Tamed

By Terri Peterson

A headstrong, hedonistic woman in her twenties, confident and outgoing, has a healthy appetite for men, but admits to being picky about her partners. She is particularly fond of those easily cowed into submission or pliable to her will. Her art teacher is far from compliant and, after a visit to a local fetish club, persuades her to review her position; in more ways than one. Then, she meets a woman who turns her world upside down, discovering a hitherto undiscovered side of her personality; a woman who can finally tame her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terri Peterson
• Release date: Nov 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393343721

Book preview

One

MY FAVOURITE WORD IS axiomatic. I first came across it at university five years ago whilst writing a dissertation. It lay languishing, buried like a linguistic jewel in a body of text until I unearthed it, treasured it, and used it as often as possible thereafter. It originates from ancient Greek, not that anyone gives a flying fanny about that, and means a self-evident truth. Like, if I was to say that the sun rises in the east, you’d only have to know which way is east, wait for the sun to peek-a-boo over a horizon, and there it would be; a self-evident truth. Another axiom is that men really are stupid creatures; easily led or manipulated, and ruled by genitalia. It’s unreal.

Sitting here, on a stool in a coffee shop window, I’m constantly aware of the effect my long legs are having on men passing by. Some sneak a glance as they shamble by, others merely gawp. I wave at those for fun, you know? To hopefully embarrass them, or make them feel as stupid as they look. It’s not a proper full-blown wave, but a coy fingertips-only Oliver Hardy-style thing. I blow them a kiss if they continue to stare.

There’s a cute-looking guy sitting alone at the back of the shop, in shadow, pretending to read today’s papers, but peering over the top every now and again, and I know he can see up my skirt, because I want him to. I chose this seat deliberately for that reason, and squirmed until it rode far enough up to let him glimpse flimsy panties. I never wear tights or stockings, mainly because they’re so much faff, but also because my legs look good without them. I run regularly for exercise rather than spending hours in a gym. Christ, how boring is that? Pounding a treadmill in a place rammed to the rafters with sweaty bodies, listening to music via headphones, puffing and wheezing, as they bounce along facing the same breeze block wall for hours at a time? No chance. I’d much rather be out in fresh air.

Oh, there he goes again; another crafty peek. That’s my cue to take it to the next level, up the ante, and have a little fun. I slide from the stool, place my empty cup on the counter, and then catwalk to his table, heels clattering on tiled floor, announcing my approach. I watched models mincing on point and quickly learned how to copy that walk, placing feet with perfection, ankles crossing, and hips rolling with feline grace. It’s easy, and it soon has a man drooling. Yes, I’m wicked, but so what? I have his attention now, and the paper is forgotten as I slither onto a chair opposite, smiling,

‘Hello, I’m Joyce,’ I say.

He’s nervous, tries to put his teacup on a saucer but it rattles like crazy. His fingers are trembling. He’s probably in his mid to late twenties, blond with a few wisps of dark designer stubble on his chin, broad-shouldered. Nice.

‘Oh, hi,’ he replies, ‘I’m Alan.’

I run my tongue over glossy lips, smile widening,

‘I saw you looking, you know?’ I say.

‘Looking?’ he replies, pretending not to know what I’m talking about, ‘Sorry I don’t––’

‘Oh, I think you do, Alan,’ I tease.

‘Okay,’ he admits, ‘but, it’s not a crime, is it?’

‘Far from it,’ I agree, ‘nothing wrong with a spot of window-shopping at all. See anything you fancy?’

I don’t know why I bother asking, because it’s quite plain from the simpleton’s grin on his face, averted eyes and a deep crimson blush, that he’s seen the biscuit barrel on the top shelf and wonders if he can reach it. I’ll put the poor sod out of his misery, shall I?

‘It’s okay,’ I laugh, ‘the feeling’s mutual.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Do you want some?’

‘Sorry?’

I lean forward, lower my voice,

‘Do you want a taste of what I’ve got to offer?’

Brown eyes narrow to slits under knitted brows as he wets his lips, and furtively scans the shop. The counter assistant is busy with a bunch of Japanese tourists, and I can tell he’s teetering on the brink. All he needs is one last nudge.

‘Okay, well, whilst you’re making up your mind, I’m going to powder my nose. You know where I’ll be.’ 

I rise, head for the ladies and hear a satisfying shuffle behind me as he leaves the table; hook, line and sinker. I push open the door to the toilets, stroll between rows of stalls and sinks to the last cubicle, furthest from the door, turn and wait for him to enter. He peers around the frame sheepishly, and then slides through.

‘In here,’ I hiss, hooking a thumb in the air.

He squeezes nimbly past me, turns, and as I close and lock the door, he starts to speak, but I press a finger to his lips,

‘Don’t say a word, Alan, just sit.’

