Third Chapter: The 'Short Talk'
Helen insisted on serving us breakfast in bed. "That's what mates are for," she said. But the way she pronounced the word, it sounded more like "maids". She was wearing once again the French maid's apron and nothing else.
This was the day when Cathy and I were scheduled to make our guest appearance at the ALT-conference. We felt tempted to ring the organizers and tell them we wouldn't be able to make it because of 'domestic problems', but Helen persuaded us to go. She said she was going to sit in the front row and lend moral support.
Luckily, our talk wasn't very early in the morning. We had enough time for some very hot kisses and other demonstrations of the affection we felt for each other. But we refrained from engaging in any full-scale lovemaking.
We got to the hotel with plenty of time to clarify any last-minute questions with the organizers. The room where our talk was going to take place was already half full when we arrived there, and was filling up quickly. We hadn't expected that our topic would generate so much interest.
Helen was wearing a see-through blouse and a micro skirt, and nothing else. That there was no bra covering her beautiful breasts was obvious to anyone who looked at her - and there were many who did. That she wasn't wearing any panties under her tiny skirt she told us as we were getting onto the podium to conduct our talk.
"Watch out when I cross and uncross my legs," she said. "You might get a look at my pussy." And that's what we did: watch her cross and uncross her long, slender legs, while one of the organizers introduced today's guest speakers.
The first time, I only had a slight suspicion that there might be something different about her pussy. But when she shifted in her seat the second time, I was sure: there was something inserted into her pussy. What could it be?
"A vibrator," Cathy whispered to me, while the organizer said many complimentary things about the dictionary Cathy and I had compiled. I had the impression that Cathy was catching on to this mind-reading business. She could probably see from my face that a question was tormenting me, and it wasn't too difficult to guess what that question was.
A vibrator! Helen had slipped a vibrator into her pussy. And she took something out of her handbag which looked distinctly like a remote control! She was going to stimulate herself while we were giving our talk! I wondered how obvious my hard-on was to the people in the audience.
I could tell from Helen's face that she considered the whole scenario hilarious. So, that was what she called 'lend moral support'! I felt like tanning her bottom there and then, right in front of this highly-respectable assembly of cunning linguists.
I had prepared some notes for the talk without really expecting that I would need them. Figurative language is a subject close to my heart. I can talk about it for hours and - according to Cathy - bore everybody to death.
But now my mind was a complete blank. I didn't know who or where I was. All I knew was that there was a woman sitting in front of me who was stimulating herself with a vibrator in her pussy.
I knew exactly what I wanted to do to her. I wanted to take her home, shove that vibrator as deep as possible into her pussy and switch it to the maximum speed. Then I would bend her over my knee and spank her naughty bottom until she'd beg me to forgive her. That was crystal clear to me. But I didn't have a clue what all those people in the audience expected from me.
I had to refer to my notes. I read them almost word for word. They talked about the difficulties in translating figurative language. Some metaphors were of a universal nature and didn't present any problems to the translator. But the vast majority only made sense within a certain cultural or geographic context and required a lot of attention and sensitivity.
"The phrase 'You are my sunshine' only makes sense in regions where the sun is a welcome visitor, where there isn't enough sunshine," it said in my notes. "In areas where the red hot sun castigates man and beast, destroys crops, turns the ground into a furnace, the phrase loses its romantic charm. 'You are my rain cloud,' or maybe 'You are my shadow,' might be more appropriate."
I had planned to elaborate on these ideas, cite further examples, talk about expressions containing references to sports which were practiced in some but not in other countries - but I had lost interest.
I didn't care about the red hot sun in faraway places. There was a red hot woman sitting less than twenty yards away, flashing her pussy at me. I wasn't interested in fucking metaphors. I was interested in fucking that devastating woman in the first row.
Cathy was just as distracted by Helen's antics as I was. She didn't seem to be able to string more than three words together. Those members of the audience who formulated carefully worded, elaborate questions only received monosyllabic answers.
Our 'short talk' turned out to be even shorter than had been expected. In other words: it was a disaster. There was polite applause as I removed myself and my erection from the podium. I was sure that they would never invite us back.
In a best-case scenario the organizers might conclude that Cathy and I were quite capable of compiling a useful dictionary in the seclusion of our ivory tower, but weren't articulate enough to talk about it in public. In the worst case they might think we were complete frauds and had published somebody else's work under our names.
