It wasn't long before the weekend rolled around again, and Friday night's No Entry Club meeting would be the last at my house until Monday evening. For all the club members it would be a whole two evenings of solitude, alone-time and watching the telly by ourselves all evening while my bedrooms stayed silent and dark, and the cheerful noise of female friendship did not visit the kitchen twice each night. Rover, the cat, and I would sit in the dimly-lit living room looking despondently at each other and taking it in turns to sigh melodramatically while the single candle burned down towards the rudimentary candle holder and the time draws on and the clock ticks slowly towards an early bedti...

What nonsense! For several weekends now, Saturday and Sunday nights were club nights just like the rest of the week - except that people met in pairs and triplets in whoever's homes were suited for it, if they could. Charity, Jennifer and Himari's homes were popular. The other club members had discovered what it's like compulsorily being wheelchair users or blind (for an hour or two, anyway), and had enthusiastically embraced those conditions, much to Charity's and Jennifer's pleasure and satisfaction. And, of course, their own pleasure and satisfaction too.

Usually, I had other things to attend to on Saturdays and Sundays, such as cleaning the house and going to another Sunday roast lunch at my brother's place for a good feed and a day of family entertainment.

However, this weekend there was a big 'do' on at the hotel my two brothers ran, so I was left to my own devices. Suzanna had offered to give me 'some more' any time I wanted, and I had reminded her of that promise.

“Ah, yes, great!” she had replied. “Saturday at my place, Stella? Come for lunch and stay all night if you wish!”

Saturday rolled around, and I left Rover, the cat, with strict instructions not to break into her time-controlled cat food dispenser and eat all the food in one go, which she faithfully promised she wouldn't, though I noticed her paws were crossed.

Suzanna lived by herself in quite a nice house, not big but not small either, in one of the posher areas of Tiverton where the houses weren't built within earshot of the next house. It was a two-bedroom house with rooms bigger than average and a reasonably secluded garden. We greeted each other passionately, dragging ourselves away from each other after a good solid hug. I found that Suzanna was an excellent pastry cook with no one to bake for except some friendly neighbours with expanding waistlines. Lunch was therefore wonderful, with the added bonus that my pussy was aching to touch hers again. And I could tell from the way she looked at me that hers was doing the same. She then showed me around the house.

The last room she showed me was her own bedroom. She opened the door and ushered me in. I literally gasped as I looked around the room. Black straps and metal chains hung from the walls, and pink fluffy cushions and ribbons were placed at strategic points around the room. And there were a few other things lying around which I didn't notice at first.

She let me savour the moment. I stood there, flabbergasted while she stood there smiling naughtily.

“I'm into bondage. You're the first other person to see this room. I guessed you might like it based on our sex session last week. I can use some of this stuff by myself, but the other things I have yet to try because it needs two people. I hoped you and I might try them together,” she explained. “Don't worry, I don't do full-on dominance or sadomasochism - those are completely different, although bondage does involve a tiny bit of dominance.”

She squinted at me through her glasses, doubtless hoping I wasn't going to run screaming out of the house into the street shouting for help.

“And, no, he hasn't seen this or been to this house and doesn't know where I live.”

We both knew who she meant. She meant the unspoken Dave, the lying and abusive pile of steaming crud, one-time partner of mine and concurrent lover of hers until we had each found out about the other lover in his life. Which we had done at the exact same moment.

Suddenly, á propos of nothing, I started to worry about whether I was wearing the right underwear. Of course, it was clean on two hours ago, and very new thanks to a recent delivery from La Redoute. And it all fitted well, which was a novelty for me. I looked around the room. Black leather and metal things lay everywhere, which would make me in my bra and knickers look like an elderly Puritan spinster on Dress-In-Black Sunday. But then, how was I to have known?

The door swung shut behind me.

“OK, Suzanna,” I began. “This looks fun.”

Her face broke into a smile.

“Why don't you take me through what you've got here? Pretend I am a complete beginner in ...”

I paused to choose the right words carefully.

“... this,” I finished, lamely.

I looked around again, more carefully this time. There were several shiny black straps connected to other shiny black straps by shiny black straps and metal clips and belt buckles. I picked one up and studied it while Suzanna pointed out its features.

“This goes around your waist. These two go around the top of your thighs and are fixed to the waist belt by these two straps, which adjust to suit the length you need. These two smaller straps go around your wrists and are fixed to your thigh straps with these shorter fixings. They all have special names, but we can skip all that stuff. I want to use them not take a test on them.”

She held it all up and looked at me meaningfully.

“OK,” I said. “It looks fun. Is there a safe word?”

We both giggled.

