Clares Humiliation Ch 01

[This was written for a sexy lady I chatted to in a chat room the other day: there is very little descriptive content because she was rather shy about revealing any personal details: but I wrote this for her, doing the best I could with what I had to work with, and am publishing it with her blessing. As this is my first attempt at an erotic story, I would welcome comments (especially from any ladies) either in the public comments at the end of the story, or directly, by email. Perhaps you'd like me to write something for you?]

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The knock at the door, though quiet, makes you jump. Out of the corner of your eye you see James start too, and you jerk your head around to look at him: seeking a last minute reprieve, perhaps. You notice he's sweating and looks as nervous as you feel. You glance reflexively down at your watch and then back up at your husband, acutely aware of your pounding heart. How on earth did you get yourself into this, you think.

"At least he's on time," says James, in an attempt at levity.

Neither of you makes a move for the door. Perhaps if you just sit here long enough, he'll go away.

A few seconds later there's another knock: louder and more insistent. You both jump again, even though you must have been expecting it.

"Will you open it, Clare?" asks James, nodding slightly in the direction of the door. As you stare at him, you notice that he seems to be swallowing repeatedly. You stand up in a trance: on auto-pilot. You look him in the eye and hold his gaze: 'Do you really want this?' you seem to be asking. He looks away uncomfortably and glances at the door.

No last minute reprieve, then.

Okay.

You take a deep breath and walk towards the door. 'I don't have to go through with this' you tell yourself, and it's only that thought that helps carry your shaking legs to the doorway. Inside of you, though, another voice is saying 'Yes you do have to go through with this. You've got no choice. He's come all this way, paid for petrol; paid for the room. You've given your word. You'll look a complete fool if you back out now. And you promised James. He'd never take you seriously again if you chickened out now. And ... isn't that something stirring slightly? Down there: between your legs? That familiar warm tickling feeling?' The beginnings of an itch that you know will need scratching. You feel your cheeks flush.

You're in a Travel Lodge about thirty miles from home. Far enough away so you won't bump into any known faces. That was the man's idea: the stranger's idea. With your agreement, he'd found the hotel and booked it, explaining that a couple of friends would get there first, and making sure that they'd be able to wait for him in the room. Then he'd arranged with you a time that he would get there.

That time had arrived.

Taking another deep breath, you open the door.

It's strange suddenly having a face to put with all those comments. Those pornographic, personal comments. He looks older than you thought. Greyer. 'He looks old enough to be my father' you think. 'I'm going to do this in front of someone who could be my Dad; or one of his friends.' Your stomach gives a slight lurch. You're not at all sure how those last thoughts make you feel. 'I don't think that I fancy him. Although ... maybe I could.' Then the other voice adds 'Anyway, won't it be more humiliating having to do this in front of someone you don't fancy? ... And that's what you like, isn't it? Being humiliated?'

Suddenly you remember he knows all those things about you; all those terribly intimate things: that you swallow spunk; that you allow someone to piss on you; that you drink piss; that you'll let someone fuck you up your shit-filled arse just because they feel like it.

And, worst of all, soon you're going to be forced to show this stranger – this man you've never seen before in your life, this old man – your tits, and your cunt, and your arsehole.

Your cheeks are burning. You feel like pushing past him and running out. But you know you can't.

You hear James get to his feet behind you, at the back of the room.

"Don't just stand there: come in," he says in a falsely jolly-sounding tone.

Suddenly, everything that seems to have been frozen for an eternity melts back into life. You're stepping back into the room; the man's coming in; he's closing the door. You don't look at James as you walk back towards him, but keep your eyes cast down at the floor. Perhaps you're frightened of what you might see in those eyes of his.

"Hello. I take it you're Ponderer," says James, holding out his hand.

"I'd better be, I suppose," the man replies, and he and James laugh awkwardly.

"So you're Clare, then," he says, turning to you, and you can hear in his voice that he's nervous too.

You tilt your chin up defiantly, attempting to regain some control.

"And you're Ponderer. Nice to meet you at last," you say, holding out your hand. You shake hands, and notice how clammy yours feels, and how dry his does. He has a nice smile, but you notice he's looking down at your breasts; your groin; your legs. He's licking his lips slightly, not salaciously but nervously; but, no doubt, also in anticipation.

