The Confessions Collection

At least, usually I did. On this occasion, I was moving along the front of the building admiring the brass rubbings and the bookcases full of paper-backs when I saw something that made my blood turn colder than an Eskimo’s chuff.

In this room there was a naked woman tied up on the floor. Not just tied up, but with so much cord round her it looked as if someone had used her to roll up a piece of string. If she had problems they didn’t end there. There was another bird wearing a thigh length black slip and a very determined expression, lashing her with a riding crop. Now you’ve got to admit that that’s a sight you don’t see every day of the week. Talk about “Kinky Kats on the Rampage”. It made Wardour Street seem like Cheltenham Spa on a wet Monday.

At first I didn’t see it. Call me naive if you like or Flossy if it gives you real pleasure – but I thought that the bird on the floor was being attacked by the other one. My basic, decent British reaction was one of outrage, so I banged hard on the window.

Neither of the bints had seen me and the one with the whip looks up and claps her hands to her tits in a gesture of upper class shock a bit at odds with the cold blooded thrashing she’d just been dishing out. Before I got any further let me say at once that she is a very good looking bird. Black gypsy ringlets coiling down around alabaster shoulders – you know all that crap – big long-lashed brown eyes, tits like pomegranates – in fact she’s like the birds on those Schweppervesence show cards I used to knock off from the local boozer. She’s panting a bit and her complexion would make Mr. Yardley cream his jeans in envy. Even before I notice the small watercolours in the thin gilt frames and the chaise longue I realise I am in the presence of a lady.

“Good gracious” she says, opening the window, “you gave me a start.”

“You don’t look as if you need one,” I say, immediately proving to her what a laugh I am. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“I was trying to give Amanda an orgasm,” she says, matter-of-factly. “It rather looks as if it’s gone by the board now, doesn’t it?”

I have to agree with her because Amanda who I recall as being rigid with effort is now all relaxed and bulging against her bonds like a rolled sirloin. She is a large girl and you wouldn’t find many people outside that African tribe that goes in for fattening up its women till they look like hippos, that would disagree with me.

“Amanda loves being beaten,” goes on the dark-haired bird. “It’s about the only thing she does like. It was awfully lucky we found out. You see Sebastian, that’s her husband, got rather squiffy one night and suddenly started flailing away at her. We were all absolutely horrified and poor ’Basters was really distraught when he sobered up. But what makes it so terribly amusing is that Amanda absolutely adored it and nearly came on the spot. Never been near it before, had you darling? – Oh I am sorry, you haven’t been introduced. Amanda this is – what is your name?”

“Timothy Lea.”

“Timothy Lea – Amanda Browne, with an e.” Amanda Browne grunts a greeting. She really is a very plain girl and the weal marks don’t help.

“And my name is Rachel Devroon, though everybody calls me Sandy because I don’t have red hair. Yes, well, wasn’t it lucky about Amanda finding out what she really liked.”

This bird is obviously nutty as a fruit cake, but she is very cool. I have to admit that.

“So Amanda’s old man keeps her happy by bashing her up. Nothing unusual about that, it happens all the time round here.”

“If you’re going to do anything, for God’s sake do it,” says Amanda, peevishly, “I’m beginning to get cramp. And do shut that bloody window.”

“Sorry Pet,” says Sandy hopping across the room so her boobs bounce up and down like twins in a rubber baby carriage, “we must get everything right for you.”

Sandy’s thighs are the smoothest way to introduce a leg to an arse I’ve ever seen and when she bends down I can practically hear my mince pies grinding between them, like skinned golf balls. She’s bloody lucky she isn’t tied up on the floor.

“You don’t understand darling,” she says to me, “Amanda doesn’t really get on with ’Basters. Oh, he’s very sweet but he’s a bit draggy at the same time – very ‘where’s my Financial Times?’ – you know? So I find her the most dishy spade who bashes her all over the place.”

“So everybody is happy.” I say.

“No. Racialism rears it’s ugly head. Amanda tries very hard but deep down inside she’s got a thing about coloured men – her grandfather had a tobacco farm in Rhodesia or something, so that doesn’t work either. Spitsville isn’t it?”