“How about 'red pickle'?” she suggested.

“Red pickle? Why red pickle, for goodness sake! What about 'stop'?” I countered.

“Well, sometimes people use the word 'stop' when they don't actually mean it, like one person is tickling another and they are shouting 'stop, stop, stop!' but actually they are fine. It's what you shout when you are being tickled, apparently. And red pickle is the default safe word for this sort of occasion.”

“OK, red pickle it is,” I decided.

“Would you like to go first? Can I undress you and help you into these straps?”

I nodded and made myself available to her. She reached towards me and began undoing the top few buttons on the white shirt I was wearing over a skirt that I thought was daringly mini. She helped me pull the shirt over my head and she laid it neatly on a chair. She found the zip on my skirt and tugged it down, kneeling down herself to slide it down my legs. I stepped out of it and she picked it up and put it on the shirt. Still kneeling, she pulled my knickers down which joined the skirt on the chair. Clad only in my bra, and with another woman with her face only inches from my freshly-shaved pubic area, I began to feel good. Especially as Suzanna stared at my lady parts for a tick, took her glasses off and stared at them again.

She found the waistband and placed it around my waist and did it up. She found the thigh straps and did them up just at the top of my legs where they couldn't slide up any higher. Then she joined each thigh strap to the belt. So far, so good. She stood up, reached behind me and undid my bra strap. My breasts flopped out of their cups and she slid my bra off my arms and onto the chair. Next, she fixed the small straps to each of my wrists and strapped those to the thigh straps.

I was still standing up. I could walk around if I wanted to, my legs weren't restricted in any way. However, my arms were strapped to my thighs with a length of a bit less than a foot or so. I couldn't pull them further away than this distance, nor could I touch the thigh straps because the wrist straps consisted of metalwork which didn't compress. All of a sudden I wanted to scratch my nose.

Without asking me if she could and without even telling me she was going to, Suzanna put one of her hands on my pussy and squeezed it. Involuntarily I tried to move my hands to touch her hair as a response. I couldn't move my hands more than a few inches, and then only in a semi-circle around my thighs. She squeezed my breasts in her hands and played with them, gently rotating them, pushing them around on my chest, pulling them apart almost under my arms then squashing them together to make a rather pleasing cleavage.

I guessed this was the tiny bit of dominance that she'd talked about earlier, where she didn't ask me if I wanted to be touched, poked, prodded or mauled, she just went ahead and did it. I could always shout 'yellow ketchup' or whatever the strange safe words she'd decided on were.

She played with my parts quite firmly to begin with and got a little more firm later on.

She knelt down again, turned me around so I was facing away from her and began playing with my bottom. She separated my buttocks and ran her finger over my anus and vagina. Again I automatically tried to do something with my hands but found I couldn't do anything except make small half-circles in the air either side of my thighs. My body began to tingle with excitement and my 'other hole' began to spasm, partly because of what she was doing to me but mostly because I was unable to touch her or even scratch my nose. Her finger pushed quite strongly up into my vagina. The increasing firmness was actually quite a turn-on. She tweaked my other hole, pushing the tip of a finger up into up. It made me squirm so she did it again causing me to squirm again, then she tactfully wiped her finger on a wet wipe.

She directed me towards her bed so I laid down on my back, trying and failing to wriggle myself into a better position than the one I'd landed in. Still kneeling, she made movements on the breast nearest her that I knew she was making but which I could barely feel. Now delicate as a feather instead of firm, her fingertips skeetered on my skin, nipple and areola, then burrowed their way underneath my boob which had slid to the side of my chest nearer her, then back to my nipple again in a circle of gradually but relentlessly increasing sensitivity.

My other breast began to look for attention but failed to get it. It got itchier and itchier as its sister got all the fun.

“Can you do my other breast?” I asked.

“In a minute, in a minute,” she replied, smiling at me.

She concentrated on the nearer breast which lapped up all the attention it was getting. My nipple popped into hardness, while Suzanna's finger teased it still further.

“Please, Suzanna!” I begged, sensing now how things were going to go - and rather looking forward to it.

She shook her head, her ginger hair flopping to one side just long enough for me to see the remains of the bruise around her right eye. In response, my other breast began to turn blue then black before it shrivelled up completely like an oak leaf in autumn. Then it detached itself from my chest, plopped onto the floor and rolled under the bed. Not really, of course, but that's just what it felt like until Suzanna's fingers started work on it and all of a sudden it was freed from its terrible torment and joined its sister by popping its nipple out too.

She turned to the table where there were more straps and things. She picked two more straps then undid my wrists. I scratched my nose furiously before she fixed both of my wrists to the bedhead. Now my hands and arms were above my head and I was suddenly asking myself when I last shaved my armpits which were visible for all to see, or at least Suzanna.

