Susan Strict
Member
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Here’s something a little different from a wonderful writer, Grendel Butler. The extract below is a chapter from the book Lust, Blackmail and The Whip, published by Strict Publishing International.
I have always enjoyed bird watching and, having plenty of leisure time, I spend hours every week in the nearby woods or by the river with my binoculars and my camera. There are many woods around Much Clacking, and one is a particular favourite of mine. The parish map calls it Brickett Copse, and it stands tucked away to one side of an unsigned and overgrown footpath that few people know and virtually no one uses.
Brickett Copse is a safe, secure place, well away from roads, and there is nowhere to park within three-quarters of a mile. I am one of the very few people who knows it, and only because I have the time and the incentive to search for secret, unfrequented places. A dense barricade of gorse, low thorn, and bracken rings Brickett Copse; this is continuous and virtually impenetrable except for a single and well-hidden gap on the further side from the unmarked footpath. This dense ring of sharp foliage screens its interior, where leaf mould and nettles carpet the ground, and green, mysterious light slants down through the canopy. Thick-trunked beeches pillar skywards, and their high boughs arch over it like the gothic vaulting of a ruined cathedral.
Like all dark, secret places, it seems a fitting setting for sinister rituals and shameful deeds, a place for witches and warlocks to perform their satanic rites, an altar for sacrifices, a resort for discreet homosexuals, and a venue for everything furtive. I have loved it ever since I discovered it, and I have wished that I had something less innocent to do there than watch the larks and corncrakes, some shameful deeds to perform there and a depraved woman to share them with.
I think that was partly why I started to fancy Eleanor more than I did Caroline. I had seen her enjoy her secret sex and, like me, she was secretive. Her public persona stoutly and dishonestly denied the lonely sexual delights she enjoyed with her black dildo in the privacy of her bedroom. For her, sex was a stealthy thing to practise alone, and discovery would shame her to death. I was similar. I posed as a respectable bibliophile and seller of antiquarian books, yet my secret sadistic desires and daily masturbations would have shamed me if known. So, although we scarcely spoke, I felt that Eleanor and I were kindred spirits. But how could I approach her? How could I tell her that I knew her secret and I revelled in it, because I liked her and was like her?
One warm evening, a couple of weeks after the Spring Ball where I had tried to grab Eleanor’s bottom, I was lying under the gorse and bracken on the fringe of Brickett Copse, watching a tree creeper climb the underside of an overhanging branch. Something moved at the edge of my vision, and I rolled over to see more clearly what I assumed was a fox, a buzzard, or a muntjac. To my surprise, I saw Caroline approach along the overgrown path. Her magnificent breasts bounced rhythmically under her light jumper like two tethered marker-buoys in a sea swell. She carried a canvas bag and she was wearing black knee boots, strangely I thought, for the air was warm, the sky was cloudless, and the path was dry underfoot. What was she doing in this secret place so late in the day, for she was no bird watcher? Why come alone to Brickett Copse on a weekday evening – except to meet someone?
Naturally, I assumed she was meeting a man. As she was a free agent, I assumed that he was not. He would be a man with a blameless reputation, whose house she could not visit when his wife was away, any more than he could be seen visiting hers. I assumed that she had come enjoy a stealthy shag with him, for the leaf mould in Brickett Copse would be soft and dry, and no one would see them – except perhaps a birdwatcher. My lips twisted to a smirk and my mouth watered with anticipation. It would be frustrating to watch the voluptuous Caroline shag another man, but this time I had my camera with me and I would enjoy seeing her heavy tits bouncing as she tossed herself off on him – for some intuition told me that she would be on top.
I hunkered down, quiet and secure in my hiding place as she passed within a few feet, her big bottom swaying heavily under the folds of her thin summer skirt. She rounded the barricade of thorn and entered the spinney from the farther side. Squirming silently under the gorse, I saw her plainly, waiting under the trees in the green, dappled light, swinging her bag and kicking the leaf mould impatiently. I wondered if the man she was meeting had annoyed her in some way, for she looked angry. Perhaps she was meeting her lover for a confrontation. Then she looked back through the opening in the thorn and relaxed. She folded her arms and waited a little more patiently now, though one of her feet still twitched. I expected to see the man enter through the opening at any moment, having scrambled up through the fields from another direction, and I waited eagerly to see who he was.
But Caroline’s secret companion was no man. When the second figure appeared through the opening, my mouth fell open, for it was Eleanor.
“You’re late!†snapped Caroline, her voice throbbing with fierce unrestrained anger.
“Sorry. Sorry.†Eleanor hung her head contritely and her fingertips fiddled together. “Please don’t be cross with me.â€
Caroline’s foot twitched. “Sorry? I’ll teach you sorry. This isn’t the first time you’ve been late. Is it?â€
Eleanor stood before her, round-shouldered and trembling.
“Is it?â€
“No. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.â€
“Stop whining! Extend your hands!â€
“Oh dear!†whimpered Eleanor, extending her hands like an automaton. Her head hung limply, like a discarded marionette’s. “Oh dear!†My eyes must have bulged as I watched Caroline reach into her canvas bag and retrieve a long coil of rope with a wide leather strap attached at one end. This she wrapped tightly round Eleanor’s proffered wrists. “Please. Please don’t -â€
“Silence! I told you what would happen if you were late again, didn’t I?†Caroline said lazily, though I could hear the deep relish in her voice. “Well?†She threw the other end of the rope over an overhanging branch, and then wrapped it round a gnarled piece of root at her feet. Reaching into her bag again, she produced a metal locking device and threaded the rope through it. It was the sort of thing rock climbers use to enable a rope to be pulled one way, while preventing it from slipping back. “I said, didn’t I!â€
“Yes,†whispered Eleanor forlornly, and so quietly that I could scarcely hear her. “Yes you did, but... oh dear!â€
I have always enjoyed bird watching and, having plenty of leisure time, I spend hours every week in the nearby woods or by the river with my binoculars and my camera. There are many woods around Much Clacking, and one is a particular favourite of mine. The parish map calls it Brickett Copse, and it stands tucked away to one side of an unsigned and overgrown footpath that few people know and virtually no one uses.
