Neighbourly Relations Ch. 04

I slept in late the next morning, with no work to get up for on a Saturday. It was about half nine when I finally staggered out of bed, awoken by the sound of men's voices and heavy objects being shifted around on the landing outside. Throwing on some clothes, I went to the door, ostensibly to go downstairs and check to see if I had any post, but really to see what was going on out there.

On the landing, two burly-looking middle-aged men were shifting a large wooden crate through the door of the flat opposite. The building I lived in was a strange sort of a place, originally some kind of Victorian factory or workhouse, it had been converted into flats sometime during the 1930s and its unusual design meant it had rather a odd layout – nine flats on the ground floor, where Jane lived in No. 9, and only five on the floor above, which covered a smaller area and meant that two of the flats were lucky enough to have roof terraces, although mine being one of the cheaper ones wasn't one of them.

The flat opposite however, was. No. 10, which had been empty for about a month now, finally seemed to have found an occupant. I lingered on the landing outside of my door for as long as I thought I could get away with before the two removal men exited again and I followed them downstairs.

The front door was open, of course, the men being engaged in bringing in the new tenant's belongings from their van, and it was as I picked my post up off the floor – with a large muddy footprint across one of the envelopes, causing me to glare angrily at the truck – that I saw my new neighbour for the first time.

Directing the men as they lifted an antique-looking coffee table – "careful with that, that was my mother's!" – she stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the main door watching the men as the carried the object inside. She was quite pretty – tall, thin, blonde and blue-eyed, positively Aryan, although her hair was cut short in a tomboyish bob. The tomboy look was added to by the way she dressed, a pair of battered blue jeans and a thin green-and-grey hoped jumper with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She was in her late twenties by the look of her, thirty at the most, just a few years older than I was. As she saw me looking at her through the open door, she smiled warmly.

"Hello!" she waved, walking up the steps towards me and offering her hand. I shook it – she had a firm, determined handshake, and overall gave the impression of having quite a vibrant, outgoing personality.

"Hi," I replied.

"Alison Nah, your new neighbour," she explained. "Just moving in to number ten, upstairs."

"Ian Wells," I replied. "I live opposite actually, number eleven."

"Oh excellent! Nice to meet you Ian!"

"Likewise."

"Listen, I'm sorry I can't stay and chat, but I have to supervise these gorillas, you know?"

"Yes of course..."

"Sorry about all the noise and everything!"

"Oh that's fine... I'll see you around?"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure we'll be getting to know each other a lot better."

The 'gorillas' returned, having deposited the coffee table up in the flat, and went to the van for the next item. I kept my eyes on Alison for a moment as she directed them once more, then retreated back upstairs to my own flat. She had a nice smile to her and a good figure, no doubt about that. Much more pleasant to look at than Mr Neilson, the old man who'd occupied the flat before her until he'd rather suddenly died on his way to the newsagent to pick up his daily newspaper one morning.

Life, it seemed, was looking up.

As pleasant a distraction as the delightful Miss Nash was, however, I was more than happy with my own sweet submissive slut at number nine, to whom my thoughts quickly turned as I tucked into my breakfast of a large mug of tea and several slices of toast. I had a couple of hours until she arrived to decide just what wonderful games I was going to play with her today. I had a rough idea of course, now I just needed to make the refinements.

The hours went by slowly, as seemed to be becoming usual when awaiting the wonderful times I knew Jane and I would be sharing. As usual, her arrival at midday was preceded by the sound of her high-heeled shoes clicking on the stairs, and I was ready and waiting for her by the door when she knocked, more confidently this time than she had the previous Sunday.

Opening it, I announced proudly.

"Twelve o'clock dead on. Well done."

It was only then that I noticed the door of number eleven opposite open, and Alison standing there looking at the pair of us with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. I don't know how long she'd been standing there or what she was out there for, but she fixed me with a knowing look I found half-arousing and half-disturbing before she turned and closed her door.

Jane turned to follow my gaze, looking back at me when she saw the door was closed.

"Who was that?" she asked, her voice full of concern.

"Her name's Alison, she's just moved into number ten there."

"Oh God, she saw me like this... What will she think?"

