I have recently published a short story, “Gagging For It”, which is available for a nominal sum from Amazon.

Here’s  a taster…

…before Annabel was able to re-act two men appeared from behind the neighbouring parked car and pounced on her. Annabel had her arms pinned by one and the other almost nonchalantly smothered her mouth with his hand. In the palm of his hand was a damp facecloth and as Annabel instinctively cried out the soaking wet cotton was fingered firmly into her mouth.

‘This is fun isn’t it?’ taunted Melanie as she slipped her silk scarf from her own neck. Sliding up behind her friend she calmly drew the silk across Annabel’s mouth whilst the man kept his hand held over the remains of the cloth that protruded from between Annabel’s glossy lips and now snarling teeth.

‘Hurry it up, the bitch is kicking like mad,’ cursed the man pinning Annabel’s arms.

‘Okay you can remove your hand,’ Melanie had the silk across her friend’s mouth now. The man quickly slipped his hand away from under the silk and then Annabel felt it tighten between her jaws, pinning the soaking gag firmly in her mouth. Even as she shook her head vigorously in protest Melanie drew the scarf around her friend’s slender nape and tied it fast. Wide eyed with alarm Annabel looked around frantically for help but the car park was deserted. Dozens of rows of cars away though a lift door opened but even as some people emerged Annabel was already being bundled onto the back seat of a large car parked alongside her own.

‘Nuhh… lemme…gugh…hemme!’

‘Hush now darling,’ Melanie stroked her friend’s hair clear of her anguished face. She was knelt before one of passenger doors which remained open. She glanced over her shoulder. She could hear distant voices and then a car engine started. Annabel’s gagged protest was virtually incoherent and wouldn’t be audible beyond a few yards. As the men had promised the thick wet cloth was ruthlessly effective. They had Annabel stomach down along the length of the back seat and one of the men was crouched over their prone victim binding her wrists at the small of her back whilst his accomplice sat across Annabel’s legs effectively pinning her.

‘Nuhh…peese…shop…lemme guh!’

Melanie looked thoughtfully at her friend. Annabel was crying now, despondency sweeping over her. It must have been the realisation that her wrists were now securely bound and there was now no escape.

‘Shop? You want to go shopping again?’ Melanie taunted, knowing full well Annabel was begging them to stop but with her pretty young mouth filled by the gag the pleading for them to “stop” had sounded like “shop”.

‘That’s her ankles done too,’ announced one of the men, ‘strap her in with the safety belts and let’s go.’

‘Annabel darling, you can go shopping later. Right now I’m taking you to have some fun. It’s wish fulfilment time.’

Annabel tried to ask what was going to happen to her but her words were no more than groans and moans that the gag made incoherent and well muffled.

‘Wait and see…’ Melanie blew her an insincere kiss, stood back from the door and then closed it. Annabel gazed up forlornly at the darkly tinted glass. A moment later and all the car doors were closed and the car was moving. They had strapped her onto the length of the back seat with the safety belts and the two men were sat in the front. Unbeknown to Annabel, Melanie had taken her friend’s car and was following behind.

At the house Melanie parked alongside the guy’s car and examined her friend’s shopping. The lingerie was gorgeous, Melanie conceded, glancing up to see Annabel being carried like some big game cat trophy by the two men into the house. Annabel, her arms still bound behind her back and her ankles tied together could do nothing more than curse in objection.

Once indoors Annabel gazed around her disconsolately.  She was in a kitchen, large, expensively furnished and dominating the centre of the room was a large, stout oak table that seated eight people spaciously. The table now though was almost bare and the chairs drawn well clear of the sides. The only items on the table top were a black draw string cloth bag; some cord straps, what looked like numerous broad leather dog collars and what at first glance Annabel thought was a squash ball. Then as Annabel had time to think and assimilate what she was staring at she realised she was looking at wrist and ankle-cuffs and a ball-gag, the likes of which she’d seen on plenty of occasions when browsing websites for lingerie and sex toys. Fear tightened like a fist in the pit of her stomach as the two men dragged her across to the table.