Brickett Copse is a safe, secure place, well away from roads, and there is nowhere to park within three-quarters of a mile. I am one of the very few people who knows it, and only because I have the time and the incentive to search for secret, unfrequented places. A dense barricade of gorse, low thorn, and bracken rings Brickett Copse; this is continuous and virtually impenetrable except for a single and well-hidden gap on the further side from the unmarked footpath. This dense ring of sharp foliage screens its interior, where leaf mould and nettles carpet the ground, and green, mysterious light slants down through the canopy. Thick-trunked beeches pillar skywards, and their high boughs arch over it like the gothic vaulting of a ruined cathedral.
Like all dark, secret places, it seems a fitting setting for sinister rituals and shameful deeds, a place for witches and warlocks to perform their satanic rites, an altar for sacrifices, a resort for discreet homosexuals, and a venue for everything furtive. I have loved it ever since I discovered it, and I have wished that I had something less innocent to do there than watch the larks and corncrakes, some shameful deeds to perform there and a depraved woman to share them with.
I think that was partly why I started to fancy Eleanor more than I did Caroline. I had seen her enjoy her secret sex and, like me, she was secretive. Her public persona stoutly and dishonestly denied the lonely sexual delights she enjoyed with her black dildo in the privacy of her bedroom. For her, sex was a stealthy thing to practise alone, and discovery would shame her to death. I was similar. I posed as a respectable bibliophile and seller of antiquarian books, yet my secret sadistic desires and daily masturbations would have shamed me if known. So, although we scarcely spoke, I felt that Eleanor and I were kindred spirits. But how could I approach her? How could I tell her that I knew her secret and I revelled in it, because I liked her and was like her?
One warm evening, a couple of weeks after the Spring Ball where I had tried to grab Eleanor’s bottom, I was lying under the gorse and bracken on the fringe of Brickett Copse, watching a tree creeper climb the underside of an overhanging branch. Something moved at the edge of my vision, and I rolled over to see more clearly what I assumed was a fox, a buzzard, or a muntjac. To my surprise, I saw Caroline approach along the overgrown path. Her magnificent breasts bounced rhythmically under her light jumper like two tethered marker-buoys in a sea swell. She carried a canvas bag and she was wearing black knee boots, strangely I thought, for the air was warm, the sky was cloudless, and the path was dry underfoot. What was she doing in this secret place so late in the day, for she was no bird watcher? Why come alone to Brickett Copse on a weekday evening – except to meet someone?
Naturally, I assumed she was meeting a man. As she was a free agent, I assumed that he was not. He would be a man with a blameless reputation, whose house she could not visit when his wife was away, any more than he could be seen visiting hers. I assumed that she had come enjoy a stealthy shag with him, for the leaf mould in Brickett Copse would be soft and dry, and no one would see them – except perhaps a birdwatcher. My lips twisted to a smirk and my mouth watered with anticipation. It would be frustrating to watch the voluptuous Caroline shag another man, but this time I had my camera with me and I would enjoy seeing her heavy tits bouncing as she tossed herself off on him – for some intuition told me that she would be on top.
I hunkered down, quiet and secure in my hiding place as she passed within a few feet, her big bottom swaying heavily under the folds of her thin summer skirt. She rounded the barricade of thorn and entered the spinney from the farther side. Squirming silently under the gorse, I saw her plainly, waiting under the trees in the green, dappled light, swinging her bag and kicking the leaf mould impatiently. I wondered if the man she was meeting had annoyed her in some way, for she looked angry. Perhaps she was meeting her lover for a confrontation. Then she looked back through the opening in the thorn and relaxed. She folded her arms and waited a little more patiently now, though one of her feet still twitched. I expected to see the man enter through the opening at any moment, having scrambled up through the fields from another direction, and I waited eagerly to see who he was.
But Caroline’s secret companion was no man. When the second figure appeared through the opening, my mouth fell open, for it was Eleanor.
“You’re late!†snapped Caroline, her voice throbbing with fierce unrestrained anger.
“Sorry. Sorry.†Eleanor hung her head contritely and her fingertips fiddled together. “Please don’t be cross with me.â€
Caroline’s foot twitched. “Sorry? I’ll teach you sorry. This isn’t the first time you’ve been late. Is it?â€
Eleanor stood before her, round-shouldered and trembling.
“Is it?â€
“No. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.â€
“Stop whining! Extend your hands!â€
“Oh dear!†whimpered Eleanor, extending her hands like an automaton. Her head hung limply, like a discarded marionette’s. “Oh dear!†My eyes must have bulged as I watched Caroline reach into her canvas bag and retrieve a long coil of rope with a wide leather strap attached at one end. This she wrapped tightly round Eleanor’s proffered wrists. “Please. Please don’t -â€
“Silence! I told you what would happen if you were late again, didn’t I?†Caroline said lazily, though I could hear the deep relish in her voice. “Well?†She threw the other end of the rope over an overhanging branch, and then wrapped it round a gnarled piece of root at her feet. Reaching into her bag again, she produced a metal locking device and threaded the rope through it. It was the sort of thing rock climbers use to enable a rope to be pulled one way, while preventing it from slipping back. “I said, didn’t I!â€
“Yes,†whispered Eleanor forlornly, and so quietly that I could scarcely hear her. “Yes you did, but... oh dear!â€
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