I smiled warmly.

"Does it matter?"

Reassured by my tone of voice, she smiled and shook her head.

"No."

"No what?"

"No sir."

"Better. Come in."

She entered and, with a last glance at the door of number ten, I closed the door behind her, ready for another session.

She looked gorgeous, as I could have predicted. Her dress was very dark blue, and just as short as the red one she had worn the previous night had been, with again a more than generous amount of cleavage on display. Her brilliantly smooth and silky legs were this time though clad, as instructed, in a similarly wonderfully smooth pair of stockings. Exquisite.

"Is it all right, sir?" she asked nervously.

"Impeccable," I informed her. She smiled proudly.

"Thank you sir."

"Now come over here, sit on the sofa."

She did as instructed, placing herself on the edge of the battered upholstery. Not the most glamorous of settings, perhaps, but it would have to do.

"Cross your legs," I told her, and she obeyed. Crossed, stocking-clad legs... Is there a more gorgeous site in this world, I wonder? I can't readily think of one. Just to add to the perfection, her skirt rose up a little on her raised leg, just enough to get a glimpse of the top of the stocking and the promising white flesh beyond.

"Wonderful," I breathed. "Stay there for a moment, don't move."

As usual she obeyed, not passing any comment or offering any question about what she was being asked to do. I fetched my digital camera from my room and moved back through to the living room, switching it on and selecting the highest-quality setting.

"Today we're going to be taking a few pictures," I explained. I had expected her to question the idea – after all, pictures were evidence, and evidence could one day be used if anything ever turned sour between us. But instead, she seemed rather excited by the prospect, her face breaking into a smile.

"What kind of pictures sir?" she asked with a calculated air of innocence that was far too sweet and alluring to be anything other than pretence.

"Wonderful pictures," I explained as I kneeled and aimed the camera to take the first shot. Click!

"Teasing, tantalising pictures," I explained. "Pull your dress up a little higher, so I can see some more flesh... Mmmmmm, that's it... Now turn sideways a little..."

Click!

She seemed to have a real affinity for this. Perhaps it was another one of her fantasies.

"Pictures that would get any man hard if they were... oh I don't know, uploaded to a pornographic website for anybody to see... 'Click here to see Jane'... Mmmmm, can't you just imagine it?"

She could, of course, and the idea seemed to half fascinate and half horrify her as she looked at me wildly.

"You're not going to –"

"No," I assured her. But seeing the excitement that had danced in her eyes: "At least, not at the moment."

I put the camera down and sat next to her on the sofa, whispering into her ear as I stroked her wonderful, smooth, stocking-clad leg.

"But you'd like that, wouldn't you?" I asked her. "Deep down, beneath the shame and the degradation and the humiliation... No,because of all those things. All those men, hundreds, maybe thousands, looking at pictures of you, pictures of you undressing, teasing them, posing for them... Pictures of you tied up, naked, being teased, being spanked, beingfucked.... Being dominated, and all on public display..."

She sighed and leaned back against me, her eyes closed.

"Oh yes sir..." she breathed. My hand moved under the hem of her skirt and for a moment I stroked the soft, uncovered flesh of her thigh, before standing and moving back across the room to my camera.

"Come on then camera slut," I barked. "Your audience awaits. Off with the dress."

She looked at me only for a moment before nodding and slipping the shoulder straps of the dress off, before pulling it down, kicking off her shoes and stepping out of the dress. As instructed, her bra and knickers were white, lacy and skimpy. Perfect.

"Strike a pose," I instructed, lifting the camera once more. "Hands on hips. Smile!"

Click!

"Now turn around, let's see that arse... Oh yes, they'll love that. They can't get enough of that. Now bend over, let's see it pressed against those pretty little panties..."

Click! Click!

I didn't know if I was really going to share any of these photographs, of course. If, in the sober light of reality afterwards she was still up for it then it was certainly a tantalising idea, whoring her online like that. After all, who need ever know? But for now, the mere fact that the fantasy of the idea of men downloading pictures of her – as she had downloaded pictures from the internet to fuel her own submissive fantasies – so clearly turned her on was enough for me.

