The week passed slowly.  I made the adjustments I’d talked to her about and a few more.  I went to my framer and had it put in a frame I thought would work well in her house, hoping she’d feel the same.

On the Friday morning, I spent a good while getting ready and left home about 12, knowing I’d get to her around 12.45.  I’d chosen a simple dress, pale yellow, with matching silk knickers under and rope-soled sandals.  The weather was still warm, that lovely early August warmth that lasts into the middle of the evening.

I followed the uneven drive up to the front of the house, turned off the engine, and grabbed my bag off the back seat before ringing the doorbell.  It was a few moments before the door opened and there she was, Harriet Singer, a pair of black trousers, beautifully high cut with a white, sleeveless shirt.  We kissed on the doorstep and then she led me indoors.

We chatted for a few moments before she asked me if I’d remembered the portrait.  I did a mock, “Oh God,” but she wasn’t falling for that and I went back out to get it and my easel.  With a little ceremony, I placed the covered canvas on the easel then adjusted its position in the light from the orangery windows and uncovered it.  I anticipated her arm across my shoulder and it quickly was.  She said nothing and I swear my heart was in my mouth.

“It’s simply wonderful.  Thank you.  I couldn’t have hoped for more.”

Relief.

“The frame is perfect too.  Now we will have to decide where to hang it.”

“Maybe in the hall?”

“And take down the one of us?  I’d miss it.”  She had a broad smile on her face.  “We’ll wander around the house together and decide over the weekend.  Just now, though, I want you to come down to my wine cellar.”

She led me down a flight of steps and opened a door at their end.  It led us into a rather small, cosy room with high windows that were obviously at ground level.  It was clean and tidy, with tapestry hangings, a large, floor to ceiling mirror, and low lighting.

“No wine?”

“This isn’t the wine cellar, this is the ante-room.  Stick with me.”   She placed her hand in the small of my back.  Why does that always feel so good?  Another door and we were in the cellar, this was dark, save for a small, dim light she’d turned on as we entered.  There were racks and racks of dusty bottles.  “My father was a collector.  He left the lot to me and I’ve added a few.  He also collected whisky.  Do you like whisky?”  I said that I did.  “Then we’ll select a bottle.”  The whisky was at one side of the large cellar, about two hundred bottles from what I could guess.

She selected a bottle.  “My Dad said this one was a good investment.  We’ll take it up with us and crack it this evening.  What do you think of the cellar?”

“It’s incredible.  It’s like something from a wine tour in France.”

We went back into the ante-room and she placed the bottle carefully, almost reverently on a small table in a corner. For the first time, I noticed a chair, oddly positioned, facing the wall and tight against it.  It was an old leather armchair with a fairly low back.

She saw I'd noticed.  “I’m not one for so-called dungeons, Lauren.  They always seem so false and like a set for a silly porn film.  I like to have my fun simple.  Come and stand with me.”

She positioned me so my stomach was against the chair-back, her arm once more across my shoulders.  She pointed to a pair of metal rings on the wall, and two more, lower, around the level of the chair’s arms.

“They were, I imagine, for securing things, and well, they still are. Hold the top two.”

In order to hold them, I had to bend slightly over the back of the chair.

“Now, hold the lower pair.”

I got the idea then.  Holding the lower rings, I was forced to bend even further, my weight held on the soft, padded leather.

Her hand went under my dress and she patted my arse.  “Go back to the higher pair.”  I straightened up and held them.  “With you like this, your back and arse are positioned perfectly for a whipping, don’t you think?  Whereas, with the lower ones, your arse is offered for a cane.  Or, of course, my strappy.  Both, if I feel like it.  Stand back up.”

She led me to a cupboard and opened it to reveal a selection of the sorts of implements that make a sub’s heart sing and her bowels turn to water.  Pain is pain and masochists feel it just like anyone else does.  It’s just that, for the masochist, if it’s administered in the right way, it takes them to their space.  If the dominant accompanies them to that space, well, that’s the symbiosis of pain.

“Do you have a favourite?”

“I have a few.  This whip is the one I left on your bed; accidentally, obviously.”  She was grinning.  “I wanted to see your reaction.  This cane here is a cutter in the wrong hands, and I don’t think I want to damage your skin,” she paused, “a lot, anyway.  This one is memorable.”  She lifted out a thin, straight cane and caressed it lovingly.  “I particularly like this one for the sensitive areas.  Lift your dress.” 

