Wheals of Fortune Ch 01
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Wheals Of Fortune Ch. 04 free porn video
Everyone in this story is over 18, and so should you be! It’s a fantasy, carrying on the saga of Julie, which has occupied three parts of this story already, so it will make more sense if you’ve already read them. As with all my stories, the emphasis is on consensual relations – I have no truck with rape and suchlike unpleasantness, and am an ardent feminist at heart.
Pilar had left, to become slave to Rosa’s sister Maria, and I was left alone in the house, save for the silent – and usually invisible – cook, Lola, who seldom strayed from the kitchen. Only when Rosa and her husband, the stern and mysterious Mr Gordon, were at home, did I have company. I was told that, at all times I was in their presence, I had to be similarly dressed – or undressed.
My sole items of clothing were a flame red whale-boned corset, which must have been two sizes too small for my already slender waist, and felt at first as if it would cut me in half. Clipped to its long garter-straps was a pair of seamed black stockings. The corset left my breasts uncovered, and I was required to wear silver nipple-clamps, their connecting chain weighted with a jewelled silver ball, which matched a similar one dangling from the ring in my clit, and two smaller ones on long pendants depending from my earlobes. Silver-heeled stilettos completed my outfit, apart, of course, from my Mistress’s precious collar, which I wore with much pride, day and night. My long hair was to be left brushed straight, cascading to my waist.
On the occasions when my Mistress and Mr Gordon wished to take me out, I simply put on a dress over my indoor apparel. Once we went to lunch, and I put on a knee-length black silk button-through dress with full skirt, whilst when we went out to dinner, I wore a long shimmering gold organdie gown, the skirt tight about my ankles, the bodice translucent, so that my clamped nipples presented tantalising glimpses.
‘You looked lovely tonight, Julie,’ said my Mistress, when we arrived back at the mansion, ‘do come to my room in ten minutes, please!’
I did as she ordered, and, trembling slightly, knocked and entered, hobbling in the tightness of my skirt. My Mistress stood my the window, already changed from her grey velvet gown into a sheer white nightgown, her black hair loosened from the French knot she had worn it in at the restaurant, and falling luxuriously down her back.
‘Take your dress off, dear,’ she said, gently enough, and I reached behind and unzipped it, the quickly wriggled out of it, so that I stood in front of her in my habitual ‘slave’s uniform.’
‘Let me look at you, darling,’ she said, coming up close, so that I couldn’t fail to inhale the scent of Guerlain she carried with her. I was filled with desire for her, as she ran her fingers over my breasts, but I realised she was inspecting my most recent stripes, the ones she had made two days ago when she had whipped my breasts with the small dog-whip, before her husband had perforated the tender skin just above my breasts with two long needles. The memory of her then tightening fiercely my clamps, while Mr Gordon thrust his great cock deep into my anus almost made my cum again, as I had on that occasion.
‘I notice your skin is still marked, Julie,’ said my Mistress, ‘but we must repeat that some time soon, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes, Mistress, yes please,’ I said.
She kissed me, and I pushed my studded tongue gently between her teeth, knowing what she liked, and drew a moan from her. Soon her hands were behind me, busily unlacing my corset, and I felt the instant relief and freedom as its constriction fell away.
‘Don’t move!’ ordered Mistress Rosa, though, and stepped away to her dresser, returning with a pair of handcuffs, which she clipped around my wrists. She then led me to the wall close to the window, where a thick metal ring was cemented in to the brickwork just above head-height, and a snap-link hung from it. Without ceremony, she clipped my cuffs to it, and swept my long mane of hair over my shoulder, and out of her way.
As if by magic, she produced a long, leather single-tail whip.
‘I’m going to hurt you, darling!’ she said. She always announced her intention beforehand, and I think I savoured the anticipation of the pain she was about to administer.
‘You want that, don’t you?’
‘Yes Mistress, yes please,’ I heard myself say, and her first awful stroke fell across the tender flesh of my shoulder blades, a stinging, cruel lash, that made me moan , and brought tears flooding down my cheeks.
‘This will make you very beautiful, my dear,’ said my Mistress, ‘and it’s already making me terribly excited!’
Another fearsome, whistling stroke flew through the air, and landed with a crack on my pale skin, raising a bright red welt, the very end of which I could just see by peering over my shoulder. I cried out loud, but felt the inevitable tingle somewhere deep in my groin which signalled a building orgasm that I knew was not going to be denied.