“Don't worry, I like a bit of hair!” she laughed.

OK, too long ago, then. My breasts changed shape on my chest because of my arms being held up above my head. Suzanna's fingers wandered towards my armpits while my boobs wobbled gratifyingly. I tried to bring my arms down to close up my armpits, but of course, that wasn't going to happen. And she was right, people do shout 'stop, stop, stop!' when they are being tickled. She tickled me for a few seconds while I was laughing hysterically, writhing on her bed and trying to put my elbows to my sides. She relented eventually.

By now my pussy had woken up to what was going on and I could feel some wetness beginning to seep out from between my lips. But this wasn't the end. Two more straps came off the Straps Of Pain Table (as I was beginning to call it) and within a few seconds, I had ankle straps on which held my legs apart on Suzanna's bed. My pubic area began to feel exposed to the public. Of course, there was no public to expose it to. If I really tried, I could reduce the amount of exposure I was feeling by bringing my knees together as far as I was able (not much) and twisting my body slightly (again, not much).

As a woman, if I wanted to expose my pussy to anyone, or allow them to tickle me under my arms, I would do it - but only under my control. In times gone by, I had been sensitive about the size of my clitoris which, let's face it, was enormous and weird. Happily, the kind members of The No Entry Club had told me how silly it was to think like that, further reinforcing their words by the actions of wanting to play with it and loudly wishing they had one that size. If I wanted to stop exposing myself, I would like to be able to stop doing it by bringing my elbows down and putting my legs together like my mother always told me I should. When someone has strapped your arms above your head and your legs wide open, that freedom is denied you. I squirmed, writhed and wriggled while Suzanna tickled, feathered, stroked, and smiled wickedly while I lay there pinned down like a fat walrus at a beach on Ascension Island. The juices were now beginning to flow from between my legs in more copious quantities. I alerted Suzanna to this state of affairs.

All this time, she'd kept her own clothes on. A neat little sheepskin jacket covered another of her thin tops, with jeans and Converses lower down. Still kneeling, she kicked off her shoes and her jeans. Underneath her jeans, she was wearing a patchwork of red straps extending from under her top to the tops of her legs with her knickers on top of them, somewhat like a parascending tutor about to strap themselves to a parachute, except more delicate. I noticed she kept her little panties on.

“Whoa, Suzanna! What's that you've got on there?”

“You'll see!”

Then she took off the jacket and her top. Lo and behold, the red strapping went all up her chest, crisscrossing her lower and upper chest with a central strap that ran up to her throat and looped round her neck. I hadn't noticed this when we'd hugged or at any time since. She did a little twirl for me to reveal similar straps all across her back, then came closer to me so I could see better. I noticed there were no bra cups. The straps crossed her chest at under-boob height and over-boob height, her large nipples hanging forward in the centres of the two triangles formed by the straps. If she'd had any breasts at all, they would be forced through a triangular space just smaller than what would have been needed.

She climbed onto the bed on all fours, mounting herself over me with her mouth over my pussy and her strapped and knickered bottom above my face. I was able to look at her little bottom and her knickers while she suckled me and used her tongue to enter me, taste me and clean up all my juice.

I couldn't touch her knickers, even though they were only a few inches from my face, I could only study them. This turned out to be more entertaining than I had imagined. This pair of her knickers (and I was quite familiar with more than one pair of hers) was another in her preferred design of cute little fluffy animals and clouds, leading me to the conclusion that Suzanna had a soft side which perhaps I hadn't come across yet. She was a solicitor in a sleepy little Devon town not particularly given to breaking the boundaries of post-modernist thinking, or of employing younger female lawyers unless they were really sharp. She didn't have the physique to claw her way to the top of the corporate ladder by flaunting her female assets. She simply didn't have any, so she must have done it by being very bright, very well-qualified and very pushy. And she lived alone in a reasonably sized house, which wasn't small or run down. She had just demonstrated to me that she was capable of hidden depths.

And yet she had dainty little delicates, such as the ones hovering a hand's-breadth above my face which I couldn't touch. Oh, wait, yes I could. I raised my head until my mouth met her cotton gusset, which I licked and sucked into my mouth. After a few seconds my neck muscles gave up and my head flopped back onto the bed, fortunately still with a mouthful of fluffy clouds between my teeth. I sampled the taste. I rapidly estimated that she'd been wearing them for at least three hours - since just before my arrival for lunch, and probably all morning as well. And never mind the unlikely possibility that she wore them yesterday as well. The taste tingling my tongue got top notes of musk and head notes of raw, savage, female sexuality.