As soon as we arrived home, I grabbed Helen and flung her over my knee. I pushed her miniscule skirt up and - this time being grateful that she wasn't wearing any panties - started to spank her brat-bottom. I was going to make her feel what I thought of her behavior. I was going to give her all the disciplining which she had apparently never received as a child.
Helen didn't offer any resistance. She didn't strain against my iron grip or try to wriggle her bottom out of my hand's line of fire. She had probably known for some time what my intention was, that she had a spanking coming her way, but she didn't do anything to avoid it.
I wanted Helen to tell us how sorry she was about her behavior. I wanted her to ask us to forgive her and to promise that she would never again do such a thing, maybe even beg for mercy. But she didn't say a word. She endured her punishment without as much as a whimper.
As her cheeks turned from pink to red, I decided to give Helen another chance for repentance. "Say you're sorry. Say you didn't mean any harm," I encouraged her, but she just shook her head and wiggled her bottom, inciting me to carry on.
Without me wanting it to, this had turned into a standoff between Helen and me. If I stopped without her apologizing, then I would lose all authority. On the other hand, I wasn't mad nor cruel enough to cause her serious pain, just to preserve my ego. I continued spanking her without much conviction.
When Helen's cheeks turned crimson, I stopped. "Okay, you win," I panted, realizing that my arm hurt from the exertion.
Helen raised herself off my knee and hugged me. "Thank you, Stan. That was fantastic," she said with tears in her eyes. "We've got to do this more often."
Then she took a step away from me. "Now you've got to fuck me just as hard as you've slapped my bottom," she said, as she took off her skirt and blouse. When I saw her remove the vibrator from her pussy, I remembered that it had been my intention to switch that device to maximums speed and push it as deep as possible inside her, but I had forgotten my plan in the heat of the moment.
"Don't worry, it was on maximum all the time," Helen said, once more responding to something I had only thought but never said.
'Maybe that's why my punishment had been so ineffective. The vibrator pleasured her pussy while I was thrashing her bottom,' I thought to myself.
Helen was already lying on the carpet with her legs spread invitingly, when I came out of my contemplation. "Come on, caveman," she smiled at me. I flung my clothes in all directions and was on top of her in no time. It was a fast and furious fuck. As I entered her, her pussy offered as little resistance as her bottom had.
It didn't take me long to fill her welcoming hole with my spunk. This wasn't the first time that I wished I had a little more staying power, the ability to control myself a little longer. Helen didn't seem to mind. She kissed me and said, "Thank you, Sir. I promise that I'll be a good girl from now on."
But somehow it didn't sound very convincing. And maybe I didn't really want her to be a good girl.
"Have you ever spanked Cathy?" Helen asked as we were devouring the snack Cathy had prepared for the three of us.
I shook my head, my mouth full of turkey sandwich.
"Did you never feel like spanking her? Don't tell me she's never given you any reason." Helen stayed on the subject.
Of course, I had felt like spanking Cathy. Of course, I thought that she had given me reason to do it. But that reason had been the trigger for many of our past quarrels. And now we were at peace with each other. Our feelings for each other had probably never been as intense as they had become over the last two days. I didn't want to spoil that happiness by opening old wounds. On the other hand, I realized that the thought of giving Cathy a good spanking - with or without reason - attracted me. But not now, not today. My hand still felt sore after the walloping I had given Helen.
"Your hesitation tells me that there is a reason, but you don't want to talk about it. If you want, I can say it for you." Helen offered to read my mind out aloud.
That would have been even worse. I could tell the story as something which happened in the past, use a conciliatory tone of voice, imply that it didn't matter anymore. I was convinced that Helen's version would be much more confrontational. And I didn't want any confrontation with Cathy.
I could tell from Cathy's face that she knew exactly what I was thinking of. Should I come out with it?
My deliberations were interrupted by the doorbell. The three workmen from the home gym place had come to deliver and install the equipment for our torture-chamber. I felt relief that Helen would now have to dedicate herself to instructing the workmen where to put everything.
Cathy and I watched the laborers carry the equipment into our former storage room, unpack it and install it under Helen's supervision. The only thing I could clearly identify was a large, low table, made of polished wood, which was placed into the center of the room and fixed to the floor. Apart from this there were iron bars, weights, chains, ropes and a variety of other gadgets I couldn't even begin to describe.
Helen knew exactly what everything was and where she wanted it. Once more I admired the silent cooperation between the three Chinese. They went about their job quietly and efficiently. Although we were curious, Cathy and I watched from a distance in order not to get in the way. The room would have been too small for Helen, the three Chinese, and the two of us as well.
