This story follows on in a general sense from [Isobel’s Pink Panties](https://www.reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/4l49dq/isobels_pink_panties/) – but works by itself too.
All comments and feedback gratefully received. If you have a fantasy you’d like to become a story, PM me and we can chat.
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Ben and Isobel have a place by the ocean. You plan to go there together, the three of you. But something comes up. They’re going to be delayed a couple of days.
‘Watch out for Polly,’ says Isobel as she waves you off, ruffles your hair in that way of hers. ‘She’s trouble, that girl.’ You wonder what she means. You will find out soon enough.
**1. Observation.** (In which Polly opens her legs).
You reach the bridge to Fig Island as evening draws in. Ahead, the silhouette of land, dark and rugged with trees. To either side the horizon is a stripe of peach, deepening to blue and black, specked with stars. The narrow road curves along the coast, past grand weatherworn mansions. Some look old enough to be colonial. Lights come on: click, click, click, a welcoming orange against the night.
There’s no signal on Fig Island. Google maps wouldn’t work if you tried. So you follow the instructions, stopping once or twice to check you haven’t missed the turning. *Past the pier, past the straight beach then it’s on your left at the big magnolia.* You see the wooden stanchions of the pier peel through the beam of your headlights. Out where the tide is low there is the shape of a large listing hull, down on the sand, tethered to the boardwalk above it. You lean forward over the wheel. *Magnolia, magnolia, magnolia. Aha!* The fat white petals shine out. You pull in and turn of the engine.
It is dark and silent. Then you hear the surf rolling, the chirp of cicadas. The tension from the drive floats from your shoulders. You jump out, head to the house, almost trip over a newspaper that’s been shoved through the letterbox. It smells cool inside, aromatic like a church. You go around flipping on all the lamps, opening all the windows, tearing off the dust sheets.
It’s nice, really nice. A verandah at the front, a big living room with an open kitchen, a study. Upstairs, two good sized bedrooms that both open out onto a seaview balcony. It’s decorated cleanly. Blue walls with white skirting – very nautical. Black and white movie posters: Casablanca, Singing in the Rain, Annie Hall. You return to the hall to tidy away what tripped you. But it is not a newspaper. It is a telescope wrapped in newspaper. There’s a piece of brown twine around it tied to a luggage tag. *I spy something beginning with P*, it says.
Pirates? Parrots? Penguins? People? Popsicles? Parties? Pears? Pop tarts? Panties? *Watch out for Polly*, Isobel had said. You shrug. If Polly is a gift giver that’s a good thing in your book. You love presents.
It is still warm from the day and you take your dinner to the table outside, find a citronella lamp to burn to keep the bugs at bay. Pasta, pepper, a fistful of rocket, lemon. Sharp and fresh. The taste sluices away three hundred miles of highway drive-thru. You look out onto the bay. To your left it curves up into a cliff. The beach is long and flat and the water is out a long way. A fingernail moon casts glint on the water. Then there’s the pier. The hull you saw is actually a houseboat. There are strings of Chinese lanterns along the deck, under an awning. On the upper deck a soft glow comes from inside a large rectangular window.
You put down your fork, pick up the telescope. It is old, brass, but its magnification is strong and the image is sharp and clear.
There is nothing at first. Just a small armchair against a red patterned wall hanging. It looks Indian, perhaps. And then a figure appears. You get a bump of adrenaline. It is a woman. She is tall, has her blonde hair in a tomboy pixie. She has on a long, soft shirt. Its cuffs are rolled back over her slender hands, its front to above her knees.
You lick your lips without meaning to. *Pretty Polly.* It’s got to be.
She undoes the top button, then the next and one more and give a theatrical shrug. The material flutters over her shoulders. She is naked. Polly has small firm breasts. Her pussy is shaved clean. She raises her arms a little, as if she needs to emphasise the length and lightness of them. She sits delicately on the chair and – one two – puts a leg over each arm.
It is dirty, her stirupping herself like that, crude in exactly the way that society disapproves of. But that’s the *point*. It’s calculated. That’s why the web is 90 per cent spread legs. But those girls are dull-eyed, doing it for the money. This one, this Polly is doing it for you. You are transfixed by the exquisite deliciousness of the pair of open legs in front of you. You part yours in appreciation, feeling the Lycra of your leggings tug at you. She spreads her pussy wide open – for you, of course its for you. Then slowly, slowly, licks her hand.
Nothing is rushed, nothing urgent. Her actions are smooth and slow. She starts to rub, fingers massaging her mound, her other hand on her breast, twisting the nipple hard. You inhale at that and copy the action, almost without thinking, a puppet under her influence. You squeeze your own breast pull at the ache that is building.