"Now for the stockings," I instructed her when I had enough photos of her in this particular state of undress. Without needing any further bidding she carefully removed these from her legs, giving me plenty of opportunity of taking photos of her as she posed delightfully while removing them. She was, it seemed, a natural tease, and I wondered idly whether perhaps one day it might be nice to give her the chance to use those teasing skills on me in a more physical manner.

But that was for another time.

"Right, sit back on the sofa, and put a hand in your knickers... Oh yes, that's it, make it look like you're enjoying it."

"I am enjoying it," she sighed. "Sir."

"Well don't enjoy it too much!" I snapped.

She sat back upright, removing her hand.

"No sir."

"Remember why you're here, slut."

"Yes sir, for you sir."

"For my pleasure. Not for yours."

"Yes sir."

"Good, now..."

I paused. This was about to be another little milestone in our relationship – I'd not seen her breasts yet, those wonderfully promising glances at her cleavage were the furthest I'd gotten. Despite everything else, it still seemed like a major step. I was positively licking my lips.

"The bra," I said simply.

She too seemed to realise what a step this was as her eyes locked on mine and she reached around behind her, unhooking the bra. For a moment she held it there, then she allowed it to fall, unwanted, to the ground.

He breasts were as wonderful as I had expected, pert and keen for her age, wonderfully shapely and rounded with erect, darting little nipples.

Click, click, click.

After a few shots, however, I abandoned the camera temporarily and moved across to her, kneeling in front of where she sat on the sofa, placing my hands gently against her breasts. I ran my palms down them, before tracing the curved outlines with my fingers, and then gently taking each nipple between my thumb and forefinger.

"Do you like this?" I ask.

She nodded again.

"Yes sir."

I squeezed, and she winced.

"This?"

"Yes sir," she said, a little more forced. I squeezed more tightly.

"And this?"

Her face displayed the pain she felt, but once more she nodded.

"Yes sir."

I removed my hands and quite suddenly delivered a short, sharp smack to her left breast.

"Liar."

She gasped, both from surprise at the slap and the relief of having her nipples released. Her left breast was red where I'd struck it.

"They're not firm enough," I lied.

"I'm sorry sir," she said miserably.

"Yes, well, we'll just have to make do with what we have, meagre though it is. Perhaps we can perk them up a little..."

She looked up at me.

"I hope so sir. Whatever it takes."

The last sentence cut through the game and was a very real message to me.Do whatever you want to do. I can take it.

I nodded.

"As I said, we shall see."

I moved through to the kitchen, knowing exactly what I was looking for – the long-handled wooden spoon kept at the back of the cutlery drawer there. When I walked back into the living room armed with this innocent-looking cooking implement, she regarded it with wide eyes and drew a deep breath. She knew exactly what was coming.

"Hands behind your back," I told her. "In fact..."

Momentarily leaving the spoon on the table, I grabbed one of her abandoned stockings from the floor and used it to bind her hands tightly together where she'd obediently placed them behind her back.

"Sit up straight," I further commanded, going back for the spoon. "Nice the straight, that's it. Chest out."

She thrust herself forward, proud and ready, but at the same time I could see the dreading anticipation in her eyes.

"Now I don't want any fuss from you, understand?"

She nodded stiffly.

"Yes sir," she replied.

"Good."

Smack!

I brought the spoon down hard and without warning on her left breast, and it collided with the flesh with a satisfyingly full sound. She bit her lip and shuddered slightly, but managed to keep herself sitting upright and didn't say anything.

"How does it feel?"

"It stings sir," she replied.

"Good. That means it's working. We'll soon have those little tits of yours nice and pert, won't we?"

"I hope so sir."

"That's the spirit."

Smack!

This time right onto her nipple, and she did let out a little cry, flinching as she did so.

"I said quiet, slut!" I demanded, smacking her again, and she tried to keep still. "And don't move!"

"I'm sorry sir!"

"You will be."

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Very quickly her poor breasts began to pinken and then redden from the force of the blows I was pouring down upon them with the spoon. I couldn't hit as hard or as meaningfully with it as I could with some implements, but it was perfect for administering painful little slaps all over. After delivering countless blows, I moved across to the other side, so that the force would be concentrated more on her right breast, which had so far received less attention. Again she struggled to keep still, desperately trying not to cry out or to flinch.

