A Party for Lucy
by
Laurelei Lane
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Copyright © 2011 by Laurelei Lane
Cover Photo © 2010 Zachary Watkins
Smashwords edition 2011
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Sarah didn’t have a clue. At first she thought it was some prank, just Hen Night high spirits, tomfoolery. You know: the ritual humiliation of the bride-to-be and all that.
Only Becca knew the thrill it gave me to have Sarah tied up; only she knew just how much the sight of ropes cutting into our friend’s flesh pleased me. Both thighs strung together, oven-ready, and her soft buttocks enfolding hemp fibres sunken into her exposed fleshy hips. Her stressed skin showing deep red pressure lines; ankle’s bony knolls lashed by bindings so very taut; feet in strappy heels, one over the other, four-inch stilettos snagged together. I’d never noticed her feet before: perfect size threes, painted nails and toes all crushed up to fit inside a high pair of strappy nothingness.
We’d had to improvise. An old thin rope washing line found under Becca’s mum’s sink was all we had available to use as bindings. That afternoon we’d cut it into various sized lengths. She and I’d made plans beforehand. The others did not take much persuading.
Adele, Vicki, and Lauren laughed, and Sarah shook her head and then screamed in mock terror when I held out the ropes like an offering, four pieces cut into three-foot lengths, all folded double, one over the other, resting on my upturned palms. Her sentence declared, the four of us closed in as she backed away -- still smiling at that point. The others held her down while Becca and I did the knots
Restrained by three pairs of girlish hands; such beautiful girls, all three happy with laughter, scent, and expectations. And then soft hands taking her: Adele’s on Sarah’s bare shoulders, firm, consistent; Lauren’s about her waist not wishing to offend but committed all the same. Vicki grabbed Sarah’s ankles taking her up off her feet, then the three of them carrying her to the leather couch. All the while Becca reassuring her, lying, saying it was just our fun -- for them maybe -- and she shouldn’t mind
My hands among the dry, tight line tingled as I made the arrangements, choosing each length of twine with care, for purpose. Her wrists first: one across the other. Three friends holding her and she would not be still. I was wet between the legs by the time her hands were secured behind her back. Tight enough to hurt but not enough that she would suspect the pleasure it gave me to pull the knot hard, to feel it snarl -- my secret vice. That’s when she squealed and told us to fuck off – when I pulled so hard. And because of her bad mouth, we had to gag her. Her pretty lips parted by black opaque tights fresh from their wrapping, kept in Becca’s bag -- her emergency pair. We told Sarah she could re-do her lips after we’d had our fun, but I don’t think she was listening and I doubted she knew what a mess we’d made. Her tongue fought Lycra in vain.
She was kicking, and trying to shout out, but Becca’s hose stilled her tongue, stifled her exasperation. We were rough. I’m sure we left bruises. Yes, we must have. My knuckles hard against her silky thighs as I tied her.
Sarah and I were never really close, as friends go but, even with the others all around us, this felt so intimate. A pang of regret transited my mind because I knew I’d never be able to touch her like this again. She was such a straight-laced girl, only ever had the one boyfriend – Mark -- who she’d met when sixteen, and now at nineteen was going to marry.
The others were laughing loud, in hysterics. If only they knew. Sarah’s legs so tight together. Becca sits her up, straightening her dress and hair. Instigated by Becca, the four of them do this pretend-lesbo thing; now camping it up, planting kisses on her cheeks, playful snatches at her breasts. She’s giggling, trying to squirm out of their clutches. While the others tease, no one sees how I stroke her legs and ankles. I want to remove her shoes, lick her toes. I can’t. Then they’d know.
Only Becca knows – after last night. She sees my wistful expression, and her smile tells tales about the secret we share.