As she rubs herself, her hips lift slowly in a gentle rhythm. She puts two fingers in and looks right at you. There is something austere about her. Something that reminds you of tales about faeries – not the sparkly rainbow kind – but the mischievous plotting ancient kind. The ones which gladly let you drink from their pool and only after tell you there is a steep price. But when you’re thirsty you drink. Her hand comes from her breast to her clit. One hand thrusting, fingering, the other rubbing, pinching.
Quicker she moves and she comes in a flurry, slumping down into the chair but not stopping. Even when you can see she is almost overwhelmed with the sensation she carries on, one hand now buried in a fist in her short hair.
After a moment she stands and looks at you. She stares for a long time then she goes and turns off the light and you can see nothing more. You moan. Should you go and find her? Will you ever see her again? She has posed questions and you want answers. And if there are no answers, at least you want a good fuck.
**2. Education.** (In which Polly makes things abundantly clear).
You are taking breakfast on the verandah, enjoying the morning sun on your face, when Polly appears. She is wearing cream slacks, a silk blouse, a white panama hat. She is eating an apple and her other hand is shoved into her pocket. She walks into the front door as if she owns the place and comes and stands near you. She is classy, that much is obvious. Dressed like a prohibition-era society girl, powerfully sexy. Her height, the mannish trousers, all of it exudes confidence.
‘So you watched me play with my cunt last night,’ says Polly.
First surprise: she is British. *Supercalifragilisticexpiali – fuck me*. Mary Poppins, Hermione Granger, Downton Abbey all flash across your mind in various states of undress – frilly knickers, stockings, hands touching, spreading. She uses the C-word conversationally. In her refined accent it is almost filthier than when she showed it off. Almost.
‘Do you often spy on women?’ she says. She sounds serious but you think you can see a sparkle in her eyes.
‘I…um…’ you say. You were about to eat a bowl of yoghurt and you drop the spoon which clanks. You blush and spread the mess around with a napkin.
‘I don’t blame you of course,’ she says, ‘I’d want to watch me have a wank if I were you.’
‘Well, I…er…’ There’s something about her that completely baffles you, turns you into a stuttering schoolgirl. You want to get it right for her, to impress her, to gain her approval.
‘Get up then,’ she says. You leap to it, the chair scraping out from under you.
‘Yes ma’…’ you stop yourself again. Christ, you almost salute. Something about her demands it: the imperiousness, the cool authority. She sighs, as if she expects nothing less. She tilts her head to the side, looks at the short short shorts you have on. They aren’t elasticated around the legs so there’s a clear line of sight – if the angle’s right – to your panties. Today: leopard print thong. Funky as fuck. Her eyes slide up to your spaghetti-string-strap top which hugs your breasts. You can see her thinking about something, little nods as she makes decisions. She doesn’t look completely happy with the situation.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘What are you waiting for?’
You are confused. ‘For what?’
‘The tea,’ she says, raising her palms in the universally understood gesture for what the fuck do I employ you for. ‘I’ve come visiting. Now you go and make me tea.’ She closes her eyes, raises her face to the sky, looks back at you. ‘Yes?’ she says.
You’re still there. ‘Oh,’ you say. ‘Right. OK. I’ll just…’
‘They keep Twinings for when I visit,’ she says. ‘Did Isobel not leave you a note? I expect not, the scatty thing. If there’s any of that filthy Lipton, take it out and burn it.’
You walk back to the kitchen area and Polly follows. She keeps a few paces away. You look in the cupboard for the tea. It’s nervewracking. How the heck do Brits even drink tea? No lemon, that’s for sure. You have a distant memory of having read something about it once. Didn’t George Orwell write something about making tea? Milk first? Sugar? What kind of cup?
‘About my cunt,’ she says, returning to her preferred theme. ‘What was your favourite part?’
Every time she says it its like you’ve touched an electric fence. It’s not a word you’re used to. You find a teapot and a tin of loose tea and a strainer. How much do you put in? Before the boiling water? In the cup?
‘I liked, um…’ Thinking about it makes you feel off balance, like you got up too quick from a hot bath. You liked all of it. The way she played with herself – both hands, virtuoso, the confidence in how she exposed herself, the horizons of pleasure she explored. You know what’s that like – when you or a lover have kept touching, kept rubbing after the orgasm, when you’re flying, when the receive dial is turned up to full, every nerve ending throb throb throbbing. Polly was intrepid, bold, taking off her spacesuit for a lungfull of the universe. Your nipples have got hard. You feel yourself warming between your legs.