My Mistress caressed my breasts tenderly, tugging gently at the chain of my clamps, then, taking me by surprise, lashed me again, much lower down, just above my buttocks, so that I writhed and bucked as the awful thong bit into my naked flesh. Another blow followed on straight away, and I came, instantly, noisily, squirting my fluid messily down my leg as I was overtaken by the sort of orgasm only pain and pleasure can combine to bring.
Mistress Rosa released me immediately, and cradled me in her arms, guiding me infinitely gently to her bed. Once there, we kissed and made love, so that time stood still. No longer Mistress and slave, we were two eager, passionate lovers, sharing a night of tenderness and giving that lifted my heart to a new dimension. During the night she whispered to me that I must call her by her name when we made love like this, and also told me that one day soon she would want me to play a reverse role and punish her as she so frequently did me. I answered her by grazing her pussy with my tongue-stud, in a way that I knew drove her wild, then plunging my tongue deep into the smooth, dark velvet cavern of her anus, so that she groaned and writhed as an instant climax took her.
In the morning, after we had slept entwined in each others’ arms, a surprise awaited me. Mistress Rosa couldn’t wait to go down to breakfast to give me the envelope she had ready for me in her drawer.
When I opened it, I gasped. For it contained a return ticket to Madrid, in my name, for the next day.
‘What…what the…?’ I spluttered.
She enjoyed my surprise.
‘You deserve a holiday, my dear,’ she said, ‘and my other sister, Ana, whom you haven’t met, still lives in Spain, where she has a hotel and restaurant. She will pick you up at the airport, and I have arranged for you to relax there for two weeks.’
‘Oh, Mistress Rosa, you are so kind,’ I said, and kissed her.
‘There’s some sort of method in my madness, however,’ she said, ‘I’m never going to find a maid here in England. It’s not a condition of your holiday, but if you can keep your eyes open for a likely recruit…………?’
‘Of course I will, Mistress,’ I said, ‘it’s the least I can do.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘does your sister speak English, by the way?’
She laughed, ‘Not very well, but you’ve picked up a bit of Spanish from Pilar – you’ll be OK.’
The Iberia flight landed on time at Barajas airport, and I noted the pleasing increase in temperature as I nervously awaited my suitcase, wondering how I should recognise Ana.
I needn’t have worried. As emerged from the flight area, a slightly shorter, chubbier version of Rosa, dressed in jeans and a floppy tee-shirt, was holding up a piece of cardboard with ‘JULIE’ printed on it.
She kissed me in the Spanish manner I had by now become used to, and we found her big, untidy Mercedes on the third floor of a big parking stack.
She chattered away
in a horrible mixture of Spanish and English as she drove equally badly through the busy Madrid traffic, then we were out on the open motorway, and I felt I could relax a bit.
An hour later, after a fast run along a quiet motorway, and a long, undulating drive through sunlit rolling uplands, Ana announced that we were almost there. I knew that the hotel was close to the ancient city of Toledo, and I could see its spires sticking up over the horizon as we approached along a fairly busy stretch of main road. The hotel was bigger than I had envisaged, standing back from the highway, behind a huge parking lot, which just then held a couple of big articulated lorries and three or four new-looking cars. The bar, which occupied the whole front of the ground floor, was ablaze with light, and music issued forth as I took my suitcase from Ana’s car. The light was just starting to fail, but it wasn’t yet time for dinner. The air was warm and fragrant, and I was soon made to feel welcome, first when I was introduced to two young lads, Sergio and Ramon, who worked in the bar, then when Ana’s husband, Paco, emerged from the kitchen in his chef’s uniform, to give me a bear-hug.
Sergio showed me to my room, trying out his English, and very eager to please – I thought he might well be seeking a little reward for his services at some point, and he was a nice-looking young man!
I hadn’t the energy then for any more than dinner – which was very good – and an early night.
Next morning, I went down to look for some coffee, and found Ana bustling around in the bar, cleaning ashtrays and polishing tables. She offered me the use of her moped for my visit, and I took her up on it, not without a little trepidation.
For the next few days, I explored the alleyways, museums, little shops and churches of the wonderful old city, taking my time drinking my cafés cortados outside on the pavements of the squares and plazas, watching the world go by, and being, inevitably, chatted up by locals, and tourists alike. Mindful of Rosa’s quest for a new maid, I spotted plenty of suitable young women, but they all seemed to be either on the arm of a handsome young man, or somehow unapproachable.