And then I know that this really does thrill me like nothing else. Not even dangling high on a cliff-face thrills like this. The sight of a girl distressed and bound, not knowing what is going to happen next. Exquisite! And I know this does happen for real -- not this pretend, girlish game. The photographs I’ve seen at Ted and Eve’s: photographs of a party with countless girls bound in ropes, the fear and apprehension in their eyes. And all the couples looking on: couples who brought the girls along and who look around now eyeing other girls -- guest of other couples -- wondering which one they will receive. Dreaming how they would use those girls, hoping for the most beautiful, or the prettiest, the most afraid -- the timid, mousy one. God, how they’ll abuse them. The thought of it: all those silly girls and what they allowed.
When it arrives, we all share her weight and carry her out to the Limo we have booked to run us into town. We hold her high and curtains twitch to see such a sight. The driver looks at us with bemused acceptance. He’s seen much worse. Hen nights! Sometimes he gets to fuck a bridesmaid-to-be, on the journey home -- once the bride herself.
There are drinks available in the back. We remove the tights from Sarah’s mouth – how wet they are -- so she can join us in a drink. She’s laughing now, but still bound. She’s warmed to our game; joins in the spirit of the night and allows us all to kiss her on the cheeks and once on the lips. Just pretend-dyke kisses -- from the others. But I don’t think she ever forgave my uninvited tongue.
<><><><>
The night before.
Perhaps it was a stupid thing to do – telling Becca about Eve and Ted – but after everything that happened last Saturday night, at Ted and Eve’s, I was really buzzing with it all. And anyhow, what’s the point of secrets if you can’t tell anyone?
The Friday before Sarah’s Hen night, Becca and I were in Becca’s bedroom after an evening down the local pub. She was home again after three months travelling, backpacking in South America. I’d not seen her since May. Her parents were away for the weekend so we had the place to ourselves. We’d decided not to go into to town; it was Sarah’s Hen Night the next day and we didn’t want to ruin it by drinking too much the night before.
I’d met Becca at the local climbing club a few years ago. She was three years older than me and had immediately taken me under her wing, partnering with me that very first night and explaining about all the ropes and carabiners -- all the equipment and other stuff. We really hit it off from the start and have been good friends ever since.
All last week I’d been looking at girls in a new way, a way I’d never allowed myself before I met Eve; appraising, sexual. I imagined kissing a girl my own age – which is what I really wanted. To know how it would be to touch and taste a young girl who was pretty and feminine. Eve was tall and elegant, and I had enjoyed her making love to me very much, but she was a grown woman. This week, each time an attractive girl came to my position at the post office, or if I passed someone especially cute on the street, I couldn’t help imagining being with her. I would maybe think about cupping her breasts in my palms or tasting the moist pinkness between her legs, savouring the scent and texture of her most hidden recess.
Now the world seemed too crowded with pretty girls. Such choice: girls in myriad shapes and sizes, they smiled for me or were reserved; were cute or haughty; coy or brazen -- and sometimes complete bitches. But the prettiest ones, the gorgeous ones, they aroused in me a need I found hard to come to terms with. And all the while I looked, lusted and observed, I was preparing to visit this newly opened candy store.
Was it only six days since Eve showed me the beauty of making love with another female? It seems like I’d had these yearnings since the beginning of time.
As I sat on the only chair in Becca’s bedroom listening and watching her as she sat tipsily on her bed taking sips from a beer bottle, I felt the feelings I’d been experiencing for her all evening begin to require real willpower to keep in check. I’d always had a bit of a crush on her but until tonight I’d never experienced any outright sexual unrest over her. She’d always been this sort of big sister figure to me, but now I wanted to go over to her and kiss her and peel off her clothes.
But wouldn’t that ruin everything? Destroy the true and valued friendship we enjoyed?
She was just sitting there, leaning against the wall, her Legs pulled up tight against her chest, legs perfect in the amber glow of lamplight. If I stared hard I could see the white snatch of her panties stretched tight between silken buttock curves. Such legs: shapely but lean, inviting. I imagined my tongue sliding up her creamy inner thigh and visualised her legs parting for me, and finding her sex-scent at home as my face burrowed and nuzzled into her softest tissues.