‘Lost for words?’ Polly says. Your hands are on the kitchen counter. You feel her slide behind you, her soft breath on your neck. One of her hands trails from your shoulder blade down down down to your ass. The other finds a place on the side of your ribcage, the tips of her fingers on the flesh at the side of your breast.
‘Perhaps,’ she says. ‘Perhaps.’ Her hand moves down your ass, over the fabric, between your cheeks. She finds her way inside the shorts and strokes you very gently through your panties. ‘Perhaps you like the part where I spread my legs nice and wide.’ Her other hand inches forward. Your nipple is between two of her fingers, just resting there. God you want her to pinch it, to squeeze it. Her mouth is against your ear. ‘Or maybe you liked the part where I spread my lips and showed you everything like a dirty slut.’ The accent. It destroys you. *Dirty slut*. It’s the last thing you think she is but you want her to say it again. She rubs your pussy in a steady rhythm, spreading her fingers in a vee so they can go either side of the gusset of your panties, so she can squeeze them together to press your folds.
‘I like the…’ your moan stops your attempt at a sentence. Sentences are not for people whose backs are arched and are being played with like a… ‘…oh, fuck,’ you manage to say.
‘The eloquence,’ she says. ‘Or perhaps you just liked thinking about what I am going to do to you this evening.’ Her hand closes over your breast, squeezing it hard, tightly. Her teeth are on your earlobe now, her fingers push aside your panties and sink a tiny way into your wetness. ‘Nine-o-clock,’ she says. You are pinned, unable to move. You want more, need more. ‘We’re going to have such a lovely time.’ And then she pulls away.
You make short gasps. Denied. Left wanting. It is agony, aching agony. When you turn she has moved back a little. She is licking the fingers that touched you, one at a time.
‘Next time,’ she says. ‘Make sure you know where the tea is.’
**3. Submission.** (In which you learn a different meaning of self restraint).
You spend the morning in a daze of denied lust. You turn the shower on and forget about it and then have to spend half an hour mopping up. You watch a DVD loading screen but don’t press play. In the early afternoon you go for a run on the beach. It is deserted. Your bare feet slap the wet sand. It kicks you out of the trance. Exhausted, you go back and nap. At some point you hear a knock on the door but you don’t answer it. When you wake up it is eight in the evening.
There is a stack of parcels on the doorstep, black tissue paper and pink ribbon. Under the bow of the top package is a plain card with the letter P in thick ink. You bite your lip. You really, *really*, love presents. You take them upstairs and unwrap them. The largest gift is a dress, a white cotton slip, short – thigh length – with a daisy-pattern trim. Next a hairband, ruby red with a bow. Finally the underwear: a thong to match the hair band. You put the clothes on. The dress cinches tight at your waist.
You walk to Polly’s, along the upper edge of the sand. The water is nearly in. You reach the pier, walk out along the planks. Her boat is floated up. It is big, a sort of wide bodied barge. On the polished deck are sun loungers, a parasol. The strings of lights you saw before are on, making the evening around seem darker, making the boat look like a pool of light, of life; welcoming. The lights run down a set of stairs to a door, which is open for you. You think of Polly’s hand on you from earlier and feel yourself getting turned on. Something she did, something she said. You’re starstruck.
The room is large – all the partitions have been removed from the upper deck and the space inside is open. At the prow, a curved kitchen with an oval island, all black and white check tiles. In the middle, where you have descended, a sitting room in cubist furniture. At the back, a full third of the length of the ship is bedroom. The bed itself is gigantic, suspended from the ceiling by four thick ropes, the wall behind all bookcase, windows either side, looking out onto the perfect summer dusk.
‘There you are,’ says Polly. She is in, of all things, a business suit, no jacket. The CEO of PussyTeasers Inc. Vertical navy striped shirt, black tight tight trousers, kitten-killer heels. She’s plastered her hair back with crème. She does that thing again where she walks around you, checks you out. You feel like a puppy that Cruella de Ville has taken a shine to. When she goes behind she doesn’t appear again.
‘Put your hands behind you,’ she says, brusquely. ‘Listen.’ She talks weird words in a measured, steady, clear way. ‘I want you to imagine I have a beam of white light between my hands.’
‘Ok…’ you say, batshit crazy alert blinking wildly.
‘It is unbreakable. I’m going to wrap it around your wrists.’ She crosses your hands and presses them together. It is a strange sensation: sunwarmed, soft, heavy like lead. It is almost as if the rope really was there. You want her want her want her.
