his wife was going to see Denise Shelby, and she had made it sound as though Jane regularly visited the woman, although John wasn’t aware of a friendship between them.
Why would Jane be visiting Denise Shelby? he wondered. Why would she have a friendship with the woman? And why had she kept it secret from him? His brows knitted and he prepared to voice his questions. Even though he knew it would disturb his arousal, and Joanne would chastise him for his impertinence, he had to have an answer.
‘Open your mouth,’ Joanne snapped.
His questions were suddenly forgotten. He could sense the change in the air and knew what was about to come. His erection strained for release but, more than that, he physically craved the decadent humiliation of what was about to happen. His nostrils caught the pastel scent that always presaged the delivery of her pee. His chest tightened as he watched Joanne’s buttocks clench. The crotch of her black panties grew darker. Blacker. And then they were glossy. As he watched the magical transformation, and revelled in the display, his erection throbbed with a tense and agonising need.
The first tentative droplets of piss spattered loosely on his forehead. Then they turned into a downpour, scalding hot, gushing over his face, sluicing across his spectacles. The downpour was so heavy it trickled underneath the lenses, dripping into his eyes, nostrils and hair. Her water seemed to go everywhere except his mouth and he wriggled and writhed beneath her as he tried to catch some of the flow. He was suddenly soaked by the rush of her hot golden shower. Spluttering for breath, trying to grin with his mouth open, he extended his tongue in the hope of catching a stray droplet.
‘Drink it all,’ Joanne said softly. Her tone was matter-of-fact, not harsh as it had been when she insisted he remove his shoes. It was the closest she ever came to sounding affectionate. ‘Drink every drop and I’ll let the little boy play with his little worm.’
The promise was unnecessary, for he had come. He revelled in the climactic pulse of his erection spurting into his shorts. The shock of release was powerful enough to leave him breathless and gasping. But his own pleasure was nowhere near as important as his need to do as Joanne had asked.
When he pushed his mouth up, closing his lips around the sodden, sagging crotch of her panties, he came close to choking on the rush of too-hot piss that streamed from her sex. Swallowing greedily, wishing there was time to taste her flavour, wishing there was time to breathe, John basked in the absolute delight of being Mistress Joanne’s toilet.
She finished without ceremony. The Niagara-like stream tapered to a rush, then a trickle, then stopped. He kept his mouth pressed against the crotch of her panties, enjoying the shape of the labia beneath as they met his lips, delighting in the nearness of simply suckling against the cloth over her wet hole.
‘That was …’
She shifted position.
His voice trailed off. There weren’t words to describe the experience. There never had been and there never could be. He stared meekly up at her and tried to charm her with a piss-wet smile.
‘That was …’
Looking down on him she said, ‘That was
He laughed more loudly than the joke deserved.
Ignoring him, Joanne stood up. The sodden crotch of the panties clung to the outline of her sex lips. Stray dribbles of pee trickled down her thighs, painting glossy lines that disappeared inside the neck of her boots. Mesmerised, John stared at the vision of the sodden fabric coating her crotch.
She stared down at him with an expression that lacked her usual disdain. John didn’t know her well enough to be sure but he thought there was something contemplative about the way she was considering him. He braced himself for the indignity of whatever else it was she might now need from him. The spent and sticky length of his flaccid penis began to stir with the promise of a fresh erection.
‘Since your wife’s gone out, I guess that means you’re mine for the rest of this evening,’ Joanne observed. She retrieved her riding crop from the windowsill and flexed it between both fists. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
John considered this for a moment and then nodded. There was no need for him to go back to an empty house. No reason for him to spend his time in solitude when he could be serving Joanne.
‘I’m yours,’ he agreed. Easing himself from the floor, remembering to get to his knees and not upset her by standing upright, he was still unable to drag his gaze away from the sopping crotch of her panties. Addressing
question directly to her sex, John asked, ‘What did you have in mind?’
She placed a boot in front of his mouth, silently encouraging him to lick away the spatters of pee that had fallen on the leather. As soon as his mouth began to work against the toe, she said, ‘I’ll fetch you a mop and bucket so you can clean up in here before we leave. Then we’ll get you dressed and you’ll accompany me over the road to Ted and Linda’s party.’
With his tongue still working against her shoe, John could only nod by way of reply. Even though Joanne bullied him with her insults and commands, pissed in his mouth, threatened him with a riding crop and was now telling him how they would spend their evening, he didn’t think she was as domineering as his bitch of a wife.
7 Cedar View
‘WAS THIS YOUR
idea?’ Megan McMurray demanded. ‘Or do I blame your bitch of a wife?’
Charlie, still dressed as though he was ready to browbeat his minions on the board of directors, considered the sheet of pink vellum in silence. Dark, commanding yet ominously affable, he looked like a man who always got his own way and never backed down from a challenge. Megan had passed his BMW as she walked up the driveway and she thought the sleek yet functional vehicle was strongly reminiscent of the attractive and imposing Mr Grafton.
Beside the sink, coolly preparing vegetables for their dinner, Rhona Grafton turned to face their visitor. Her shoulders stiffened. The tension briefly turned her model good looks into something stilted and unnatural. With the back of her hand she wiped a stray brunette curl from her forehead. It immediately returned to her brow but she pretended not to notice. The razor-sharp paring knife remained in her clenched fist, like an unvoiced threat. Her ice-blue eyes regarded Megan with frosty hostility. ‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? You don’t know me well enough to know whether I’m a bitch or not. I’ll thank you for an apology unless you can justify that accusation.’
Megan fixed her with a withering glare. Because she still wore her raven sunglasses she doubted Mrs Grafton got the full impact of the expression. But it gave Megan some small satisfaction to scowl at the picture-perfect vision of Rhona Grafton.
‘You want me to justify the accusation?’
Megan’s lips broke into a leer. Parodying Rhona’s clipped pronunciation she said, ‘Charles, I simply have to have that McMurray girl. I know you’ve said you fancied riding her, but I think I want her now. I want to eat her pussy and have the pasty little slut begging for more. Do you think that would be possible, Charles? How do you think we could organise such an event?’