She was telling me about her trip to Peru, but I’d stopped listening to her words now mesmerised by the way her tongue brushed against her sticky, pink lips as she talked. I fell into a reverie, imaging kissing her, how her tart tongue would taste between my lips, and remembering the fragrance of her hair, the brush of it soft against my cheeks. All that hair: hair spilling down in sandy waves, a torrent over her shoulders, nearly to her breasts. She continually brushed it from her face as she spoke -- thick wild hair, the colour of straw.
Earlier, sipping Chardonnay by the bar she would twist and turn in the course of our conversation, maybe to catch and greet a familiar face or to check out some guy that I’d indicate to her with a knowing look. And when she turned from me like that, her scent, the essence of her cosmetics, would lift from her and visit me and I would inhale her, my nipples set a tingling.
And now my cunt ached for her too.
I couldn’t believe I’d said it. I must have lit up like a stop sign as soon as the words left my lips:
“Becca. Have you ever kissed a girl?”
Now she was the one to blush. The pink flushing to her chest and neck told me the answer.
“Once -- a long tome ago.”
“Really! Anyone I know?
She laughed.
“No seriously,” I said. “Was it?”
“I don’t kiss and tell, Luce – she always called me Luce -- .You should know that by now.”
“Be serious. Have you?”
“I suppose – Ok: in a club once, this sexy little blonde girl came right up to me and told me I was beautiful and said she so did want to kiss me.”
She took another sip from her bottle. I could see her eyes watching me over the stem. I’d embarrassed us both. But I still really did need to hear her answer:
“And . . .?”
“And . . . It sort of just happened.”
Her eyes scanned the ceiling for a moment and then she looked back at me and gave me a knowing smile. She took another drink, then:
“Yeah. It was nice. A girl kissed me and I liked it.”
“What if someone wanted to again –?”
“Luce! Don’t get ideas. One kiss doesn’t make me a raving fucking lesbo?”
“I know, but it’s very trendy isn’t it? Guys love it – girl-on-girl?”
“Do they?”
“You know they do?”
“You got some guy who wants to watch -- Is that it?”
I laughed. “You still haven’t answered my question. Would you? Again?”
“I might – with the right girl.”
“Me?”
“Would that be a good idea, Luce?” She put her beer down on the bedside table: “What’s brought all this on, anyway?”
“Something happened to me last week and I really need to tell someone,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Sex stuff.”
“A girl?”
“A woman . . . and . . .” I start to panic. I can’t say it.
“And?”
“-- Her husband”
“A married couple? You mean a threesome!”
“I suppose.”
Oh-my-god, Lucy Bentley. The girl I used to shock with my tales of what the grown-ups did. My Luce! Sweet little Luce. A threesome no less! Oh-my-fucking-god! I am so wanting to hear this.”
I went over to her and sat on the bed cross-legged facing her and took both of her hands in mine. I made her promise not to repeat a word of what I was about to tell her.
“Yes, yes, yes. I promise,” she said. I hoped she would. Yes she would.
And so I told her all about Ted and Eve, how I’d got a job at the post office and how Ted asked me to baby-sit for him and his wife and how they seduced me. I made it sound as if I’d been Little Miss Innocent and that I’d not been expecting the moves they made on me. I didn’t mention the games Ted liked to play at work.
But I did tell her about the book of photographs they’d left out for me to see: the pictures of the parties they like to attend; the naked girls, all of them bound in ropes, abused, and loving it -- and some not loving it. She asked me to describe every scene. She listened, slack jawed, eyes all agog, just like I had been the morning after my threesome when I’d sat alone and turned the pages of that dark album.
The excitement in her eyes took my by surprise. Was she really that turned on by what I told her. When I’d finished talking, she leaned toward me and, in the instance before her tongue parted my lips, she said:
“I’m so jealous.”
After we kissed she looked into my eyes: “When I kissed that girl in the club – it’s the only time I ever have you know, Luce?”
While we kissed again, I reached behind her and undid the zip of her dress and eased it from her shoulders, tight over her breasts, then leaving it gathered around her waist. We were facing each other kneeling on the mattress. If one of us shifted position the bed wobbled so we moved like cats. Her bras joined the dress around her waist – no time for eyes and hooks. I took both her breasts in my palms, feeling their weight, their satin softness. Her nipples stiffened under my caress.
