The Young Wife (9 page)

‘Fuck, you have a lovely little cunt,' said Anne, unable to maintain the silent ritual. I said nothing, and turned my face even further to the wall. I heard the rustling of a package being opened, and she laid the contents on the floor between my gaping thighs.

‘This will sting a lot,' she said, and still I did not answer, for there was nothing to say. I wanted it to be smooth and neat, like hers. Bare and open to all who wanted to see it. I felt her lay the first strips along the edges of my bush, and my perineum tensed and pulsed in expectation. I felt the blood settling in my hips, and the edge of the carpet pressing against my bare back. She stripped the swathes of the waxing strips cruelly away, and I hitched my breath. My tits bobbed about like blancmanges, but I said not a word, even as she laid, and stripped, the next, and the next. My bottom-hole was the tenderest, and she spent long moments rubbing ointment into the outraged, crinkling skin around the little mouth. I traced it with a finger, all around the lips and rubbery seam, in fascination with my power to withstand the discomfort for this effect.

When we moved to the bedroom, I wanted to get into Anne's bed with her and sleep, but she was having none of it.

‘It's just the bath,' she said, when I explained my mood. ‘It always makes people lazy. You'll be fine once you get dressed, and made up.'

‘I hope this place is worth it, Anne. I can't see why we have to go out at all. I would rather stay here and –' I smiled coyly at her before continuing ‘– play with you.'

I was lying naked on her bed, and I trailed a limp hand across the flat, creamy plain of my lower belly to illustrate my meaning.

‘There will be plenty of time for that later,' she retorted, as she ran her nimble brown fingers through the coppery bob of hair that framed her elfin face. ‘I have some things for you to wear tonight, as it's a special place and I don't think you are likely to have anything suitable,' she continued. She had put on a pair of beautiful lacy knickers, and I studied them closely as she flicked through the hangers in her wardrobe. They had the main form of a thong, in solid black silk, but her cheeks were covered by elastic lace that flowed out from the black seam. It clung to her firmness, her fleshiness, like it had been painted on to the tanned skin, so it rippled where she rippled, and bulged where she bulged. I loved the way the black seemed to flow between her legs, from high on her hips to disappear into the cleft at front and back. She turned, and laid a plastic-covered outfit on the bed. I guessed immediately what it was, from the tie that lay like a ribbon over the crisp white of a school blouse.

‘Back to school for me or you, Anne?' I enquired archly.

‘You are the youngest, so I think it's only fair that you wear that, and I will wear this,' she replied, and turned to triumphantly display something that looked rather like a single, if very large stocking. I was expecting her to put on a bra, but she merely slipped it off its hanger, and wriggled herself into it. I watched her nipples rise and fall with the stretching of her small breasts when she raised her arms. They showed clearly through the gauzy material as she stretched, and pulled it into place over her ribs. I enjoyed the saucy way she rolled it over her squirming, mincing buttocks, and bent to tug it to mid-calf.

‘What next? High heels?' I asked, and she stooped into the depths of the wardrobe to haul out an ungainly looking pair of heavy motorcycle boots.

‘No!' I exclaimed, but she, ignoring me, slipped her dainty feet into them with a great show of unconcern.

‘This isn't fashion,' she muttered, as she twisted to admire herself in the mirror. ‘It's theatre!'

I had to admit she looked stunning, in a quirky sort of way. Every beautiful line of her muscular body flexed with exaggerated clarity under the see-through mesh. No detail of the lovely lace trim over her cheeks was lost, and the shadowed patch over her mound was even more intriguing for being less in view.

‘Come on, you are the one with the school fantasy, so get into that uniform, Miss Farnham, before I smack your cheeky little bottom.' she scolded, with a very sexy scowl.

‘If only you meant it,' I sighed, and forced myself up to dress. Anne sat, and impassively smoked an odd-smelling French cigarette, while she watched me dress. She rocked one heavy boot back and forth, while humming to herself and smiling a secretive, foxy smile. I had never seen anyone, man or woman, look so alive in my life. I didn't realise then that I looked like that, too. It was only happiness. Complete, delirious happiness.