“Very,” I say, “So what were you doing just now?”

“Well, Amanda feels that because it just doesn’t seem to work with fellahs, she may be a lesbian and we were just seeing if I could do anything. You were quite enjoying it, weren’t you, sweet?”

“Quite,” says Amanda seriously, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to come. Especially now.”

I suppose I should be feeling guilty but I’m so amazed by what is going on that I can hardly feel anything except a desire to get Sandy’s drawers down. What with the whips and the tying up, it is getting a bit sexy.

“Well, I’m adoring it,” says Sandy, “I can quite see why those awful old harridans were always hanging around the dorms after lights out. Thrashing someone is absolute bliss.” She shudders with excitement and suddenly runs her hand up the front of my trousers where, surprise, surprise, there is someone wanting to greet it. “Oh, super,” she says, “Do you want to join in?”

“Well—”

“Tell you what. You start beating her.” She hands me the crop and has pulled the slip over her head before you can say National Health Service. Her tits are really something and her half cup bra deserves an award for service beyond the call of duty. Never was so much supported by so little. She whips it off and I feel like bursting into applause – or through the front of my Y-fronts.

“Go on, she loves it.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Try.”

“I can’t—”

“Poor darling.”

But she’s not talking to me. She drops on her knees and starts necking with the bird and fondling her breasts. There must be something wrong with me because I find it the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I tear my clothes off and I hate them for every second they stay on my body. Then I’m lying down there chewing Sandy’s neck and peeling her tights off and she’s groaning and all three of us are squirming like electric eels. Amanda wants Sandy and is crying out for her to beat her, and I want Sandy and I’m not tied-up, and I win. I hurl the crop to the other side of the room and unravel Sandy like a piece of rolled up paper till I can pin her down and get above her lovely flat stomach and feel her legs hook round mine and her finger nails sink into my back.

“I’m going to put my mark on you,” she hisses and she clings to me like she wants to suck every ounce of blood, flesh and guts out of me. It must be quite a way to go but I want to do this again so I rev my motor and we’re generating enough power to light up Piccadilly Circus for a month. But not for long though. No force on earth can withstand Miss Rachel (Sandy) Devroon when she shudders into her final gyration and I feel like a piece of fluff hovering at the mouth of a suction cleaner.

“Shit!” she screams, “oh shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!!”

(I may have missed out a few ‘shits’ but that’s the gist of it) and away we go. Eight hundred doors banging, Chaik’s 1812 being performed in your left earhole, upside down on a roller coaster – it does you more good than a cup of Bovril any day of the week I can tell you.

After that lot I’m spent and sucking in mouthfulls of carpet pile but Sandy is made of sterner stuff.

“Super fuck,” she says cheerfully, “Now it’s Amanda’s turn.”

Not with me it isn’t, I vow to myself. Even Raquel Welch would have to wait a few minutes, and with Amanda it might stretch into years. But I don’t have to worry. Sandy wriggles out from underneath me and in a few seconds I hear the contented sounds of her wielding the riding crop. It seems to be a wild success because Amanda is hollering fit to bust and Sandy is cheering her on like a Derby winner. What a performance. You wouldn’t credit it unless you were in the front row of the dress circle.

Well, all good things must come to an end and Sandy unties Amanda and starts rubbing cold cream into her back. The poor old bag really needs it too, but she isn’t complaining.

“That was super,” she says, “Absolutely super. I found it so sexy watching you, I nearly came by myself.”

“But darling, you remember that orgy we had at Tarquins, it didn’t do a thing for you.”

“I know, but it was all so contrived. I mean, when you go through the door and start talking to people about the weather and know that in a few minutes you are all going to take your clothes off. I find that terribly inhibiting. I’m worrying about coming out in a red flush or something. But this was so unexpected, so natural, it was beautiful.” Her eyes suddenly widened, “I say, it was chance wasn’t it, you didn’t lay it on for me?”

