All Change for Amy

Two days later, as she was trying to focus on a crossword puzzle, her phone buzzed. The text was characteristically brief and enigmatic. Viewpoint at the top of Bluebell Hill. 11 a.m. tomorrow. Bring walking shoes. Wear stockings.

The following morning, the air was crisp and clear as Amy drove her car through the village of Bluebell Hill. The view from the top, across the patchwork of Kentish fields, was spectacular, but she had no eyes for it. She pulled into the car park and saw Geraldine's sleek black saloon already parked in a corner, facing away from the road. Amy got out, the autumn chill nipping at her legs through her thin trousers. She walked over and tapped on Geraldine's tinted driver's-side window.

The window slid down with a soft whir. Geraldine was wearing expensive-looking hiking boots and a waxed jacket. She glanced from Amy's face to a small, elegant Cartier watch on her wrist and tutted. "You're late." She didn't wait for an apology. She reached into the back and pulled out a sturdy canvas backpack, which she thrust out the window. "Take this. Follow me."

Geraldine got out of her car, not even bothering to lock it, and led Amy away from the viewpoint, across the road, and down a well-worn footpath that snaked around the back of the Robin Hood pub. They plunged deep into the woods, the air growing cooler and the sounds of the traffic fading away. They veered off the main path onto a smaller, almost hidden trail that was completely covered by the canopy of overhanging trees. The path was dark and damp with moss. It opened out into a small, circular clearing, dappled in weak sunlight. Geraldine stopped.

"Strip," she commanded, her voice echoing slightly in the enclosed space. "Down to your underwear."

Amy hesitated, her eyes darting around the secluded clearing. The thought of being exposed out here, in the open air, was terrifying. The hesitation was a mistake. Geraldine's hand moved in a blur, and a sharp, stinging slap across Amy's cheek sent her head reeling. Tears of shock and pain sprang to her eyes. She didn't hesitate again. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her coat, then her shirt, her trousers. Soon she was standing in just her bra, the new stockings, and the sensible panties she'd worn over her garter belt, as instructed.

Geraldine took out coils of thin, strong rope from the backpack. In moments, she had expertly tied Amy to a large, broken tree stump in the center of the clearing. Her hands were pulled tightly behind the rough trunk, her wrists bound together. Her ankles were pulled apart and tied close to the base of the stump, forcing her into a spread, vulnerable position. A longer rope was wrapped around her torso twice, once above her breasts and once below, cinching them tight and squeezing them upwards, making them point out obscenely.

Geraldine knelt in front of her and pulled down her panties. She took a small, smooth, egg-shaped object from her pocket and, without ceremony, pushed it deep inside Amy's already slick pussy. A small remote control was produced, and with a click, the egg began to vibrate, a low, insistent hum. Next, a heavy black scarf was tied around Amy's eyes, plunging her into darkness. A lighter silk scarf was then balled up and shoved into her mouth, effectively gagging her.

Geraldine moved around, setting up a small camera on a tripod and attaching a microphone. She recorded a shorter clip to be posted later on, her voice a low, authoritative commentary as she panned over Amy's helpless, bound form. Then she stood back and simply watched. Amy was lost in a world of sensation, the cold air on her skin, the rough bark against her back, the relentless, maddening buzz of the egg inside her. It didn't take long for the first orgasm to crash through her, followed, minutes later, by a second, more powerful one that left her slumped against her bonds, moaning into her gag.

Only then did Geraldine move. She released the ropes, her movements efficient. Amy collapsed to the ground, her limbs like jelly. "Get up," Geraldine ordered. "Bend over that log." The ten for being tardy were delivered with a hard, flat hand, each one echoing in the quiet woods. They dressed in silence and walked back to their cars, the crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound. As Amy reached for her car door, Geraldine spoke one last time. "Clean yourself up. You look a mess. And await my text.”