Once her slender waist came into contact with the edge of the table she was then forced to bend face down over the table. Both men were tall, their bare arms powerfully muscled. They both exuded an air of ruthless physical strength. Annabel knew that once she was tied to the bench she would be at their mercy and they were certainly going to fuck her senseless. That Melanie was involved in this was a crumb of comfort. Forced belly down over the bench, her wrists were freed from behind her slender back but only so that her arms could be pulled tautly in front of her and her wrists bound to the far corners of the table. Belts were then bound around each of her legs the leather closing hard and tight around the softness of her thighs. The tie around her ankles was removed. She glanced around her as wave of despair washed over her. She jerked her arms but the wrist-cuffs held her arms at full stretch. The men were each side of her; they pulled on the thigh straps and her slender legs were drawn sideways then forced wide.

‘Uhhh…’ Annabel grunted through the gag.

Her thighs now spread the men fastened the straps to the bench legs. They then fastened cuffs around her ankles and these too were bound to the legs of the sturdy table over which she was held down. Hands pushed her little skirt up her rump and over the small of her back. Her dainty briefs were lifted clear of her smooth skin and subjected to scissors and the severed fabric discarded. Annabel twisted her head and glimpsed her naked and exposed rear thrust out and invitingly exposed. Standing behind her too was Melanie, smiling smugly as she watched Annabel being tethered to the bench by the men.

Annabel pulled her legs against the pressure of the belts but her thighs remained spread vulnerably wide. She jerked her arms frantically against the cuffs they’d bound around her wrists. The leather was snug about her slender wrists, the straps were broad and strong and her arms remained tautly spread-eagled.

The men slowed down now, relaxed and calm because they knew they had her at their mercy. There was no hurry; they wanted her sense of helplessness to build. A hand smoothed down her back and along her flank. She trembled. The hand caressed her pert arse. Annabel swallowed against the knot of fear that filled her throat and tightened in her stomach. One of the men stroked her hair affectionately. She was breathing fast. Her eyes looked up at him wide with fear. She felt him tighten his fingers in her mane of hair and then her head was drawn back. The other man showed her the ball-gag.

‘Your friend tells us you’re desperate for this?’

‘Nuuhh…’

 Hot and Sticky

 Coming back to England in the winter after summer in the south of France I find hard. Some things I am pleased to find hard: choosing clothes, guessing a Champagne when blindfolded (making me do this is one of my lovers favourite past-times), the feel of a crème brulée under my fingertip. That is pleasing; the ice hardness of the glazed sugar topping. Being able to tap it and hear how hard it is. I like touching it with my fingernail then with a simple sharp strike with the edge of a spoon it cracks and the yellow softness oozes out. Putting a tiny amount on a spoon I will slowly lick it off all the time my eyes remaining on the man sat opposite. As I was saying I enjoy finding some things hard. Returning to England in winter from the heat of the south of France is hard and not so enjoyable.

 The Hautes Pyrénées in August was baking under a cloudless sky and by mid afternoon almost regardless of what I was doing I felt hot and sticky. My friend’s villa is on the edge of Cauterets. I’d flown into Bordeaux and hired a car and had planned nothing more than a few weeks of being lazy with perhaps some shopping in Lourdes and a few day trips into the mountains. The Lac Bleu d’llhéou is beautiful for a picnic and there were many mountain tracks where you can still walk and escape the crowds of serious hikers. My friend, she earns her living selling yachts and luxury boats on commission, was down on the Cote d’Azur, working hard and based in her flat she has down there. Her villa she comes back to out of season when she kicks back for three or four months or for longer depending on how much she has made herself during the summer.

To reassure herself that it is being cared for and hasn’t been broken in to she encourages friends to use it whilst she is away. When I arrived another friend was already there: a young New Zealand woman who painted landscapes and had already been there for two months. Sharing was no problem as the place had three bedrooms and the Kiwi girl had been staying long enough to have begun to attract a devoted handful of young men who called with presents of food, or invitations to lunch or with bottles of wine. She was undeniably pretty and there was never a shortage of young man to drive her wherever she wished to go and paint. As there were more than enough men to keep her occupied I felt obliged to try to take some of the pressure from her so soon enough I had a pleasant little social life developing and days alone sun bathing and reading were infrequent.