About a hundred metres from the hotel, and on the opposite side of the road, was a massive night club, called ‘Las Flores’ which at night sported more illumination than Christmas on Regent Street, reds, blues and greens flashing on and off.
I asked Ana if it was worth going there for a dance.
She laughed. ‘That is what we call a puticlub,’ she said, ‘only men go there!’ And she made a lewd gesture, thumb and forefinger making a circle through which her other forefinger passed. ‘We are on a main road, you see – there are many such places in Spain.’
About a week into my stay, when I was no longer spending the whole of my days in the city, and tended to relax a bit more, I noticed that girls from the club frequented the hotel bar, to sit and talk and drink coffee, at around midday. They didn’t look Spanish, any of them – largely, I thought, Eastern Europeans, and a few obviously Caribbean or South American girls. They sat around chatting amiably over their coffees, dressed informally in jeans and tee-shirts, but they carried with them that aura of the professional girl that can’t be shaken off.
One girl interested me. A dark blonde, her shoulder-length hair caught up in a pony-tail, she seemed to set herself subtly apart from the rest. She was always on the periphery, or even sat alone, and invariably wore a skirt and blouse, as if she were deliberately making some kind of statement. When all the others seemed to smoke, I noticed that she didn’t, and when all the others flirted with Sergio and Ramon – and even with Paco when Ana wasn’t around – she remained quietly withdrawn. I decided, on one of these occasions, to try and talk to her, and wandered alongside her with my coffee in my hand.
‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I’m Julie, here on holiday. Mind if I join you?’
She smiled wanly at me, showing pretty brown eyes, in a rather sad, oval face.
‘I am Greta,’ she said, ‘I speak not good English.’
Despite that assertion, I soon established that she was Romanian, and that she had been brought to the club on false promises that she was going to be earning big bucks as a dancer. The villains who had come to her village had shown her photos of plush night-clubs, with girls wearing exotic costumes, dancing on huge stages, surrounded by elegant diners. She had been buttered up with flattery about her youthful beauty, and her family’s poverty had been a deciding factor. She had also been told that she would be able to work in France and England, which was where she really wanted to go.
I listened to her with sympathy, but she was dry-eyed, and when I asked her about the club, she said, ‘The girls are OK, but most are Russian. I like best the Brazilians.’
‘And the customers?’ I asked.
‘Most of the men are nice – good to me,’ she said, ‘some are horrible, of course!’ She made a face. ‘But very bad is the boss, who takes nearly all our money, and wants to fuck in the morning, when we want to sleep. He is a horrible, smelly pig.’
I liked Greta, instantly, and immediately started to think of her in terms of my Mistress’s quest for a maid, without knowing whether it would be possible to snaffle her away from the club. I could see huge problems there, so I just asked her if she would like to come to England with me, without entering into any details. She was ecstatic at the suggestion. ‘I do anything, anything, to come with you, Julie,’ she said.
‘Go now,’ I told her, ‘and I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything, you understand?’
She nodded, and, looking back with a smile, went out and across the road to her night’s labours.
I set about contacting my Mistress right away. She seemed pleased to hear from me, and happy that I was enjoying my stay. When I told her about Greta, she wanted me to describe her minutely. I did my best.
‘She sounds lovely,’ said Mistress Rosa, ‘and I trust your judgement, Julie. Let me talk to Ana, and we’ll see if there’s anything we can do, eh?’
With that, she got me to transfer her to her sister, who was the only other person in the TV lounge, where the telephone was, close to me, and I heard part of their long exchange, in rapid Spanish – it went on for almost half an hour.
‘OK,’ said Ana, when she put the receiver down, ‘tomorrow, midday, we get this Greta, and we go to town, yes?’
I nodded my assent, wondering what they had planned, but knowing not to underestimate the two sisters.
Next day, Greta came in as usual, and sat apart from her workmates – also as usual. I walked past her table, and said quietly, ‘Stay behind when the other girls go.’ She looked up at me and smiled, giving a small nod of her head.
As soon as the coast was clear, the three of us got into Ana’s car and went into town, where we parked in an underground lot belonging to a modern office complex. In a few minutes we were in the fifth floor office of her lawyer, Señor Tabernas.