I hitched it up.  She ran her hand up my inner thigh.  “Just here.”  ‘Just here,’ was about four inches below my crotch.  “It’s so, so sensitive there.  And after a couple of kisses from this beauty, that sensitivity increases so very much.  And it leaves it sensitive, so that the next day, you’ll see this and dread it.  Isn’t that exciting?”  The question was clearly not intended to be answered.  “This,” she said, lifting a short leather tawse, “is one of my favourites.  I can take it anywhere, a great travelling companion.  You can let you dress down now.”

I’d completely forgotten I was holding it up!

Harriet turned and faced me.  “I like it down here.  It’s an intimate space and I wanted it to be comfortable.”  She stepped back from me and looked at me.  “Does it frighten you?”

I thought about this for a moment.  “Yes, it scares me.”

“Tell me why.”

“Because I have so much to learn about you.  So much trust is involved when things like whips and canes get involved.”

She nodded.  “Don’t you feel you can trust me?

“I absolutely do feel that, but there is always a risk, don’t you agree?”

“For both of us.  Imagine if you were to sell your story to the papers.  Or if bruised, you went to the police.”

“Yes, I see that.  I haven’t been hurt for a while as you know.  And, no matter what anyone says, it does hurt, even a masochist.  And there is always the fear of not being enough, letting you down, disappointing you.”

“Go back to the chair and hold the lower rings.”

I said nothing but returned to the chair, bent, and held the lower pair of rings.  She followed me and, with two black, silk scarves, secured my wrists to the rings.  It felt more like a token restraint since I knew I could get my hands free relatively easily.

“If you want me to stop, simply say so, understood?”

“Yes, Harriet.”

She squatted beside me to speak quietly in my ear.  “If you don’t ask to stop, I will decide when to.  If you don’t feel it’s been enough, hard luck.  I have to be responsible, and I take that responsibility seriously.  Don’t be stupidly brave.  You have to give me time to understand you.”  Her hand caressed my back over my dress.  Standing, she moved behind me and ran her hands up my legs.

“Keep your feet apart the width of the chair.”  I shuffled them apart.  She lifted my dress and folded it over my back.  “Lovely knickers.”

“Thank you.”

“I do love it that you seem to have made an effort.  The painting is wonderful.  To wear beautiful knickers like these says, to my mind, you hoped they’d be seen.  They look too expensive to risk them, so we’ll have the out of the way.”  With that, she pulled them slowly down until my legs stopped them from going further.  Thinking that she wanted them off I shuffled my feet back together but learned, from a swift slap on my thigh, that that was not her intention.  “They look so good at half mast.  And your arse looks good, like you’re offering it to me.”

I looked over my shoulder.  “I am, Harriet.”
She walked away and returned with another scarf which she tied quite tightly around my eyes.  “Is that ok?”

“Yes, Harriet.”

“I will often ask you that.  Be honest, totally honest.  I will always be honest with you.  Asking me to stop isn’t the same as saying you don’t want to be with me, it’s about needing to adjust.  Take your time.”  Her words were reassuring, just as the way she’d positioned me made my nerves jangle with anticipation:  dread, want, need.

As she spoke, I heard noises that I tried to interpret.  I couldn’t decide if she was undressing or selecting an implement from her cupboard but I knew she’d taken her shoes off, the sound of her movements had changed to a padding noise.

Her finger stroked my lips and entered my mouth.  As that happened, so her other hand ran over my arse and a finger stroked my cunt.  “Wet!  Fear and arousal.  How perfect.”  Her finger slid into me.  “It’s like you’re making me welcome.”  That wet finger slithered up and circled my arse.  Then I felt the pressure of it, pushing against my muscle and, as I made myself relax, it pushed in, making me stretch a little.  “Hmm.  This needs a little encouragement.”  Suddenly she was gone.  I listened intently, trying to understand what was happening for what seemed like an age.  Then I felt a cold probe, slippery at my arse and it pushed in.  Then I felt my arse being filled with something, a jelly, a lubricant, whatever.  The tip of her strappy felt huge against my arse.