Becca’s large, heavy breasts thrilled me more than Eve’s ever had. Eve’s woman/boy figure was a delight but what I held now was the essence of femininity. Although large and heavy, they were eager and lively, silky to my fingertips, warm and comforting to have press against my cheek. She didn’t move an inch as I took each one in turn into my mouth, wetting her with my saliva, my slobber. After I teased them so, the chill air on her wet nipples made them stiff as tiny walnuts and I thought they might crumble if I bit too hard. But I nibbled and nipped anyway, her moans inviting vicious snaps. Her breathing frantic, her chest heaved and fell as I moved from one to the other.
Hard painted nails and soft fingertips entangled my hair. She pulled me up to face her again, kissing me, then saying:
“Get naked with me.”
Like the end of the world might happen sometime soon, we were out of our clothes and bound together in a fleshy knot of legs and arms, snarled tight. We kissed and kissed and kissed. Bellies and breasts melded together by our pressing against each other. Just like with Eve, I wanted to merge with her and become lost in her softness, absorbed by her fragrant femininity. I dipped my face among the cascade of her curls and breathed in deeply the sweet scent of exquisite locks.
Parted legs, wide for me to climb between. I felt the prickle of her tight bush against my shaven smoothness, My own hips soon ensconced between her splayed legs, I spread my own legs wide so they rub against hers. My pubic bone rasping against hers, grinding with a regular, determined, hard beat. The roughness of her hairs tickled my clit, thrilling me. She raised her hips for me, saying, Oh-god, Luce, fill me.”
But I didn’t have a penis -- or even dildo -- so I continued to rub myself against her. It was guesswork: I re-positioned, hoping I had the correct spot, and that I was making contact, rubbing her clit with my own. I kissed her while my thighs undulated, and I felt the desperation and need blatant in her response. Both of us sweating, drenched, our bellies and breasts slid and slipped against each other. My clit just right, exactly where needed to send shivers of delight racing over me. I had hers too – maybe. Hard to tell: trib was new to me, I had to sense her needs, intuit when I had it right for her. I found that with my own legs as wide as they could go, my exposed flesh increased the pleasure I gave and received. On and on I rubbed but no orgasm arrived, and so I sat up and took her right leg and raised it as near to ninety degrees as it would go, sliding my hands up and down its smoothness. Squatting on her, our labias slippery as live eels in olive oil. My fleshy arse plump and doughy against hers, enveloping, too ample. Our cunts and buttocks squelching together made it oh-so slippery down there, they squirmed and slid, our pubic mounds grating, sending shivers of manic news. I sensed how she abandoned herself to me, completely. Her stomach muscles became harder, head lolling from side to side. She writhed insanely beneath my steady endeavours, her fingernails clawing at bedclothes. I gripped her leg tight and rode her and she bucked and heaved beneath me.
Knowing that I had reduced her to this state of abandon thrilled me, empowered me.
She was spent, sprawled beneath me, limp and still, but her one raised leg remained in my grip. And I continued to use her exhausted flesh, pressing down hard onto her. My hips ebbed, flowing over her exposed cunt with a steady tidal rhythm of their own that did not require attention. While riding these waves of pleasure, I thought about Becca, the person she was, my friend who I’d only loved as a friend before tonight, and who I now pushed my most intimate body part against, pushed hard into that most intimate place of hers. It was that thought, the memory of what we have shared together in the past, and what we allowed ourselves now, it was that which set my entire body alight, and I shuddered and heaved and called out her name over and over.
Later, when we were satiated on each other’s flesh, we talk. She wanted to know more about Ted and Eve. Could she meet them? I said I’d ask Ted, said I’m sure he’ll want to meet her – Eve would too.
And we talked about ropes -- and Sarah.
<><><><>
After the Hen Night, back at work.