Polly walks in front of you. You are acutely aware the position she has put you in, the way it pushes your chest forward. You tense, turn on, shift your feet. Of course she sees it, the whisper of a smile. She runs a hand along your cheek, over your mouth, putting enough pressure on to push your bottom lip down. Her finger tip touches your top teeth. There is something proprietorial about it, an owner making an appraisal of an animal.
She moves to your shoulder and slips the straps to the side. She gives the dress a tug and it falls down, exposing your breasts. She puts her hand put flat.
‘Spit,’ she says. The only time you have ever spit is when you brush your teeth. It feels filthy to do it, but you comply. You roll your mouth and let a trail of saliva dribble into her palm. Polly shakes her head. ‘We’ll need to better than that.’ She goes to a sidetable, opens a drawer and pulls out a flesh-coloured dildo. It is soft, realistic, long. She wipes what you gave her over the head as she comes back. ‘Open your mouth,’ she says. You obey. YespleasePollydoittome.
She slides it onto your tongue with a slight twist. You can only just get your lips around it. That’s a good thing. Filling, stretching, just-a-bit-too-much, fuck me. Her free hand comes around the small of your back, like a dance partner. Polly is leading, naturally. You don’t think for a moment to move your hands; you don’t know if you could if you wanted to. The spell she has put on you holds fast.
She pushes the fake cock deeper into your mouth, touches your tonsils, makes your eyes water. You do your best to accommodate it but it is big. She starts a rhythm, slow, deliberate thrusts as she looks down into your eyes, holding you hip to hip. You try to keep it cool but the gagging gets in the way. She licks her lips. You drool around the dildo and Polly steps away, leaving you gasping.
She puts her hand out like before. This time a mouthful spills out, your eyes still on hers, trails hanging from your lips. ‘Good,’ she says, and she tips it over the tops of your breasts and smears it across. Her palm brushes your nipples, which were hard before and now are solid. She uses both hands, taking a breast in each, squeezing you, teasing you. She kisses your wet mouth. Her manner: I’m-the-boss-and-you’re-a-secretary-I-can-fire-at-will. All the while your hands hold firm. You want to touch her, to touch yourself. Your fingers bunch, straighten, flex in their invisible bonds.
Polly puts her hand in her pocket and pulls out two clothes pegs. She looks at you in a *what do you think* kind of way and you just look back in a *I don’t know what the fuck is going on but I need you so bad* kind of way. In Polly language that means a yes. She kisses you again, this time with a lot more nipping of your bottom lip, while she runs the tips of the pegs up along your sides, then up to your breasts and you bite the inside of your cheek as she clips them on. The pinch is firm, hard on your engorged nipples. You go on tiptoes, push your hips towards her. It hurts but oh god oh god its making you so fucking wet. You sigh, moan, circle your pelvis.
She manoeuvres you backwards so your ass is against the edge of the huge suspended bed. She stands back and smiles a delicious one at you. The throb from your breasts is extraordinary – these things could keep a bra on a line in a stormforce gale – and they are on you. You remember some shit about breathing exercises to help with pain. Your hearing has become muddy and that noise you notice is the sucking of your own breath, little beautiful sobs of lust. *Please Polly, please…*
Polly unbuttons her shirt first, drops it to the ground. Close up she is finer than you thought: skinny, AA bust, fine golden hair on her arms. Then the trousers go, a wiggle of the hips to ease them off. Underneath, opaque white pantyhose.
Polly unclips the straps of your dress and pulls the whole thing down and off, leaving you in panties and hairband. When she presses against you, your breasts touch for the first time, pushing the pegs from side to side, making you see stars. Her hand goes between your legs. Nothing tentative. She pushes the material away and starts to finger you. She knows you are there, ready, open, soaked. But she has barely started before she pauses. You think you might be about to cry.
‘Don’t, don’t, don’t,’ you say, no need to say the word stop.
She makes a *ssssh* on your lips with her finger. Magician-like she produces something from behind her back. Another dildo, black and smooth with a bulb at the base. She slips it down the front of her tights and pushes the fat end into her, closing her eyes for a second as she does. Now, her cock is there, pressed tightly against her by the elastic. She strikes a *Vogue* pose, hands on hips, pouting at you as you wriggle under the clamps that are making your juices drip down your thighs. She tears a hole in the pantyhose, lets her cock through, and advances.
You can feel the tip of her cock against your belly. She is parting your legs, kissing you, her hand under your knee, positioning you so she can put it in. Stretch, fullness, slickness; the incredible smoothness of her cock, sliding inside. She starts to thrust, serious, strong motion, lifting up, rubbing. Her power is slow, steady, irresistible, completely in control. No one is going to come early at this party. You’ve been with men, you’ve been with women but this is beyond. And your arms are still bound. She kisses your neck hard, lovebites. There is pain and it is good, but all of it pales to the feeling of this woman mounting you.