“Breathe deeply, this will stretch  you, hurt a little but not for long.”

Achingly slowly she pressed against me and she was right.  It hurt, enough to make me groan as the tip pushed and opened me, my muscle not used to anything for such a long time.  She held it there, motionless, the end of it holding me open, and then she began to rock a little, forward and back and my arse began to relax.  Gripping the scarves that held my wrists, I tried to let my mind float, to enjoy what was happening, and little by little, as she pressed home her invasion, I did relax and began to feel that almost-forgotten pleasure.

I pushed back and she said, “Good girl.”  Eventually, I felt her harness against my buttocks and she stopped again, deep inside me, and stayed there.  The rocking started again, slow, her hips reversing then advancing, her pace increasing.  I jumped when she gave my arse a serious slap and I swear I heard her chuckle.  One, two, three more thrusts then another, harder slap on the other cheek and so it continued, her fucking me punctuated with sharp slaps of her hand that made me buck.

She pulled it almost out and stayed there, the widest part of it holding me open.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, Harriet, perfectly ok thank you.”
I was thrown forward as she drove into me, hard and fast.  She was rough now, more slaps, some pulling of my hair that made me squeal and then, once again, she stopped, the end of her dildo at my entrance.  And then it was gone!  I felt wide open, and slightly desolate to have lost it.  But then, her finger was in my cunt, two fingers and she was finger fucking me and I was moaning, almost ready to cum.  But then, she was gone again.

Not for long.  I heard it, that cutting of the air and the hideous sting as one of her canes striped me, harder, it seemed, than I’d ever felt it.  I waited for the next but it was her finger again, inside me.

“You took it well.  Enjoy the pleasure, feel the heat.”

And feel it I did.  Like a blowtorch had licked my skin and nothing could have prepared me for the second blow.  Her finger again and so it went on, a vicious stroke of the cane and then her finger until, with a huge bellow, I orgasmed as her finger worked my clit.  It was one of those climaxes, the sort you could not expect or prepare for but which just …is.  I was sobbing, slumped over the chair, no power over my muscles.  I felt her tongue on my cunt, licking me, probing me.

She undid my hands and helped me to stand, pulled my knickers up and, still blindfolded, she took me in her arms.  Her mouth touched mine and her tongue opened my mouth.  The kiss was soft, warm, wet.  Her hand caressed my face.  “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes I am, thank you.  How many did you give me?”

“Five.”

God, I thought, it felt like three, or four times that.  My arse was on fire, my skin alive.

“Your nipples are so, so obvious when they get this big.”  She squeezed one then held me again, tenderly.  “Get down on your knees.”

Blindly, guided by her, I knelt and found that she was sitting on something, her legs apart, no dildo now and she pulled me to her cunt.  I could taste her, feel her heat, and her fingers in my hair, I lapped at her and kissed her and probed her, squeezing her very hard clit and sucking it.  Her orgasm was noisy, messy, delicious.  As I knelt, she undid the scarf around my eyes and I saw, when my eyes had adjusted to the light, that she was sitting with her arse on the back of the chair over which I had been bent.  She was naked and wet.

“I think we need a shower, don’t you?”  I agreed.  “Bring my clothes.  Can you walk ok?”

“Yes, I can, thank you.”

“Note to self; must try harder.”  I followed her naked body up the stair to the ground floor, then up to her bedroom and into her shower.  She was tender, loving, gently washing me, admiring of her handiwork.  “It looks beautiful.  How does it feel.”

“I’ll tell you when I try to sit.”

She laughed at that.

Grace Martin arrived at lunchtime the following day, the Saturday.  We were in Harriet’s kitchen when she rang the bell and Harriet asked me to go and let her in.  On the doorstep, I met a pretty, short and slender blonde in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair tied back.

“Oh, hello.  I’m Grace Martin.  Harriet invited me over for lunch.”

“I’m Lauren Noakes, she sent me to let you in.  She’s up to her elbows in something involving quails.”

She laughed.  “She’s a great cook.  I am sure she’s been feeding you well.”

I led the way to the kitchen, noticing that she paused, briefly, to examine the picture of Harriet with the back of my head between her thighs.  She made no comment.  “Yes,” I said, “she has.  I feel as if I ought to have gained pounds.”