Helen had been on holiday all week so I hadn’t seen her since my before night with Ted and Eve. I had to wait until her shift on Tuesday afternoon before I could talk to her. I was eager to learn all I could about her experiences at the party. Those shots I’d seen of her bound were burned into my brain. So many questions: who were the other guests? Where had it been held? What had been expected of her, and what had she allowed? I thought of her naked and how lovely she looked. I realised we had worked side by side for two months and I hardly knew her at all.
She was efficient, polite with the customers, but when things were quiet she would retreat into her own thoughts, only speaking when spoken to. Blonde and petite her small frame did not shout out the curves that I now knew lay concealed beneath her post office uniform. There was something otherworldly about her too; she was delicate and soft, and sometimes when I looked at her -- in those moments when we were quiet behind the counter -- she could look as dreamy as a sleepy child.
A delightful thrill of piquant cruelty shot through me when I thought of all those hands reaching for her and pawing her delicate white skin. I remembered seeing that moment of realisation in her eyes, captured by the camera; it was a look that said this is no game, these people are for real this really happening to me. I imagined the games she and Ted might have played previously, then the party and finding herself out of her comfort zone. All those strangers, older bodies, all greedy and eager for her. She must have felt like a novice skier talked into going off-piste, losing control and hurtling towards a ravine.
Ted worked on the counter all day that Tuesday so I had no opportunity to grill Helen about her adventure, and besides I didn't want him knowing I was snooping. Instead I made do with observing her as she worked. If I had a free moment, I would watcher her and wonder what she would be like to have as a lover. Until the other Sunday's revelations she had just been part of the fixtures and fittings. Even at twenty-six years old she still had a girlish air about her. Being a mother had not spoiled her prettiness, the innocence of her smile, her peasant girl naivety. Her skin was the palest butter hue, smooth and flawless. As I watched her I had an urge to lick her cheeks, they looked as fresh as soft-whipped ice cream. But there was also something about her that evoked a cruel side in me. I thought of Eve’s brisk slaps to my face and I tried to imagine how it would feel to slap Helen’s cheeks in a similar way.
Again my thoughts returned to the photograph and I imagined her naked, bound and helpless, and me pulling her hair and slapping her until she cried. The ropes and Sarah were one thing but I'd never felt such a delicious urge before, not about anyone. An unalloyed urge to inflict pain. It made my nipples tingle to think of it. Was it was something in Helen in particular that made me feel that way or was it a dark thing that had always been present deep within me and only now starting to surface and take on life? In the photos Helen looked like some virgin who had been chosen by the villagers to be offered as sacrifice to a pagan god to ensure a good harvest.
During a lull I asked, "Mind if I walk with you tonight, Helen? I'm having tea at my sister's. She lives in Beardmore Terrace. That's down you way, isn't it?" My sister, Kay, did live near Helen, but I hadn't been invited for tea.
"If you like," was all she said.
"So don't forget . . . and go without me," I said as she printed out labels for packages.
She turned and smiled but said nothing.
We left work together and walked across the big car park of the superstore. I realised I wouldn't have much time to quiz her about things as it was only a quarter of a mile to Helen's house from the post office. It would take us fifteen minutes to walk it so I would have to be quick getting to the point.
I opened by asking her about her children -- always a winner with mums. She was happy to tell me about little Eli and Jessica, four and six. I smiled and nodded while she proudly catalogued her girls’ achievements. We were halfway to her house and I still hadn't even broached the subject I wanted to know about. I switched tack and asked her how long she had been working at the post office.
"About eight years now. I started straight after I left school. Mum wanted me to go to uni', but I just wanted to earn some money. Dave and I were saving for our own house," Angie said.
"So you've been with Dave since way back, then?"
"Yeah."
"What does he think of Ted?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation.
"He's only met him once. Why?"
"Oh, you know . . . with Ted being how he is? How he likes to flirt, and all."
"God, no! Dave would give him a good hiding if he ever caught him coming on to me. He gets really jealous of other guys paying me attention, does my Dave."
"So he doesn't know about your adventures with Ted and Eve then?"
She stopped dead in her tracks and looked at me in disbelief:
"What do you mean? What adventures are you on about?"
"A party with lots of people . . . and ropes?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Lucy." Then lowered her head and walked off.