When I was ready, I gave her a little bit of theatre to amuse her. The skirt into which I tucked the crisp edges of the starchy white blouse, was ridiculously short, and the broad flare of my upper thighs stretched the pleated edges, so that they opened like a concertina when I walked. The lower edge flipped around the tops of the delicate yellow stockings that were held by ribbons to the plump upper swelling of my firm legs. I loved the feeling of bare skin above and constriction below the pretty ribbon bows. An inch of creamy thigh was visible when I stood, and the black patent shoes, with their impossibly high heels, made me tilt a little forwards so that even more of my pale, plump thigh showed at the back. I could feel the skirt flapping air around the lower creases of my bottom-cheeks when I walked, and the white silky pants that Anne had handed to me crept into the deep, smooth cleft of my bottom with every stride. I put my hands on my stockinged knees, with my back to Anne, and looked over my shoulder at her. She grinned in cool amusement, for I had to peep out from under the straw boater which kept my piled-up hair in place. A few stray wisps floated around my ears, and they flicked away from my breath when I spoke.

‘If I am good, will you smack me?' I asked, in a husky little-girl-lost voice, and then rolled my bottom in little tarty arcs of plump bottom-flesh.

‘Yes, and if you're really good, I'll stick my finger up your arse,' snorted Anne, through the giggles that convulsed both of us.

We both wore long coats when we left her house, but this time I was a passenger in her car. She drove with the same kind of careless self-assurance that she did everything else with. No undue hesitation, and no small talk. We were at the door of her club in twenty minutes, during which time I had coughed and spluttered my way through one of her odd-smelling cigarettes.

It made me feel a little woozy as we stepped up to the sheet steel that covered the door of the club. My reflection swelled and ebbed in the scratchy, shiny surface of the metal. Anne's reflection was a black blob that seemed to pulse with the low bass thud that vibrated from the other side of the door. I didn't notice Anne pressing any doorbell, but suddenly there was light, and smoke, and heat everywhere. I tripped forwards on her arm, and let her lead me to the cloakroom. My head swirled, and she tugged my coat off me in such a way as to steady me as well as disrobe me.

We pushed our way to the bar. Well, Anne pushed, and I flowed after her, and I smelt the overwhelming scent of warm, clean, perfumed bodies. Female bodies.

There were women everywhere, dancing with each other, kissing, posing by the walls, sitting in each other's laps. There were women in cages that hung from a railing in the ceiling. Muscular, young women who flexed and preened, and strutted in body-paint and feathered headbands. Exotic birds who seemed, at first glance, to be utterly naked. Then I realised that the paint had been extended to disguise the little thongs that split their bulging, squirming cheeks. There was every kind of costume that the perverse could imagine, and the skilful could contrive. A paradise of kinky archetypes that pulsed with breasts, bare and sheathed in plastic, buttocks, oiled or sheened in vinyl, hips, glittering with moondust or wet with sweat.

I saw witches with chains swinging in the hollows between their breasts. Sweet, crop-headed slaves led around on leashes, by bitches with exploded, fantastical hair. I saw gladiators with bare buttocks flashing under the swirling leather straps of their kilts. Women heaving up and down, to the throbbing beat, that strobed and vibrated in my chest. I felt a cold bottle being pressed into my hand, and I rolled it against my forehead before I drank. I placed the rim between my lips and poured the pleasant, bitter fluid down my throat. How long we danced and drank, I don't know, but my head was buzzing so hard that I didn't realise the music had stopped for some seconds, and I danced madly to a beat that only I heard, until Anne wrestled me to a halt.

In the utter silence that followed I heard a few of the girls near me laugh, but there was no unkindness in their voices. They knew where I had been, and they must have liked the sight of the crazy, delinquent schoolgirl swinging her hips and bottom to the beat of some imaginary drum.

I cradled my head into Anne's shoulder, and felt her groping my sweaty buttocks under the pleated hem of my skirt.

‘Sisters, take your seats!' boomed a sharp, female voice from the speakers.

I looked up, bewildered, but I let myself be led away from the dance floor, to a table in the corner of the room. Anne was kissing me, and I stuck my tongue aggressively into her mouth. I licked her teeth, and coiled my tongue around her wet, warm mouth, until it rasped cleanly against her own tongue, and I could taste her tasting me. I wanted her to rub my cunt, and finger me, there in the club in front of everyone. My blood was up, and the excitement in the air had made me wild.