From the kitchen, Harriet shouted, “Stop gassing, you two, there’s wine to be poured.  Lauren, be a love and open that bottle of Chablis.  Hiya, Grace.  Come to eat me out of house and home?”

“That’s the plan.  And to empty your wine cellar.”

They kissed, Harriet never stopping what she was doing with the poultry; six quail, glistening with bacon and honey.  Grace said, “That looks good, what is it?”
“No idea.  I decided to try something a bit different so I’ve stuffed their little bodies with chorizo sausage, roasted peppers and olives, put a bit of bacon on for smoke, and honey to sweeten it all up.  Pour me a huge one, please, Grace.  Lauren, get that bowl of salad out for me, please.”

She was a general, directing her troops.  She washed her hands, dried them, put the birds into her Aga and sat at the kitchen table.  “Right, that won’t take long.  How are you, Grace.”
“Perfectly well, thanks, and thank you for asking me to lunch.”  She raised her glass to us both, then turned to me.  “Do I get to see the fruits of your labours?”

Harriet answered for me.  “It’s in the orangery.  We haven’t decided where to hang it yet.  Go on, Lauren, take her and show her, she won't stop moaning until she’s seen it.”

Grace and I took our drinks into the Orangery where I uncovered the picture.  Grace slipped her arm through mine as I stood back.  “Oh my.  That is so, so good.  You’ve really captured her.”  Her arm tightened around mine.

“Thank you.”

“No, it’s fabulous.  You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

“What?”

She half-turned to look at me.  “It’s an act of love.  It’s beautiful.”  She whispered, “Has she had you yet?”

“Stop interrogating the poor girl.”  Harriet startled us both and we turned to see her standing in the doorway behind us.  “Lunch is ready and I’m not having my experimental meal ruined by two gossips.  Come on.”

We were about to sit down, when Harriet said, “Show her your arse, Lauren.”

“What?”  Was I incapable of saying anything else?

“You heard me, show her.”  Her voice wasn’t harsh, just authoritative.

I stared at Harriet for a couple of seconds, but her eyes were implacable.  I lifted my dress.  I was naked beneath it as Harriet had insisted earlier.

Grace said to Harriet, “Oh, that’s perfect.  How did she take it?”

“Well:  really well.  Early days of course.”

I felt a hand on my arse, tracing the welts.  “Not too many, but enough to test her.”  Grace’s voice.   “How did you know?”

“I’ll show you after lunch.  Now sit, lunch is spoiling.”

They both watched as I sat and I was determined not to show the discomfort as I did so.  Grace smiled.  “Well done, never let her see any weakness.”

My embarrassment dissipated over lunch.  They discussed the subject of my arse so freely, so comfortably that any discomfort, except that of my arse, was eased as I was drawn into their warmth, their mutual pleasure in the subject.

“Until recently,” said Harriet, “Grace had a woman a bit like you.  We often shared her.  Perhaps one day we’ll share you.  How would you feel about that?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Sensible girl,” said Grace.  “You don’t know anything about me.  I might be a psychopath.”

“She knows that you’re my friend and, now, knows you’re my frequent lover.  She also knows, I hope, that I wouldn’t have a psychopath for a friend.”

After lunch, Harriet told me to take Grace and show her the sketch I’d done of Harriet holding the whip.  “It’s in the drawing room now, I decided to hang it there for the time being.”  I hesitated and she said, “Go on, she won’t do anything without me, will you, Grace?”

“Of course not.”

Grace stared at the picture.  “Why did you sketch her like this?”

“Honestly, I just saw her like that in my mind’s eye.  I never meant for her to see it.  I genuinely forgot to hide it.”

She looked at me as if to see if I was lying.  Apparently satisfied, she smiled.  “Well, you certainly got that right.  Would you sketch me too?”

“If you’d like me to.”

“I would.  How much do you charge.”  I gave her a rough idea of the cost for a sketch and an oil on canvas.  “I’ll ask Harriet.  We’ll talk about it.”