I quickly hurried after her and had to break into a jog when she picked up her pace.
Her rushing off took me by surprise. When I caught up with her I reached out and took her arm to prevent her walking away again and turned her to face me. I tried to hold her gaze but she looked down at the pavement. I thought she might start to cry.
"I've seen the photographs, Helen. I need you to tell me what happened. Ted and Eve have asked me to go with them in November to a similar do. I want some idea of what I'm letting myself in for."
"You're mad if you go." She said, then composed herself and looked directly at me.
I met her gaze and asked, "Why, what was it like? It looked wild."
"It was fucking insane! That's what it was like."
" I need to know. I can’t stop thinking of those photographs."
"The guests at that party were not the kind of people we see on the other side of the post office counter, Lucy. Get real. They're wealthy and influential. People you wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of. "
“They sound exactly the type of people I would love to get on the right side of, though.. A world I'd like to be a part of." I laughed out loud. It really was, and I was not ashamed to tell her so.
"You’ve already made your mind up, haven’t you? You don't need to hear what I have to say."
I took her hand and squeezed: "Yes I do, Helen. Really -- please?"
She saw my urgency and softened: "Okay: come round mine later tonight -- when the kids are in bed. Dave is on nights this week, so we’ll be able to talk in peace. I've never spoken about it to anyone before, Lucy. Maybe it’ll be good to tell someone.”
She walked away without looking back. I watched her go until she turned the corner and disappeared into the street where she lived. While I stood watching, two lads my own age walked by.
"You lost, gorgeous?" one said.
I gave such a glare; lads like them no longer had any appeal
"Stuck up cow," the taller one said as they walked away.
Nearly two hours to kill. I thought of going home and changing, but decided to go with my original plan and call in on my sister, a ten-minute walk.
Kay was pleases to see me. I don’t get round there half as often as I should. I had my tea with her and the kids and gossiped, just local tittle-tattle. Later we watched television. At quarter past eight I left her to her favourite soap and made my way to Helen's neat terraced house.
She seemed more relaxed than when I’d left her earlier. She invited me in and led me down a small hall and into the front room. I sat in the armchair by the door facing the window, the flat screen in the corner too large for the room. There were shelves each side of the chimneybreast filled with dvds and CDs; and paperbacks, mostly horror. The sofa was covered in a damask throw to protect it, with heaps of embroidered cushions piled at the corners. Helen picked a large charcoal and silver patterned cushion from among them and sat on it crossed legged on the floor.
She started to roll a joint; "Hope you don't mind, its the only way I can relax after an afternoon in that place, and the kids."
"Its cool."
With her hair down she looked even younger than usual. Younger than I did, I thought. She had on day to day clothes; tight ice-blue leggings and vest top. Her feet bare, nails varnished with clear gloss. Her eyes were a masterpiece, though; tastefully shaded and lined. It must have taken her ages to do them like that. I wondered if it was for my benefit or if it was a ritual for her, done each time she finished work to banish the tedium of her hours behind the counter. I'd never seen her outside of work, where she always wore her hair tied back and her face without make-up, all traces of individuality erased by corporate livery. Looking as she did now, I would have passed her in the street, never guessing who she was.
It felt really weird to be sharing a joint with her while still dressed in my work clothes, totally incongruous, like going to the gym in hiking boots. I only partially inhaled; I didn’t want to get too high, I needed to keep a clear head while I listened to what she had to say. But I was polite and didn't let her smoke alone. Even so, it was strong stuff and a visual fuzziness blurred my peripheral vision, and the perspective of the room shifted and changed when I moved my head.
"You've been up to their house, then." Helen said, a statement not a question.
"The other Saturday. I stayed over. I saw the photos the next day."
"How stupid are they -- to keep them." She was talking in a rhetorical manner with a soft voice coming from a place far away. "That night is always at the back of my mind, Lucy. I’ve often wondered who’s seen them -- and god knows who might get to see them in the future? Lucy, I'm so scared: even after all these years I worry that my family will find out what I did. And Dave -- Jesus! He would kill me. He really would. I swear."