‘Fu…fu..fu…’ you say as Polly makes you hers. Your arms are stuck behind you, fixed against the edge of the mattress. She turns you around, pushes you forward by the shoulder against the bed. The clothes pegs tug against your flesh. You feel your panties being yanked down to your knees. Her hands are on your hips as she penetrates you from behind. She speeds up, her lap slapping against your ass, giving you the full length. It is angled just so. Then her hand takes your wrists, tight. The complete sensation of capture, restraint. When men fuck you there is always a sense of their victory, their pleasure at having you. With Polly there’s that but something else too: her dominance is harder than a man ever could be, marble, steel, exotic, shimmering
Your orgasm builds, swells in your pussy, makes you even wetter. She pushes your head down into the duvet.
‘Tell me,’ she says. ‘Tell me to fuck you in your cunt.’ Then she stops. She fucking stops and leaves you empty. You cry out.
‘Oh god, put it back…’ You swallow, whisper: ‘Fuck me in my cunt.’
‘Louder,’ she says, snorting, pushing harder at you. The tip of her cock flicks over your clit and you flinch hard. ‘Fucking shout,’ says Polly.
You press your nails into your palm. You need it now. ‘Fuck my…’She reaches round and flips off the pegs. The blood rushes back to your nipples. ‘…cunt!’
She enters you again and you scream. Your cheeks, your chest, red hot, burning up, fever pitch. You screw your eyes shut, see Mandelbrot checkerboards spinning in infinity, paparazzo flashbulbs. The feeling is deep in you, in your gut, in your womb, a tightening. You want to let go, need to let go. *Help me.* Her fingers touch your ultrasensitive breast. That sends you over. You moan deeply, arch your back, your thighs and legs tremble. You gush hard onto Polly’s cock, your groin. She shafts you through it, sending you on loop the loops in the supernova sky, all five senses crumpled to one white hot spot between your legs that explodes at the speed of fuck.
Jitterspace. You’re lost there for a second, swim back up to a sea of static. You hear a voice rambling: ‘my cunt, my pussy, my…’ You realise its you. Your eyes start working next. You have made it to the bed, somehow are on your back, the sheets between your legs soaked through. Your hands are freed from their binding. Polly is kneeling beside you. ‘That was,’ you say. ‘That was…’
‘…Shut the fuck up and make me come,’ says Polly and she kisses you nicely.
‘Yeah,’ you shake your head to clear it. *Game on*. You get on your knees. You’re both on your knees. As you kiss you tear the pantyhose, pull out the dildo. Polly growls, literally; throws herself back against a snowdrift of pillows, wraps her legs around your shoulders, pulls you onto her. She is nearly as soaked as you were. You open your mouth wide and take as much of her as you can, lapping, your face covered in her.
‘Eat me,’ she says through clenched teeth, bucking her hips at you. ‘Fucking eat my little cunt.’ She loves that word. You’ve still got the dildo in your hand and you turn Polly’s sword back on her, teasing her hole as you run circles around her nub with your tongue. Then you run it down over her perineum and she hisses louder. ‘Stick it in me,’ she says. ‘Fucking do it.’ You rub the cock over her, get it slick, tease her asshole. You grab hold of her thigh, hard, and you push it in, slowly, slowly, stretching her.
She shouts out, grabs the sheet, throws her head back. You take her clit and suck. She likes that, oh she likes that. With your lips and tongue you match the speed the thrusts in her ass. You can see her up on the bed, biting her lip, one hand in her hair like you saw the night before, pulling at it. Quicker, deeper, wetter.
‘Oh god, you’re going to make me…’ Polly thrashes her head to the side. You don’t stop, give as good as you got, taking her beyond, past and into the infinite bright. She tries to straiten her legs but you don’t let her, keep them bent so you can get your fill.
When she cools, you tidy her up greedily, cleaning her with your mouth, leaving her spotless and shining.
There is the gentle movement of the ship, the cool breeze through a window. Perhaps you both slept for a moment or two. Polly rolls on her side, stretches like a cat.
‘That was just lovely,’ she says. ‘How about I cook you some dinner?’ You smile and nod. ‘I’ve got a starter and a mains.’ She touches your shoulder and you crawl up to her. Your arms and legs are tangled together, breasts touching. ‘And I’ve got the most wicked idea for pudding…’
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/4lxkiz/the_price_for_watching_miss_polly