While I watched the transformation of our former storage room into a torture-chamber, I had some chance to reflect on the subject we had been talking about - or rather avoided talking about - before we were interrupted.
I felt relieved that the arrival of the Chinese trio had interrupted our conversation. But maybe now was the time to settle this score. It wasn't an old and forgotten story. It was still going on, every time it was my turn to host our weekly poker game. Maybe we could use Helen as the arbiter and let her decide who was right and who was behaving unreasonably. I was sure I knew in whose favor she would decide.
I don't know exactly when it started, but for as long as I can remember I have been getting together once a week with a few friends to play poker. I'm not an obsessive gambler; the stakes we play for are so low, they don't make any difference to our budget, no matter whether I win or lose. It's just a habit - Cathy calls it a ritual. We meet, play a few rounds of poker, have a few drinks, shoot the breeze, tell a few jokes, and then stagger home.
In the beginning we used to meet in a bar. We even had a fixed table that was reserved for us every Wednesday evening. As everybody settled down, got married and had their own home, we found it more comfortable to meet in each other's houses, taking turns in being the host.
At the moment, the group consists of Eddy, Hank, Bill and Timothy - and me, of course. Eddy is the only one who lives on his own; all the others are married. My friends' wives accept, more or less gracefully, that this is something we don't want to give up. And with five people taking turns, it happens less than once a month in each house.
Apart from Cathy, who I'll get to in a moment, Bill's wife, Sue, has shown the strongest opposition. She simply clears out of the house as soon as the first player arrives and spends the evening with Meg, Hank's wife. She only returns after everybody has gone. But even she leaves a whole bunch of sandwiches in the fridge so that we have something to munch when we get hungry.
Lucy, Tim's wife is the most welcoming of the four women. She sits in an armchair near the poker table. She seems to have a sixth sense which tells her when it's okay for her to join our conversation and when it's better to remain quiet. And she knows instinctively when someone needs another beer.
Cathy is dead set against me having my friends over when it's my turn to play the host. She refuses to answer the door when they arrive - even when I'm busy in the kitchen, making sandwiches, because she refuses to prepare anything for us. Needless to say, she also refuses to help me clean up after my friends have left. While they are in the house, she locks herself into one of the rooms upstairs and plays music - classical music - just to let us know what kind of morons she thinks we are.
Now, I'll admit freely that my friends and I don't exactly behave like one would at a vicar's tea party. We use language one wouldn't use in the presence of a ten year old girl, and we can get a little noisy when we get excited, particularly after we've had a few drinks. But Cathy's reaction is way over the top.
The morning after, Cathy talks about my infantile need for male bonding. She calls my friends cavemen and says she doesn't want them to set foot in her house ever again. When I'm in a good mood, I let her insults pass without response. I might even mouth some half-hearted apology. But usually I'm not in a good mood. Usually I have a hangover after having drunk more than I should, because I was furious about Cathy's behavior. Usually I don't accept any criticism of me or my friends. I remind Cathy that this is not her house, but ours, that I have as many rights as she has. I don't cede an inch and we have an almighty row.
These fights have become a permanent feature of our relationship. I could almost mark them in advance on the calendar. The day after I host the poker game is the day for an argument. It got to the point that I asked my friends a few times to skip me when it was my turn. I said something about problems with the plumbing and that the house wasn't in a condition to receive visitors. They smiled knowingly; I'm sure they have a very clear idea what the real problem is. Tim once took me aside, put his arm around my shoulders, and said, "I understand, Stan. There's a price to pay for keeping such a classy lady happy."
At this stage I owe them three, maybe four meetings at my house.
I was sure that any reasonable person would agree that I had been treated badly. I was sure that Helen would take my side. But Helen was a woman. Maybe she too had a hang-up about men getting together to play cards and tell dirty jokes?
Cathy watched with great interest as our torture-chamber started to take shape. Occasionally she would remark, to no one in particular, "I wonder what this is for," or exclaim, "Gee, that looks frightening." I wondered whether this was purely curiosity, whether she had ambitions to become a torture-master, or whether she was contemplating a first-hand experience of these gadgets.
I, too, was amazed to see the large variety of gismos we would have available to us. In spite of my sarcastic comment about gyms being like torture-chambers I had my doubts that any normal gym offered so many different ways of causing discomfort.
