Room 2D

From Whispers 3, a.k.a. Under the Eaves, a continuation of The Inner Circle . Bernard Hadley eased himself down into the somewhat antique but comfortable chair Rosie Leach had provided. He looked around. The atmosphere was certainly very different from that of the comfortable living room in which they’d held that amusing party last weekend. Almost a week ago now. Rosie had directed him up some narrow wooden stairs to a bleak-looking attic room. It was stark and cold but, thoughtfully, Rosie had provided him with a blow-heater. Not that Bernard was much worried about the temperature for he had a warm glow of anticipation inside… for, three days previously, Rosie had agreed to lay on a ‘Private Session’ for him, with Sarah once again as the sacrificial victim. That would be far more exciting than the group discipline which had been handed out at the party. ‘Are you sure she’ll turn up again?’ he had asked on the phone. Rosie h

From Whispers 3, a.k.a. Musical Bottoms. The lights were soft in the large living room, a fire blazed merrily in the wide hearth. All very cosy and English-looking; the ideal setting for a party. ‘Whose birthday is it?’ asked Bernard Hadley. He was a greying man in late middle age and sat on an upholstered stool set near the fire. ‘Nobody’s as far as I know,’ replied the dark-haired young woman slumped back in an armchair alongside him. This was Carole Mortimer, a close friend of their hostess, Rosie Leach. ‘But you know our Rosie; she doesn’t have a  reason  to give a party. It’s just as the mood takes her.’ ‘Lucky for her friends,’ said Bernard, taking a good swig from the cut-glass tumbler of whisky in his hand. ‘Wonder what she’s laid on tonight?’ Aging as he was, and certainly past his best as a performer, he could still get very turned on by these ‘do’s’ of Rosie’s. ‘I’ve never known her to let us down yet,’ replied

Final part of a three-parter from Whispers 4 Susan looked in the window. Mr Wilmot and this friend of his, Mr Cuthbert. She couldn’t be seen because it was quite dark. She shivered; not that it was all that cold — a mild September evening. But she didn’t have much on: only her vest. Well, her knee-socks and shoes as well to be precise but that didn’t make much difference. What counted was that she only had her vest: no bra, not now Mr Wilmot had confiscated them for the whole of her stay, and also no knickers or skirt either. She pulled her vest down in front — not really because she was cold but, well, modesty. Not that anyone could see her, there were no houses overlooking Mr Wilmot’s garden. But she wasn’t used to going about with her bottom and her pussy bare. At least she wasn’t before coming to Mr Wilmot’s the day before yesterday. But then there were other things she wasn’t used to. That dreadful cellar — and the cane.