He looks puzzled, tries to kiss me, hands cupping my buttocks, but I prise him off, place palms on his shoulders and press,

‘Sit,’ I repeat, and he plants his arse on the seat, starts to fiddle with his belt buckle.

‘No, not today,’ I say, slip off my heels, hand them to him, and hitch up my skirt, ‘maybe some other time.’

He’s confused, but my intent is soon crystal clear, as I brace forearms against the Formica walls, put my right foot on his thigh, step up and put my left on the other. He winces as I transfer my weight onto him, pushing panties and tush in his face. He’s lucky. I was tempted to keep my spikes on.

‘Take my panties off,’ I husk, as excitement mounts. The thrill of being discovered is so sexy that I’m already wet. He rolls the hem of a skirt up straining thighs, and tucks it into the waistband to hold it out of the way, then gingerly slides gossamer underwear to ankles. My eager vagina is inches from his face, and I’m willing to bet he can see moistness glistening on labia, the bud of a clitoris peeping at him, eager for satisfaction. Trembling fingers ease knickers free of toes, one foot at a time, and then he looks up at me.

‘Go on,’ I hiss, ‘get on with it then.’

Hips thrust forward to meet his lips and tongue and, as he runs the tip over wetness, I moan my pleasure, purr like a cat as he licks, fondling thighs with the palms of his hands.

‘Oh, Alan,’ I coo encouragement, ‘that’s lovely.’

My knees clamp broad shoulders tight, hips move in time to a tongue as it slithers over the engorged lips of my pussy, lingers over clitoris, roaming in circles around it and at times sucking it, eliciting feral growls from me.

‘Oh yeah, keep going, Alan. Don’t stop.’

Warm hands caress calf muscles, slide up thighs to cup buttocks, squeezing and pulling me onto his mouth. I move my hips back and forth in time to the rhythm of his tongue to increase my pleasure.

The toilet door suddenly groans open, and someone enters. We freeze, hold our breath as footsteps approach a cubicle to the left, door creaking as it closes, and the latch slides across to lock it. I’m crouching on his lap. I hear panties being pulled down, the snap of elastic, a backside dropping onto a seat with a soft sigh. They adjust position before a musical tinkle of piss hitting water breaks the silence. The wall vibrates as toilet tissue is wrenched from a fixed dispenser roll on the other side of it, and I hear the scraping sound of tissue wiping droplets from a vagina. Panties are pulled up with another snap of elastic, the gurgle of a flush being operated and finally, the sound of taps springing to life as they wash their hands. The blast of a hot air hand-dryer follows.

Our eyes lock. He grins as the outer door opens, and the stranger’s footsteps grow distant as they return to the café. He breathes a sigh of relief,

‘That was close,’ he whispers.

‘Be quiet,’ I hiss, ‘get on with it. I’m nearly there.’

He obeys, but the close shave has aroused me more, and my slit is slippery, dripping juices. My thighs tremble as I try to remain upright, yet surrender to climax rippling through me. Wetness gushes onto Alan’s lapping tongue, dribbling onto his chin. He licks to remove it, but at the same time savours the taste, as I dismount from my perch. He remains seated, hands me the panties, and watches me pull them on before slipping feet into heels.

As I straighten the skirt, smoothing out wrinkles and creases, I notice an eager bulge at his groin. He wants to fuck me, but that’s not going to happen. He was a means to an end, and I’ve had my happy ending, thank you.

‘Well, don’t just sit there. Come on, let’s go.’

‘But, what about me?’ he wails, ‘I’m as horny as—’

‘Yeah-yeah,’ I whisper, ‘I know.’

I can’t resist the urge to make matters worse for him by running a palm over his rigid cock.

‘I’ll sort you out later,’ I add, ‘honest.’

I let him put his number into my phone before I leave the toilet, promising to be in touch, but unsure if I’ll keep it. I’m out of the coffee shop door before he’s out of the toilets, and I don’t look back.

Yeah, I know I could have waited until I was home and masturbated, but it’s fun to cajole a complete stranger into providing my pleasure, especially in a public place. I have a kind of bucket list of things I’d like to do whilst I still have youth and good looks on my side. Oh, no, that wasn’t the first time I’ve been licked off in a toilet, and it certainly won’t be the last, but I felt the urge; mea culpa.

Two

MY FRIENDS TELL ME I have no moral compass, or that I’m like an alley cat on heat, but that’s not true. My moral compass has a magnetic north set to hedonism, and I’m simply not going to conform to society’s standards of what is, and what's not, acceptable. Guys all seem to think they have a God-given right to fuck whoever they fancy whenever they want, and wherever the mood takes them. If a woman exercises the same right, she’s called a slag, a tart or a whore. I decide what my sex life should be like. Yeah, I’m selfish. So what? That’s my choice. 

I remember my teens at school, when boys used to poke fun at me because I had no tits. I was one of the late bloomers, and had to wait until my raging hormones finished with the vertical hold, before kicking