Of course I would never do anything naughty, I’m in a steady relationship but my understanding lover does allow me a certain degree of freedom. So the late summer spent at Cauterets proved very pleasurable. The weather stayed gloriously sunny for several weeks and I spent many long days climbing the mountain tracks in good company. My new friend carried a days food and drink in a rucksack and he willingly let me set the pace. I don’t mind walking when I’ve got the right footwear and in hiking boots and old jeans and a T-shirt I was content to set a pace that ensured we both sweated under the bright sun and we were both soon ready for our picnic lunch.

I slumped down onto some grass whilst he pulled the rucksack from his back and pulled out a box of cold meats, fruit, cheese and crusty bread. The cheese was oozingly ripe. He watched me watching him as he impatiently tore the foil from the bottle of Champagne he had brought. He apologised that whilst it had been chilled when we had set off it would now be warm. I shrugged with indifference. The cork came out quickly, Champagne foaming down the side of the bottle which he handed me. I took a mouthful and held it in my mouth for a second enjoying the fizzing sensation. I could feel the sweat making my T-shirt cling to my back. My thighs ached pleasurably from the climb. He watched me drink then he suggested we eat. He was clearly hungry. And obviously as hot and sticky as I felt.

Well, I suppose sooner or later it had to happen; BDSM was brought into the mainstream by E L James. Now there are countless spin off’s and the book shops on the high streets of every town seem to have a display of the Fifty Shades books. Even the supermarkets have cashed in on this and so has everyone who sees a chance to make some money from someone else’s success.

 A male friend of mine who wanted to take me for lunch and who knows what I write pointed to a display of the books as we walked past a high street book shop in Greenwich. He asked me what I thought. What can I say? The books are about a BDSM relationship and yet they share little in common with what I write about. Eating in Naples is not like eating in Pizza Express is it? What is good perhaps is that E L James by bringing BDSM into the mainstream has opened things up for more people to discover, explore and enjoy something they may have previously been missing out on.

 We admired the sleek lines of the Cutty Sark, somewhat compromised by her new setting and followed the path up-river. My friend told me what the big grey Royal Navy ship was that looked so incongruous parked up just around the corner the from beautiful old tea clipper. Greenwich like all of London was gearing up for the Olympics but although there were police, army and security measures everywhere the atmosphere was relaxed.

 My friend had thought we could “stroll” up to Le Pont de la Tour for lunch but I gave up well before then. The Four Seasons at Canary Wharf in sight but out of reach on the opposite bank, I gave him an apologetic smile and told him I couldn’t go any further, my heels were killing me so we took a taxi. Ten minutes later, sipping Champagne and looking down the menu for something sensible to eat I wondered whether I should stay in London for the Olympics or escape.

 In the afternoon, sat in a taxi, a large Coco de Mer carrier bag on the taxi seat beside me, I contemplated the traffic jam and decided that I would escape London for the remainder of the summer. I sent a text to a friend and in the time it took the taxi to nudge its way from Soho to Mayfair I had arranged to spend August in the Hautes Pyrénées, had booked myself a flight to Bordeaux and had sent a text to my lover telling him of my plans. He text me back telling me that I was naughty to make such arrangements with asking his permission (I had anticipated this response) and told me that I would have to be punished.

Back in my bedroom at the hotel I ran a bath, phoned my lover and I admired my purchases from Coco de Mer. Allowing my thoughts to roam and my fingers to wander a little I was soon longing for satisfaction but I knew I had to wait. My instructions from him were simple: I just had to wait. I fingered the leather, admired it softness. The brass fittings were soon warm as I stroked them. I fastened the buckles experimentally and then unfastened them. Unable to resist I tried to collar on and regarded myself in the mirror. The leather smelt delicious reminding me of previous times. When blindfolded ones sense of smell is heightened. The design of the collar forced my chin up. I imagined the buckles at my nape tightly secured. I tossed the collar onto the bed and examined one of the wrist cuffs more thoroughly. Exquisite craftsmanship; it was as pleasing to the eye as a decent handbag. Admittedly expensive though: a stocking, the waist cord from a towelling robe, a length of rope – they all work and are cheap, though aesthetically they are less pleasing and rope hurts. As do handcuffs. I don’t care for handcuffs or rope, I don’t get off on that sort of pain. Some pain yes… certain things. I’ll tell you later.

Tessa Valmur will be starting a blog soon.