You're suddenly aware of how hot it is. 'Why is it always so bloody hot in these rooms?' you ask yourself. 'He can probably smell me sweating' you think, deeply embarrassed at the thought. 'Never mind: you'll soon be able to take something off: get a little cooler.' whispers the deep voice, which causes another twitch of your fanny. You can feel your lower lips swelling slightly. You're opening up. 'Oh God,' you inwardly groan, 'By the time he gets to see my fanny, my juices are going to running down my legs.' You feel so ashamed: it's disgusting that the mere thought of exposing yourself to a stranger should turn you on so much. You're nothing but a slut, you decide. 'And' says the little voice, 'you're going to be made to act like one, too: whether you like it, or not.'

"Take your coat off. Sit down," says James to the man. "Can I get you a coffee, or anything?" Just like everything was normal: just like he wasn't going to force his wife to act like a whore.

"No, I'm fine," the man says, taking off his coat, hanging it up, and then sitting down in one of the chairs next to the window, facing the bed. James sits down in the remaining chair, the one on the other side of the window.

'Now for some small talk,' you think to yourself.

"Well," James says, with a glance at you, "We all know why we're here ... Why don't you take that jumper off, Clare? You're looking rather hot."

"She is looking rather hot, isn't she?" he adds, looking at the stranger.

"Well, she certainly looks hot to me," the man replies with a small laugh. "Just a second, though," he adds, reaching behind him. "Is it okay if I open these a little?" tugging at the curtains. He glances at you, but is asking James; you're not going to have any say in this. The man's remembered what you admitted once in the chat room: the thing about open curtains. 'Fuck! Why did I mention that to him?' you think in aguish.

James glances at you, swallows, then says, with a shrug, "Why not?"

You watch in disbelief as the man pulls the curtains, together with the nets, open about 10 inches at one side. It's dark outside, but in the room, all the lights are on and it's very bright. The room is on the ground floor at the front of the Lodge; you remember that immediately beyond the window is a pavement that runs along the front of the building, and, beyond that, the parking spaces. The walkway was no more than three feet from the window; the cars perhaps four feet beyond that. You shiver.

"I'm not so sure about that," you say hesitantly.

"Oh but we are, aren't we, Ponderer," James says, as if it was his idea in the first place. You give him a stony-faced look. He's going to pay for that, later.

With a glance at the curtains, which seem to gape alarmingly, you slowly pull your jumper over your head. You look at the men: James seems proud; the older man, transfixed.

'No big deal,' you think to yourself. You're still perfectly decent: blouse, bra, skirt, knickers, hold up nylons (a request) high heels and a necklace.

"She's very pretty, isn't she?" says James.

"Yes, she is," replies the stranger.

"Wait till you see the rest," says James with a dirty grin.

"James!" you admonish.

"Take your blouse off," he says instantly. "And face us and the window."

You hesitate. This is more difficult than you thought it would be. You can feel your fingers trembling as you reach for the buttons. With a glance at your husband, you turn slightly, so you're face-on to both the men ... and the gap in the curtains. Slowly you undo the buttons, one by one. This feels like the point of no return (but maybe that had happened weeks ago, when you and James 'met' Ponderer in that chat room) once the blouse was gone, so was the decency. The bra, which your husband had chosen for you, was black and pretty transparent. You know from modelling it in front of the mirror earlier, that your nipples will be clearly visible through it. Even worse, you realise that, without your knowing it, they've become tight and stiff and are poking through the gauzy material: they wanted to be seen.

Both the men are staring at you. You shrug the blouse off your shoulders, catch it as it slips down, and lay it on the bed. You've never felt this embarrassed in your life. You can feel the blush running down your cheeks and spilling down onto your neck. James is glancing back and forth between you and the stranger. He looks as though he can't really believe that this is happening. You can't look either man in the eye. The man gives an audible swallow, and, in other circumstances, you'd have laughed.

"Turn round," says James. "Slowly."

You turn slowly, completing a full 360 degrees.

James is adjusting the front of his trousers. He is really getting off on showing his woman. Showing a stranger that he can make her do anything he wants. That she'll do it because he tells her to.