“Come on, Grace,”  Harriet’s voice again.  “Let’s go to bed.  Lauren needs to understand the rules of the house.”  Grace smiled and left the room and Harriet and I stood together, listening to her as she climbed the stairs.  Harriet stroked my face.  “I could never be monogamous.  Grace is a joy, a slightly less enthusiastic sadist than I.  We met through a kink chat room.  When we realised how close we were, she only lives about ten miles away, we decided to meet.  The sex was good, very good.  Everything you felt yesterday, we have felt.  From each other.  You can, honestly, do whatever you want this afternoon.  I’d love you to join us, I know you’ll enjoy it.  But if you need time, take it.”  She kissed me, a lovely warm, tender kiss and her hand went up under my dress and she stroked me there too.  Then she released me, stepped back, smiling, and turned and left.

I stood there, my mind racing.  Her touch had aroused me.  The thought of being with two women was tempting.  Knowing they were sane and caring and very close to each other somehow made it even more tempting.

I climbed the stairs.  The door to Harriet’s bedroom was open and they were sitting in bed, breasts exposed, talking.

Harriet smiled at me.  “We hoped you’d come.  Go and have a shower, then come back.  Don’t be long.”

I went to my room and showered, dried, tied my hair back and, naked, walked back.  Harriet was still sitting up but all I could see of Grace were her feet, poking out from under the duvet at the foot of the bed.  “Get in beside me.  Grace is having a word with me in her own delightful way.  As I settled, she put her arms around me and we kissed.  “How’s your arse?”

“Sore, as you well know.”

“Good sore?”

“Beautiful sore.”

“You were very good.”

“It was easy to be good with you.”  I felt a hand sliding up my leg and knew it was Grace’s.  Harriet and I kissed as Grace did whatever she was doing between Harriet’s legs and her finger found my cunt and teased it, entered it, but I knew her focus was on Harriet, whose fingers were doing delightful things with my nipples.  I made sure to give as good as I got.  There is something very special about that moment when a woman orgasms and her mouth is on yours.  It’s almost like she was sharing it with me.

Grace shuffled up by Harriet’s side, the side opposite to me.  She reached across Harriet to fondle my nipples while Harriet recovered.

“Lauren, go down on Grace.”  I got out of the bed, walked round to the foot of the bed and slithered under the duvet, between Grace’s legs.  She was wet, her lips puffed and welcoming.  I licked her, teased her pee hole and clit, concentrating, hearing the noises as they kissed and enjoyed each other.  Finally, Grace said, “Oh, fuck, that’s so, so good,” and her thighs tightened around my ears as she came, wet, lifting her hips and my head.

Grace left after we’d all showered in Harriet’s vast walk-in shower.

Harriet and I took wine out into the mid-evening sun, as it waned, casting long shadows across her land.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel wonderful.  You and Grace sit so comfortably together, and you both made me feel a part of you, not like some whore you’d invited in to liven up your sex life.”

“So, you’re ok with it?”

“I promised to be honest, and I am being.  Yes, I’m more than ok with it.”

“Grace and I have a lot of fun together.  It’s not a love thing, more a deep friendship and understanding.  I think you and I are getting there too.  Do you feel that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’ve told you, I can't be exclusive.  I think you understand.  I hope you do.”  I said I did.  “Some people want more than friendship and great sex.  For me, friendship and great sex are pretty much perfect.  Especially if the sex involves someone who enjoys my love of tears and screams.”

“And Grace does?”

She pondered for a moment or two and I watched a rabbit appear from beneath a hedge and sniff the air.  “Grace is, like me, someone who enjoys the whip.  She likes it in her hand as I do but we tried it together, more as a sort of experiment so that, should the opportunity arise, we’d both know what our ‘victim’ was feeling, how well she was coping.”

“Have you enjoyed other women together?”

“One.  We’ve both enjoyed other women but most of them were uncomfortable about a threesome and that’s fine.  She said to me before she left that you seem to fit with me and with us perfectly.  We both hope there can be more.  But it is important to me that you and I go further together, without her.” She was holding my hand as she talked.  “Did i give you enough aftercare?”

“You did.  So few people realise how important aftercare is.  It tells me that the pain is your pleasure and if that were not the case I’d be off.  Anyone who hurts like that without wanting it to be pleasure for the recipient too is just plain cruel.”

“Neither Grace, nor I, will ever abuse you.”

We slept together, sometimes entangled, sometimes not.  When I awoke I was alone so I showered and put on a dress and went downstairs.  The wonderful aroma of coffee hit my nostrils before ever I reached the kitchen.