"Time to start playing," Helen announced as soon as the men from the gym shop had left. She shed the clothes she had put on when the installers arrived and led us into the sparkling new discipline den.
It was an impressive sight. The wall facing the door was covered with all kinds of whips, canes, ropes, chains and other contrivances, each one held in place by its own fixture and readily available for use by whoever was in charge. There were also a few shelves. That wall almost looked like the space over a well-organized mechanic's workbench.
The table in the center of the room looked like a billiards table for midgets, without the green felt cover. It was too low for any normal-sized person to play on it, but I never believed that this was its intended purpose. There were no legs; the top consisted of two large wooden rectangles with a narrow gap in the middle and was supported by a solid wooden base, almost as large as the table top itself.
All around the table, I noticed a large number of heavy-duty straps, obviously intended to hold the person lying on top of the table in the desired position. There were many other gadgets fitted to the remaining walls, some of which were clearly intended to restrain a victim, others without any obvious purpose.
"We've still got to do something about the lighting," Helen declared. "It's much too bright in here. We'll get rid of most of the electric light and use candles instead. That makes it much more romantic."
This was the first time I heard somebody use the adjective 'romantic' in connection with a torture-chamber.
"A torture-master," Helen explained while we took off our clothes, following her example, "isn't someone who wants to hurt people, or enjoys watching them suffer. Good torture-masters love their victims. They cause pain because that pain intensifies the pleasure the victim will feel in the end. To cause the maximum pain and achieve the maximum pleasure requires skill and sensitivity." "But this isn't only about physical pain," Helen continued as she pushed me back against the wall.
I had removed all my clothes and the presence of two stunning naked females had encouraged my cock to raise its head. Helen closed a kind of cuff around my neck which made it impossible for me to move away from the wall. Cuffs around my biceps, wrists and ankles clicked as she closed them. I realized that these cuffs had been fixed to the wall to restrain a man of my exact shape and stature.
"A large part of the excitement comes from being so completely vulnerable. Knowing that the master can do whatever he or she wants, and not knowing what will happen next creates a lot of tension."
Helen had been stroking my cock. Now her hand moved a little lower and she squeezed my balls until they hurt. All I could do was gasp and roll my eyes in agony.
"This tension is released when the victim is finally allowed to climax and this is what makes the orgasm much more powerful than would be possible under normal circumstances."
Moving away from me, Helen turned towards Cathy who had watched my imprisonment with a mixture of horror and envy.
Helen took Cathy's hand and led her to the opposite corner of the room where she released a catch. A large padded beam swung from its fittings and moved down and away from the wall. It was held by levers on either end. As the beam moved lower, legs appeared so that the whole contraption ended up looking like a trestle, standing firmly on the floor.
'A caning horse!' my brain signaled to me.
Helen led Cathy closer to the padded bar, until her abdomen almost touched the leather. Then she made her bend over the beam and attached her wrists and ankles to loops which were fitted to the legs of the trestle. Cathy did not utter a word, nor did she offer any resistance.
I shuddered. How could any sensible person in their right mind enter this gym of horrors out of their own free will and submit themselves to the whim of a 'torture-master'? But, didn't I consider myself a sensible person? Hadn't I come in here out of curiosity, without anybody forcing me to? Hadn't I allowed Helen to pin me to the wall, make it impossible for me to move? And wasn't I sporting one of the hardest hard-ons I could remember?
"Another part of the thrill comes from being humiliated, being forced to do things one doesn't want to do, but has no choice. Or being displayed to others who watch the punishment.
"Do you still remember, Cathy, what it felt like when you were called to the front of the class for a caning?"
"I do," Cathy confirmed, barely loud enough for me to hear.
I was amazed. Cathy had never told me that she had been subjected to physical punishment at school. But then, I had never asked specifically about this subject. I had assumed that the practice had been abolished a long time ago. Was it still going on in little hillbilly towns like the one Cathy came from?
"Do you remember how you used to pee yourself out of fear when you were waiting for the cane to come down on your bottom?"
"I do," Cathy repeated, even quieter than the last time.
How did Helen know all this? Within a few days Helen had found out things which Cathy had never told me about in years of living together!
"I'd better take some precautions before you defile our brand new pleasure palace," Helen said as she placed a rubber mat on the floor between Cathy's legs and put a large bowl on top of it.