You want to touch your aching nipples – no, that's not true: you think you'd die if you touched yourself in front of this stranger – but your breasts want to be touched. Not gently caressed, but grabbed, mauled, manhandled, chewed, bitten. As this image enters your head, you gasp slightly and feel the first drips of juice soak into your knickers. You want to reach down and make things more comfortable down there, but you know you can't.

"Now the skirt," says James, with a swallow. He has a feverish glint in his eye.

With only the slightest hesitation, and staring straight ahead, towards the gap in the curtains, you reach to the side, unzip the skirt and undo the button. Then, looking down, you gradually lower it down your thighs, watching first your white belly, then your skimpy black panties, then the smooth white tops of your thighs, then the dark bands of your nylons, slip into view. Not just your view, or your husband's, but also that of the man you'd never seen until ten minutes ago.

You put the skirt on the bed, where it joins your jumper and blouse. You stand up again, straight-backed. You desperately want to lean forward and conceal yourself, with your arms crossed in front of you in that clichéd pose of female innocence: one arm across your stiff-nippled breasts; the other diagonally over your skimpy, damp knickers. But you can't: you know you'll look ridiculous if you do. You think about your knickers; what they looked like earlier. James had bought all of the lingerie himself, and this morning had been the first time you'd seen them. The pants were almost completely sheer: your neatly trimmed pubic hair fully visible through them, as was the beginning of your slit.

You become aware of your swollen clitoris, pressing against the nylon, like a third nipple: you want to touch it, stroke it, rub it; you want someone to lick it, nibble it, suck it; you want someone to press a stiff unyielding prick onto it and feel their weight pressing you down into the bed as they try to crush your stiff little clit into submission. You know the stranger can see your clit: see how hard it is. You feel another gush run out of your vagina and soak into your pants: it almost feels as though you've wet yourself. You groan softly.

Suddenly you notice the sound of footsteps faintly coming from outside: someone's coming along the path! There are voices, too. It sounds like a man and a woman: a couple. There's the unmistakable tapping of a pair of high heels.

You panic. Your arms go up involuntarily and you half turn, as if you're going to run. Both men have heard the people, too.

"Keep still," James says.

Hesitating, you partially lower your arms, but don't turn back.

"I want you to stay there," James says deliberately.

You turn back to the window and close your eyes. You feel as though your cheeks are heating the whole room, your flush having now crept down to your chest.

Outside, you can hear the footsteps and voices getting louder – then they both stop. You hear a woman's voice, muffled through the glass:

"What are you looking at?" "That woman! Christ, she's nearly naked!" a man's voice replies. "You peeping-tom! You'll get bloody-well locked up! Come on!" says the woman, sounding irritated. "She's left the curtains open!" you hear him reply, defensively. "Come on!" says the woman.

The footsteps resume and the voices, arguing, gradually fade into the distance.

You breathe out, realising that you've been holding your breath. You're trembling from top to barely-covered bottom. You look at James, seeking a sign that he's satisfied: that the ordeal is nearly over. You'd talked about this: about your reaching your limit. He'd said that that'd be fine: not to worry.

You glance down at your clothes on the bed. James, noticing where you're looking, then does something that stuns you: he stands up, reaches over to your discarded clothes, grabs them, and sits down again.

"Don't worry about these: you won't be needing them again for a while," he says.

"But ..." you stammer.

"Why don't you take off your bra," he says, interrupting you.

You can't believe it. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

You look at the stranger, who's already staring at your breasts, rising and falling as you breathe. Your mouth is dry, and you swallow.

"Come on, Clare. Don't keep us waiting," James says, with a slightly harder edge to his voice.

Almost of their own volition, your hands reach up slowly behind your back. You hook your thumb into your bra, drag it down, and slip the hooks. The front sags loose but stays in place, held by the shoulder straps.

"Put it on the bed," says your husband.

You slip the straps off your shoulders, but conceal your breasts by cupping the bra over them. With a final look at James, whose hands are squeezing the bulge in his trousers, you quickly remove the bra and put it on the bed. Your breasts, with their achingly-stiff and puckered nipples, are revealed to both the men. The stranger has a hand buried in his groin, too, and is wearing an expression of intense concentration, his face sweaty. You shudder and feel another flood of juice flow from your fanny.