We peeled our heads away from each other, and turned to see what everyone was looking at. My heart leaped into my throat when I saw what had been wheeled into the centre of the dancefloor. I realised at once that it was a person, but it took me some moments of squinting to get my eyes to accept what they were seeing. It was a girl, in her late teens, or early twenties, and she kneeled on a low wheeled platform that had been rolled on to the floor. It spun, slowly, in a looping, circular fashion that revealed the girl's posture from every angle. She was secured, by some form of head harness, to a post in the centre of the platform, and the post had, in its turn, some form of projection extending out of its top at the level of the girl's head. The projection was thick, black, and shaped like the shaft of a penis up to where it entered the girl's mouth. Her lips were stretched wide around the shiny plastic, and I wondered idly whether it had a knob-shaped end. The girl's face circled slowly out of view, before I could tell if the ripples on her cheeks were from trying to breathe, or whether she was sucking on the glossy, black shaft.

The rest of her body was covered, with a kind of wet-look rubber sheet that was opaque enough to hide the detail of her form, without obscuring the high points of her posture. It was clear that her hands were tied together at her wrists, and secured in the small of her back, but I couldn't make out how before she had turned a little further, until the upraised peach of her bottom's outline hid her hands from view. There was utter silence as she turned, side on, front view, side on, rear view, and each time I comprehended a little more of how she was secured. The imitation cock, that stretched her lips so wide, was set just low enough to make her have to stoop to it, while the position of her knees forced her to arch her back, and present her shiny, plastic-sheathed bottom at an uncomfortably high angle. The outline of her breasts showed dimly through the cape that covered her, and I thought I saw them shuddering when she breathed, but the turn was too definite to allow much time for certainty. As the platform slowed its graceful circling, the first faint strains of a buzzing guitar began to fade into a low beat that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. The music sounded like a curiously melodic chainsaw, set to the slow sonorous beat of a slave galley. It sounded like a fly behind glass, or a radio tuned between stations. It was creepy, but hypnotic, and the lights turned to blue-white points of frosty white when it reached its highest volume.

A woman stepped into the lights from among the pale blobs of faces that shimmered on the opposite side of the room. She was swaying eerily, in time to the buzzing, awkward tune that pulsed around me. She wore black plastic shorts, so small that their edges were drawn on her skin like wire pulled into the rich, glossy flesh, and a vest, of the same material, that emphasised the bunched and muscular power of her shoulders. She had a bodybuilder's tan, and an immense musculature to match. Her biceps bulged with the slightest curling of her arm, and the ropy mass of her thighs rippled like a bag of snakes when she moved her legs even an inch. Her back was broad, with the spine lost in the deep shadow cast by the sinew and muscle either side. The cheeks of her bottom were so round and massive that the tiny shorts were bunched like silk at the top of her cheeks. I could not take my eyes away from the extraordinary sight. Her feet were encased in knee-high boots, with wedged soles that must have been easily two inches high at the toe, and three at least at the heel. They had bits of silver metal dotted in strategic places like the front of the toe-cap, and the leather laces zig-zagged across the eyelets that ran all the way up to her knees.

There was a similar piece of metal glinting at her crotch, and I thought at first that it was a badge of some kind, like the one she had on her military-style, high-peaked leather cap. Her hair, or what we could see of it, was cropped short and dyed a neon blonde, though a lock of longer hair peeked out from under the shiny rim of her hat. She had black leather gloves, with the fingers cut away, and a short silver truncheon in each hand. They made me queasy with excitement.

Her antics were a parody of the kind of strutting disco that was popular in the seventies, camped up until it was almost comic. Almost.

It was impossible to find anything funny about that enormous, powerful frame as it capered about, flexing and straining against the tiny scraps of plastic that covered it. She curled her electric-red lips into an exquisite sneer, and pumped the flat slabs of muscle in her hips until they stood out like the contours of a cliff-face. I watched the swelling cheeks of her bottom bunch so tight that the skin glowed white under her tan, and ached to touch the great slabs of quivering muscle with my tongue. She made you want to lick the sweat off her thighs, or from the deep cleft of her behind. She struck a pose like a matador, and clicked one metal truncheon into place. It jutted out from her shorts in exactly the same position as a penis. Then she slid the other in above it, so that they flashed, one above the other, in time to the crude jerking of her loins. She advanced towards the platform girl, whose rear projected up so fiercely, and grasped the lower edge of the cape that hid her from our view. Someone started clapping to the beat, then we all joined in as she hauled the covering, inch by inch, over the helpless girl's shoulder, down over her bent back, her high and meaty hips, until all that had been hidden was exposed, and the crowd stopped clapping.