The cane made a swishing noise as it moved through the air. But Helen brought it to a dead stop before it touched the tender globes of Cathy's bottom. When the cane made contact, it was a gentle pat. Cathy screamed nonetheless. She had had plenty of time to prepare for the intense pain the cane would cause, and she released all that tension even though the pain didn't materialize. And as she screamed, I could see a stream of liquid flow from between her legs into the bowl beneath.
I realized that this wasn't only about physical pain. It was about torturing the mind as well. It seemed that the mere mention of the fact that she used to wet herself as a child had made Cathy lose control of her bladder.
Helen performed her psycho-terror twice more. The cane whizzed through the air, stopped, and then touched Cathy's bottom ever so lightly. Cathy screamed and released more liquid every time the cane made contact.
As soon as Helen untied her, Cathy's hands went instinctively to her bottom, searching for signs of her caning. Cathy was apparently convinced that her bottom had been punished with great ferocity.
"Get rid of this for me," Helen said as she handed Cathy the half-filled bowl, "and clean yourself before you come back, you despicable girl."
While Cathy was out of the room, Helen busied herself with the preparations for the next act. She got a wide strap which looked like a piece of strong Velcro from one of the shelves on the tool-wall and unhooked a rope which brought two loops down from the ceiling. The loops were hanging down between the end of the table and the tool-wall, each one close to its corresponding lateral wall and at a considerable distance from each other.
When Cathy returned, obviously feeling ashamed about her display of incontinence, Helen told her to release me from my restraints. "I need a strong man for my next trick," she said.
"We didn't only build this place so that I could play with you," Helen started. She interrupted herself when she noticed that Cathy was struggling to open my cuffs.
"There's a little button at the side of each cuff. Press it and the cuff opens," she informed Cathy. My erection poked against Cathy's abdomen as she freed my neck from its restraint.
"The main reason for creating this pleasure palace was that you wanted to hear me scream, you wanted me to lose my composure," Helen resumed her discourse. "This is how we do it: You tie my arms behind my back with this strap. Then you fit my ankles into those two loops and you pull me up until I'm hanging upside down from the ceiling. When you've done that, I'll give you further instructions."
She was serious about this. She was going to satisfy our curiosity by letting us watch her suffer, having us make her suffer.
Helen placed herself face down on the table and put her hands behind her back. She insisted that I bring her arms together at the elbows and then wrap the strap around them several times before fastening it. I imagined that the position this left her in must have been very uncomfortable, her shoulders pulled back and her chest pushed forward.
We had to pull the loops to the center of the room in order to fit them around Helen's ankles. It was clear that, once she was suspended, they would exert a considerable sideways pull, forcing her legs apart. When she was securely fastened to the loops, I pulled on the rope to lift her upwards and Cathy made sure that she didn't bump against the edge of the table as her body swung in the air. As I had expected, her legs were spread wide.
"Now let me down until my head almost touches the floor," Helen instructed me and I followed her order. Her beautiful black hair swept the floor as her body swung gently to and fro.
"Cathy, get the cat-o'-nine-tails from the wall, the one in the middle, and whip my sex twenty times. Don't stop before you reach twenty, no matter how much I scream. It's best if you stand behind me and aim right into the center between my legs."
I was horrified. How could anybody do something like this to a woman? How could anyone treat the center of female sensitivity with so much cruelty? How could anyone ask to be whipped like this?
Cathy didn't flinch. She was determined to do her best to make Helen scream and she didn't have to wait long. Right from the first stroke, Helen's screams reverberated through the house. I pressed my thighs together every time the lashes hit Helen's sex - but my hard-on continued undiminished.
Cathy's face showed one hundred percent concentration. She had been given an assignment and she wanted to complete it to the best of her ability. Was she looking for a pat on the back from Helen? Something like, "Thanks for whipping me like crazy, I've never suffered so much in my life."
Helen screamed in agony whenever the whip punished her exposed pussy. But there was never any suggestion that she didn't want this to happen, that she wanted Cathy to stop. Her screams were simply a reaction to the pain she experienced, and that pain was part of some higher purpose I didn't quite understand.
As soon as Cathy had completed the specified twenty assaults, I untied Helen's arms, lifted her onto the table and slipped the loops off her ankles. As Helen lay on her back, catching her breath, it seemed that the pain had not affected her usual positive mood and her determination to carry on with this madness.
"There's a drawer in the right side of the table," Helen said to Cathy. "Open it and get the set of clamps with the rings attached."
'Set of clamps? What on earth was she up to now?' my mind wondered.