A slick-looking forty-something, wearing a button-down striped shirt but no tie, Tabernas was impressively bilingual, speaking to me in BBC English. He quickly pointed out that Romania was now a EU nation, and that Greta should have no trouble either in travelling to Britain, or working there. He said he would set about obtaining a passport for her immediately, in any case. The only problem he foresaw was with her existing employer, at the Club Las Flores, but he thought that a word with a friend in the Guardia Civil would soon smooth that out. Did we wish to go ahead, then?
I said yes, we did, and Tabernas suggested that Greta didn’t return to the club again, but stayed with us in the hotel. I was due to return in three days’ time, and he thought he could arrange for Greta to leave with me.
‘But my clothes?’ she asked, in the car, on the way
back.
‘We’ll get you some new ones,’ I said, without really knowing whether I could make such an offer.
She smiled back at me in a trusting way, and squeezed my hand as we drove along.
Ana suggested that Greta remain in my room, rather than show herself in the bar, for the remainder of my stay. I had agreed to share with her, as I had a double bed, and the room was quite spacious.
That evening we dined together in my room, off trays brought up by Sergio, who lingered as he opened the wine bottle, wondering, I could tell, if there was an opportunity of any kind for him. I didn’t want to discourage him too much – he was really a very attractive young guy.
Afterwards, I showered, and returned, my hair wrapped in a towel, wearing a robe, to find Greta still dressed in jeans and tee shirt, nervously drumming her fingernails on the bedside table.
‘You can take a shower, Greta, now, if you want,’ I said.
‘But I don’t have a nightdress,’ she blurted.
I laughed, and threw her one of my silk slips from a drawer. She smiled gratefully, and went into the bathroom, while I set about drying my hair.
She took her time, and when she came back, her hair was now loose – the first time I had seen her without the pony-tail – framing her small face, now devoid of make-up, but still pretty, and she was wearing the maroon silk slip, her nipples thrusting out hard against the soft material. By then, I too had changed into a slip, mine a pale blue one, and my hair was well on the way to being dry. I was sat at the dressing table.
Greta came up behind me. ‘You are very pretty, Julie,’ she said, ‘are you a model?’
‘No,’ I laughed, ‘I work for the lady you are going to work for – in a different capacity.’
I didn’t think she would understand my role as a slave, and certainly didn’t want to frighten her off. She seemed satisfied with my reply.
I took her hand in mine. ‘I hope you will be happy working for my Mistress, Greta.’
She put her other hand on my shoulder, and then stroked my hair. ‘I shall be happy to be with you, Julie,’ she said.
I put my hand around her neck and pulled her head down to me. Her mouth met mine with a hunger which took me by surprise. I was missing sex – that I couldn’t deny, it had been almost two weeks since I had slept with my Mistress – but Greta? She must have been fucked scores of times in that period. I pulled gently away.
‘You like girls?’ I asked her.
‘I like you,’ she replied, and I couldn’t help noticing that her nipples had visibly grown and hardened under her slip. I touched them and she moaned softly, throwing her head back in response.
‘I think we’d better go to bed, don’t you?’ I suggested.
‘Yes, please,’ she said, and followed me eagerly, when I climbed between the crisp white sheets. Our bodies entwined, and I let my tongue-stud play over her super-sensitive nipples, making her writhe in anticipation, before coursing down her body, over her flat stomach, pushing up the hem of her slip, finding the trim triangle of springy hair, then down to her neat, fragrant pussy, whose labia she obligingly parted with two long fingers so that I could lap the length of her slit, my stud bringing long, ecstatic sighs and moans of ecstasy from her as she mounted rapidly towards an orgasm.
I knew had the power to make her cum, and teased her, gently flicking at her clit, pulling it out from beneath its protecting hood, before licking her again, then encircling her anus with my tongue. When her breathing became shallow and rapid, and I knew she could hold off no longer, I simultaneously plunged my tongue deep into her cunt, and my forefinger as far as it would go into her arsehole. She screamed, and squirted her fluid into my face.
When her breathing recovered, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Julie!’
‘Don’t be,’ I said, ‘now it’s my turn!’
I manoeuvred around on the bed, pushing a pillow under my arse, and, grabbing the Romanian’s hair, roughly impelled her to put her head between my legs. This was no time for ceremony – I was on fire! She knew what I wanted, and her tongue and fingers soon had me close to the edge. But I needed more, and reached over to the bedside drawer, for one of the dildos I had brought. I passed the tapered ‘bulb’ model, and she started to insert it in my damp cunt.
Fay
- 30.05.2020
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