“Heavens no, luvie, I know Timmy looks very professional,” Sandy runs her fingers down my chest, and then on a bit, “but he’s just doing it for the love of it like the rest of us. Aren’t you pet”

“Would you like a drink?”

I say yes to both questions and get a tumbler half full of scotch which can’t be bad. Sandy comes down and sits on the floor next to me and already I’m beginning to feel I could be there again. She is a good example of what I said about upper class birds taking their clothes off at the drop of a hint. I can’t imagine Rosie fixing you a drink in the all together. I don’t mind it when I’m having it away but it seems a bit strange sitting around starkers with a scotch in your hand and I reach out for my shirt.

“Don’t do that,” says Sandy, “you’ve got a super body and I like looking at it.” She takes the shirt between finger and thumb and drops it over her shoulder.

“I think you’re bloody fantastic,” I say, and I mean it.

“I think I’d better go,” Amanda drags herself to her feet. “Can I have a bath?”

“Yes, of course, but why didn’t you have one before I put the cream on you?”

“I didn’t want one then,” Amanda goes out showing you that from behind she looks like two shetland ponies on the job.

“I’m thrilled about this,” says Sandy.

“What, about her being satisfied?”

“Yes, you don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“Well what a way to come. Being beaten till your back is like a corrugated iron roof. I’d rather do without, myself.”

“I bet you wouldn’t. That girl couldn’t even give herself an orgasm by masturbating until today. Every woman is entitled to an orgasm and if a man can’t give it to her, she has a perfect right to get one by any means she can.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts,” Sandy obviously feels strongly about this, “women are fed a lot of twaddle about how marvellous sex is and when it isn’t they feel let down. Some of them don’t even know whether they’ve had an orgasm or not. They get worried. They think it’s their fault. Men don’t have any trouble having orgasms, why should women?”

“They’re built differently,” I say helpfully.

“You’re damn right they are. Sexual discrimination starts right here in our bodies. Whoever designed us would put the handle on a door so you couldn’t reach it standing on tip toe. And men don’t help with the old ‘thank you dear, that was very nice, now let me go to sleep, I’ve got a busy day at the office tomorrow,’ mentality.”

“You don’t seem to have any problems.”

“That’s not the point. I’ve liberated myself. I’m one of the lucky ones. I want to help people like Amanda who have resigned themselves to having rotten sex lives.”

“By beating them?”

“By doing anything to them that doesn’t offend either one of us and stands a chance of giving them what they have a right to. Surely you must believe that anything people do when they’re having sex is O.K. as long as they both want to do it?”

“Yes – but?”

“—There you go ‘butting’ again. I think you’re a hypocrite. You got jolly sexed up when you were watching me and Amanda didn’t you? You found that dirty, or kinky, or whatever you like to call it – and because of that it gave you a sexual appetite. Now you didn’t feel guilty about that, did you? You just responded to a certain stimulus and got satisfaction from it. Can’t you see that that’s what I’m trying to make happen with Amanda? I want to find something that turns her on. They give mental patients electric shocks, don’t they?”

I can’t follow everything she’s trying to say but I agree with a lot of it. She certainly comes across as being sincere and the way she talks to me I might be Malcolm Muggeridge instead of a window cleaner. In short, I’m impressed. She’s so direct she’s like a man, but I find I can accept that.

“I take it from your silence that you’re in total agreement with what I say?”

“I was just thinking that I’d never seen a woman with turned up nipples before,” I says.

“They’re retroussé and recherché,” she says, and because she knows I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about and wishes she hadn’t said it she leans forward and puts her hand between my legs and kisses me on the neck.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she says.

“I hope so.” Down in the forest something is stirring and I take one of those delicious nipples between finger and thumb and give it a friendly squeeze until it feels like a hot bullet.

“This time very gentle please,” she says, so we nibble each others lips for a few minutes before I flip her over onto her back and she flicks her legs up against my shoulders.

“Goodbye cock,” I say as I watch it disappear.

“Remember, darling,” she says, “you’re not losing a cock, you’re gaining a vagina.”

She’s funny, see, and you don’t meet many birds with a sense of humour.

They’re very much worth having.

Take my word for it.

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