Cathy found the drawer and opened it. It resembled a jeweler's display cabinet. Inside there was a large number of gadgets, laid out neatly on black velvet like precious jewelry.
Cathy got the specified items and closed the drawer. "These are nipple clamps," she explained to me. As if she were an expert on these things!
"It's a set of three, we'll need all three of them," Helen stated. Cathy opened the drawer again and found the third member of the set.
I didn't have much time to think about what this all meant, because Helen now instructed me to release another rope which was fixed to the opposite wall. When I let the rope go, I saw three thin chains, each one with a little hook at its end, come down from the ceiling. They were running over a wheel, an arrangement which resembled a pulley.
The nipple clamps had padded semi-circular grips which closed firmly around Helen's nipples as Cathy fitted them. There was a small clasp which snapped into place to prevent the clamp from slipping off accidentally. Next, Helen instructed Cathy to slip the rings attached to the nipple clamps over the hooks which were dangling from the ceiling. I shuddered to think what the purpose of these preparations might be. The final step was to attach the third clamp to Helen's clit and hook it to the third chain.
The chains were attached to a small drum which was fitted with a crank. When the crank was turned, the drum would rotate and tighten the chain. The effect of this would be that the chain would pull Helen's nipples upward.
And that was exactly what Helen instructed Cathy to do. As Cathy cranked the drum slowly but steadily, the chain first stretched Helen's nipples, then her entire breasts. Soon Helen had to lift her upper body off the table to reduce the strain on her nipples.
But that didn't seem to be enough discomfort for Helen. She told Cathy to also tighten the chain which was attached to her clit. I could see Helen strain to push her pussy up, to accompany the upward move of the clamp without losing contact with the table completely. There came a point when this mysterious woman was suspended in the air, just held by the three chains attached to her nipples and clit. There was an almighty scream which left no doubt that she had experienced a powerful orgasm. Cathy quickly released the chains and let Helen's body float down onto the table.
I was utterly devastated by what I had witnessed. My mind didn't even want to contemplate what kind of agony a woman must feel being suspended by her nipples and clit. And this agony had resulted in a powerful orgasm for Helen! Was there some truth in this talk of pleasure through pain? Did this kind of suffering condition the body to experience more intense pleasure?
I couldn't help thinking what a sensational and strange woman Helen was. She had basically put herself into our hands, and let us do with her what we wanted. She had offered Cathy and me her magnificent body so that we could realize fantasies we hadn't even allowed ourselves to admit to.
For lack of a better word, she had turned into our slave. Our fantasies had apparently not been outrageous enough to stretch her to the limit. She had taken it upon herself to teach us new ways of abusing her. Yet at the same time the impression that she was really the one who called the shots never left me.
The scene we had witnessed had a stimulating effect on Cathy. But rather than contemplation, she wanted action. "I'm so hot, Stan. You've got to fuck me."
Helen had recovered from her orgasm and joined in. "You deserve something special, Cathy, you were wonderful. You seem to have a hidden talent for this kind of thing. Why don't you let Stan fuck your ass while I lick your juicy cunt?"
This wouldn't be the first time I'd fuck Cathy's ass. I had done it before, but it wouldn't be much of an exaggeration to say that anal sex in our relationship happened with roughly the same frequency as February 29th. Cathy had made it clear that she didn't 'feel comfortable' with me sticking my cock into her rear and I didn't consider it important enough to make a federal case out of it.
Now, because Helen had suggested it (or maybe because Helen had indicated that she wanted to eat Cathy's pussy?), Cathy didn't think twice. She positioned herself on all fours so that her pussy was in a convenient position for Helen's mouth and her ass was easily accessible to my cock.
My stiff cock had been waving in front of me almost since the moment I stepped into this gym of horrors. Now it was finally going to get something to do. I drove my hard rod deep into Cathy's ass, trying to make my own contribution to the pain/pleasure theme. I took the sounds which came from Cathy's mouth as encouragement rather than disapproval of my violent attack. I saw Helen's face between Cathy's legs, pleasuring Cathy's other hole.
My cock had been ready for action for a long time and was even more impatient than usual - perhaps understandably so. With a few powerful thrusts I deposited my seed deep in Cathy's ass and rolled onto to floor. If Cathy was disappointed about my speedy departure from her rear, she didn't let on. She was probably too busy enjoying Helen's impressive skills. And Helen made up for any shortfall in excitement that I might have been responsible for. She brought Cathy to a series of increasingly noisy orgasms which were a joy to watch.