"Turn round, again. Slowly."

You slowly pirouette, as ordered, shaking as you do. When you're facing the men again, James issues his next instructions:

"Go and stand in front of Ponderer; so he can have a better look." His voice sounds dry and seems to quiver a little.

On trembling legs, you step up to the stranger and stand about four feet in front of him.

"Closer," comes the command.

You take another step. You're now standing between this grey-haired man's legs, your knees almost touching his chair. He's sitting slightly forward; his eyes are wide, and he's breathing so heavily that you can feel his hot breath stirring the fine hairs on your naked belly. Your breath is coming as fast and deep as his. He's staring at your breasts, drinking in every detail; the goosbumped flesh; the tracery of fine blue veins; the swollen areolas; the stiff, pencil-eraser like, nipples. Every now and again he can't stop himself from glancing down at your groin: at your barely-covered cunt.

"Hold them up to him: show him your tits," says your hoarse-voiced husband.

You bring up your hands and cup your breasts: you don't seem to be responsible for your actions any more.

You lift your breasts, offering them to the man. You can't stop yourself from gently squeezing and massaging them. You feel like a complete slut.

"Pull your nipples," says your husband. You glance at him, seeing that he's pulled his prick out of his trousers and is slowly wanking it, a glazed expression on his face.

You take your nipples between your thumbs and forefingers and pull them, stretching them towards the man's flushed, sweating, face. You close your eyes and gasp. Your legs tremble and you feel as if you might faint. You realise that you're close to cumming: close to having an orgasm, naked, apart from a pair of stockings, and inches from a total stranger. You moan quietly.

James realises what's happening and intervenes. Clearing his throat, he says

"OK. That's enough. Stop it now."

It takes a supreme effort to tear your hands away from your hypersensitive nipples, but, with a shudder, you do as he orders.

You know what's coming next, but when James says it, it still gives you a jolt.

"Now the knickers." He sounds like he can hardly get the words out.

Your attention immediately switches from your breasts to your dripping, itching, swollen fanny: as does the men's. You realise that your pants are soaking; that the front must be completely transparent. You become aware that you can smell yourself: the sweat that's flowing from your armpits, but mostly, the juices that are flooding from your fanny: that ionic, sea-like, musky smell, of fresh cunt – the smell of sex.

You put your shaking hands flat on your hips, and, catching your knickers with your fingers, slowly tug them down your smooth thighs. You can feel the nylon tickling and scratching as it slips down. Your neatly-trimmed pubic hair comes into view; then the tip of your slit, its clitoris poking forward: seeking attention. As they continue their inexorable slide, your pants won't come away from your crotch: they're stuck to it by your secretions.

"You're soaking," whispers the man – the first words he's uttered in minutes.

With a snap, the gusset of the knickers spring free and suddenly they're halfway down your thighs. You gasp again, and your legs nearly give way entirely. It's only the thought that you'd pitch, naked, straight into this strange man's lap that somehow enables you to remain upright.

You let go of the pants and they slither down your legs to the floor. You don't even step out of them because you know that, with your trembling legs, if you lift one foot off the floor, you'll fall over. Your knickers lie around your ankles, swathing them in black mist.

After a few seconds, which seem like a few hours, James speaks again.

"Turn round."

Shuffling your feet around, ankles still bound by nylon, you slowly rotate.

"Stop," says James, when you're halfway around.

You stop, with your bottom facing the man.

"My wife's got a great arse, hasn't she?" he says.

"It's superb." the man replies quietly.

After a long few seconds, where the only sound you can hear is the panting of the men and the pounding of the blood in your ears, James says

"Bend over."

You feel as though a jolt of electricity has shot through your body and you make an odd sound, like a sob.

"Go on: do it," he says, insistently. "Touch your toes."

You gradually lean forwards, until you're bent completely over. You try desperately to keep your legs together: attempting to preserve some last vestiges of modesty. You try to clench your buttocks, but discover that, with your thigh muscles stretched at the back, it's impossible. You feel your buttocks open and immediately become aware of the stranger's hot breath gently wafting over your sensitive anus.