Wild Riding to Dublin - A Sequel - Sex Stories

Wild Riding to Dublin - A Sequel

... bedroom. Now that’s something that might indeed affect your promotion prospects.’ ‘Videos!’ he almost screamed. ‘Where are they? Give them to me!’ ‘No. They’re mine and they make interesting viewing – I’m sure Mr George would just love to see them.’ I could see the panic in his face. ‘Yes, and you know that George would be round here in a shot if I gave him a call. You know how often he’s tried to grope me when he’s had a few – something you always dismissed as just a bit of inebriated fun. No wonder, considering you what you were doing to his wife. Yep, I reckon an invitation for an evening of erotic viewing would have him coming in his pants. Why, I reckon if I was sitting on top of him straddling his big belly with my tits bouncing up and down in front of him he mightn’t even notice what you were doing to his wife on-screen.’ I had to laugh at the look on James’ face – and that was my mistake. In that second of letting my guard down, he was on me. Both arms were gripped behind my back as he dragged me over to the kitchen area. He grabbed the roll of cling film I had been sealing a few dishes with and bound my wrists together, then he taped them similarly to the door handle. I could move and walk – I even kicked at him, fruitlessly – but my range was limited to the arc of the door. He was almost frothing at the mouth and he wanted the videos. I refused. Knife pointed straight at me, he approached; the knife scared me – I knew that in the heat of the moment mistakes can ...

... happen. We all know what crimes of passion are. ‘Tell me where the videos are and I’ll forget all about it.’ His voice sounded faux-reasonable, but I just shook my head. He reached behind my waist, ripped the zip of my skirt down, then thrust it down round my ankles. So much for trying to kick him now, I was hobbled. He stood close to me, so close I thought he was going to kiss me – then I felt the chill of the big blade flat on my groin. He asked me again. For a moment I almost told him, but my bloody-mindedness held sway and I shook my head again. He looked down and sliced once, then moved and sliced again. He pulled the thong remnants from between my legs. He swung round, opened the fridge and returned with an aerosol of instant cream that I kept for emergencies. The freezing foam stung my recently shaven pudenda and I squirmed and screamed threats at him. Producing his mobile phone he stood back and took a photograph. ‘I’ll title it “Loves having her creamy cunt eaten” when I post it online.’ That was enough. ‘No, no,’ I cried, surrendering, ‘let’s settle this – the videos are on SD cards in a little plastic box under the grate of the bedroom fireplace.’ He bounded up the stairs and was back down in minutes with them in his hand. All urgency was gone now – he was gloating. ‘Well, now that’s sorted out, I think it’s time I taught you a lesson,’ he said, slicing my wrists free from the door handle, then pulling me over to the granite-topped island in the centre of the kitchen. ...