"What do you think?" I asked, standing back and admiring her sore-looking breasts, patterned in places by the shape of the edge of the spoon.

"I... I think they're a little better sir," she said, her voice wavering with the pain.

"Yes, well, they'll have to do. At least we've brought a little colour to them, eh?"

"Yes sir."

I returned to the camera, taking aim once more.

"Don't forget to smile for the camera," I reminded her.

And she did, bless her. She managed one of her wonderful, tantalising smiles as she sat there with her hands tied behind her back, her breasts painfully sore from a long and hard beating, naked but for a single flimsy pair of white knickers.

"Now, panties," I told her. She looked at me with some puzzlement.

"Panties, sir?"

"Panties. You know – the thin, white, flimsy little things that are just barely keeping you modest at the moment, you little slut."

"Yes sir, I know, but... I don't quite understand?"

I gave an exaggerated sigh, as if I thought I was dealing with an idiot.

"Take them off!" I demanded.

"But... My hands?"

I folded my arms and looked at her angrily.

"Take them off."

Looking somewhat at a loss as to what on Earth she was going to do, she nonetheless bravely tried to remove them with her hands secured as they were behind her. She could just about push them down at the back with her hands in that position, and she tried to catch them on the edge of the sofa and wriggle out of them, but although they came down a little, enough to reveal the wispy fluff of her trim pubic hair, she couldn't get them any further and eventually she slumped back, miserable and defeated.

"Honestly," I sighed. "Do I have to doeverything?"

"I'm sorry sir."

"Be quiet slut. I'm sick and tired of hearing that from you."

Suddenly I moved forward and grabbed her, hauling her from the sofa and turning her around so that she was now facing it.

"On your knees!" I barked, already pushing her down toward the ground as I did so. When she was there I pushed her forward, her face down in the gap between the two main cushions.

I then moved back, grabbing her feet and moving them out as far as they would go to either side so that her legs were wide open, her panties stretched tightly across her backside. Then I grabbed the other discarded stocking leg and tied it around her right knee, tying the knee to the right leg of the sofa, which had enough space at the bottom to get the material around. For her left knee I used the discarded bra, which was just about long enough to allow me to secure that limb in the same way. Then, just to keep her warm for a moment while she awaited what was to come, I slapped her hard on the backside through her knickers, making her cry out.

"Stay there slut," I mocked, knowing that she wasn't going to go anywhere. She didn't bother replying as I made another journey to the kitchen, returning this time with the pair of scissors I kept in there. Her eyes were very wide, hair bedraggled across them as she looked at me walking back toward her holding the scissors.

"Head down," I commanded, and she obeyed. I pressed the scissors against her backside, making her jump at the touch of the cold metal, before I slowly, carefully sliced through the thin material of her skimpy underwear, cutting a line right through which allowed me to pull them clean off. She was bare, vulnerable and completely at my mercy.

Just how we both liked it.

"Time to get some colour in those cheeks, eh?" A rhetorical question, of course, but she answered anyway.

"Yes sir."

There was no counting this time, no games. Simply me, kneeling to one side of where she was trapped, smacking her bare backside with my hand again and again and again and again. She whimpered and cried and moaned but I took no notice. I didn't even count myself how many times I slapped her, I merely watched almost transfixed as my hand came down again and again on the soft, supple flesh, turning it redder and redder as once more I beat her backside as hard as I could, wanting to make her painfully sore, give her something she would really remember the next time she sat down.

It was perhaps the best part of ten minutes before I finally snapped out of the daze I had fallen into, and I realised she had buried her head into the cushions of the sofa, weeping bitterly.

"Nice and warm?" I asked her, trying to keep out of my voice the fact that I was concerned I might have gone a little too far this time.

"Yes sir," she managed through the tears. And then, as if perhaps she sensed that I needed some reassurance that she was still enjoying the game: "Thank you."

I nodded, although of course she couldn't see it, and retreated back across the room to take up the camera once again.

Click, click, click...

"That's much better, got some colour in it now," I told her. "Wiggle it for me, come on, show it off."