“Good morning.  You slept well.”  She was sitting at her kitchen table, wearing a soft, check pattern shirt and jeans.

“I did.  Coffee smells good.”

“Help yourself.  You and I are going for a walk this morning.”

“Will I be ok dressed like this?”

“Perfectly.  It’s a beautiful morning.  I’ve packed a picnic in that rucksack.  Think you can manage it?”  I said I was sure I could.

We chatted a bit more and then, around 11, we set off towards the woodland in the corner of her land.  The path led deeper into the woods, the sun filtering through the canopy, creating a dappled effect around us.  We reached a clearing and Harriet said that this was where she liked to come for a picnic when she was alone.

“It’s miles from anyone.  I can sit here and think.  I often masturbate here too.  It’s a place that is charged for me somehow.”   She opened the rucksack that was still on my shoulders and pulled out a rug and a couple of plastic containers and a bottle of wine.  Easing the rucksack off me, she set it down and then reached inside and her hand emerged holding her ‘go anywhere’ implement, the tawse.

“Pour us some wine, Lauren, and we’ll eat a little.  I said I often come here and masturbate but, well, I hardly need to since you’re here.  After a light lunch, we can enjoy ourselves.”

So, we sat and talked and talked as we drank the light white wine and consumed the little delicacies she’d prepared.  I packed everything away and, with her arm around my shoulders, she pulled me to her and kissed me.  “We’re going to try an experiment.  Do you remember where I like to use my thin cane?”

“About 3 or 4 inches down my inner thigh.”

“Exactly.  Well, we’re going to see if this,” here she lifted the tawse, “has a similar effect. Are you ok with that?”

“Yes, Harriet.”

“Lift your skirt up and lie back.”  I did.  She moved to kneel between my feet and lifted my left foot up and placed it on her shoulder.  “Have you felt a tawse before?”  I had.  “Nasty little things aren’t they?  Did you know they were first recorded as being used by schoolmasters, mainly in Scotland?”  I hadn’t known that.  “I bet they didn’t use it here though.”

As she spoke, her hand moved like lightning and the leather strap seared my thigh.  I hadn’t expected it and it took my breath away so much that I couldn’t even cry out.  She ran her hand over the red skin.  Looking at me carefully, she asked, “Are you ok?”

When I had got my breath back, I nodded and said I was ok, yes.

“Just two for now.  We’ll see,” she paused as her hand whipped again and the little bastard bit into my skin.  “We’ll see how you feel if and when I get it out again.”  She eased my leg down then lifted my right foot and rested it on her shoulder.

“I thought you said just two?”

“It’s the balance of nature, Lauren.  Wouldn’t be right for just one side to hurt, would it?  Where did you learn to paint?”

“I studied art at school and had a wonderful teacher.  Then I went to art college and also worked with Gloria Neuman in Paris for a year.”

“Oh, I love her work.”  The tawse leapt and, once again unexpected, made me gasp and close my eyes, my hands gripping the rug to help me avoid crying out.

“Didn’t she paint Grace of Monaco?”  You’d think we were having a perfectly normal conversation.

I nodded, trying to get myself under control.  “Yes, yes she did.”

“I saw it at an exhibition in London.”  The beast switched again and this time I couldn’t help but yelp.  I saw a look in her eye and she unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down.  She was hasty, a sense of urgency.  Jeans off, she straddled my face.  Her cunt was wet, she obviously genuinely enjoyed the pain, my reaction to it, and she pressed herself to me.  “Make me cum, Lauren, it won't take long. Oh, yes, like that, work your tongue.  Get your hands off!  Just your face.  Fuck, that’s good, so good, yes, yes …”  and thus egged on by her words I was rewarded when her climax arrived, wet, messy, eerily silent.  After a couple of minutes during which she just sat on my chest, she shuffled and letdown beside me, pulled me to her, and licked my mouth.

“God, but I taste fucking amazing!”  We both laughed.

This was on the Sunday, and we got back to her home about 2.  Walking back, she had insisted on examining my thighs.  “They look angry.”

“They have every right to.”

“Any higher and they’d rub as you walk.  That would be unpleasant wouldn’t it?” 

Yes, I thought, it bloody well would be.