This went straight from my brain to my vagina stopping only at my breasts and nipples on the way down, where Suzanna was still at work licking around my lips, inside and outside, while my legs were chained apart. A fresh batch of my juice hit Suzanna's taste buds.

“Mmmm! Stella, you are fantastic - I could do this all afternoon!”

“Can we, please?” I asked, mock-submissively

“Don't worry - we shall! But now I want to show you something different.”

She released all my straps and I sat upright and scratched that itch on my nose once more. She fetched some more straps from the Straps Of Pain Table and started attaching them to me. First, she strapped my hands together halfway up my back. Then one strap went around each of my arms at biceps level and these were joined together across my breasts with two straps - more like ropes, really, one halfway up each boob from left to right and another tightly under each breast also from left to right. The last one was a strap going around my neck and down the middle of my front and joined to both lateral straps. She twiddled with something and I watched, and felt, my breasts being squeezed tightly like they were being flattened between the two lateral straps while the front ends and the nipples poked out from the twin ropes of pain like the toothpaste going onto your toothbrush. She kept turning the whatever-it-was and my breasts were extruded from between the laterals like a piece of biscuit dough being rolled flat on Baking Day.

The more she turned it, the flatter my previously drop-shaped boobs became, and the more it hurt until suddenly it began to pour fire into my brain and all the way down to my clitoris which soaked it all up and demanded more.

I think I was moaning a bit to myself, and kneeling back on my heels on the bed, jiggling around trying to assuage the fire burning inside me. But Suzanna hadn't finished yet. She got a huge vibrator from the Strap Table - looking like the sort of microphone that television reporters use to interview people in the street - and shoved it up between my legs more firmly than gently, then turned it on. With a vibrator that size pushing up on a clitoris my size the result was not in doubt. She taunted me for an age, a glorious fire-ridden age gently edging me to an orgasm like I've never had before - and I've had a few. My moans became groans, my groans became louder and louder until I keeled over backwards and lay there twitching and vibrating, or so Suzanna said when I came round and found all the straps taken from me and my boobs moulded back into their normal shape.

As I opened my eyes and looked into Suzanna's, I saw that, despite the smiles wreathed across her face, she had been crying, and I'd only been gone a few minutes. I put my brain into gear once more.

“Why, Suzanna, what ...?”

She cried again, out loud this time.

“That's the one thing I can't enjoy,” she admitted, once she'd got herself under control again. “You've got some beautiful boobs which give you a lot of fun and pleasure. I am so totally and completely flat it's embarrassing to talk about. There isn't a cat's chance in hell that I'll enjoy what you've just enjoyed. I have tried a few times but there's absolutely nothing there.”

She pointed at her chest, her nipples hanging down limply and her front about as curvy as the Bonneville Salt Flats.

I moved to sit next to her and put my arm around her. For a while, neither of us spoke. I was very aware that, as we sat side by side on the edge of her bed, my boobs were pushing forwards quite nicely - and mine weren't any near the biggest in the club - while she had none.

“Let me tell you this, Suzanna. It's because of you that I'm not stuck with him anymore.”

We both knew who 'him' was.

“It's because of you that I and the rest of the club have had such fun recently. It's because of you that I've discovered things about myself which I didn't know, both after the club started and before you arrived on my doorstep, and since you did arrive on my doorstep, including today. I want to thank you, Suzanna, you've made such a difference to my life, and to all our lives.”

I let that sink in for a while, my arm still around her. My head sank gradually onto hers.

“Most women aren't happy with the boobs they have,” I went on. “They are too small, too big, they are different sizes, they hang down, they point left and right, they stick up for fine weather, they are separated by four inches, they have too much cleavage or none. They've got big nipples, small nipples, puffy nipples, no nipples, nipples that point left and right, nipples that point down, nipples that point in different directions, and nipples that are like Apollo 11 on Launch Day.”

“Like mine. But at least they have boobs.”

We cuddled each other, her hands on my breasts as surrogate breasts of hers.

“Yes, that is true.”

I wanted to lead the conversation onto a related subject.

“What do you wear to work? Do you wear a bra anyway?”

“Not every day, no. I've got a couple of bras with pockets in the cups, and some breast forms which slot into the pockets. I wear them when there's something bigger than normal happening at work. Everybody there knows I'm flat as a pancake and it's quite funny when I've got a court appearance or something and I turn up for work with my breast forms in. The men want to look but daren't, and the women don't want to look but can't resist.”

She got up and went to a drawer. She quickly put on a bra and fiddled with a couple of things in the same drawer, with her back to me. She slipped into a white shirt with most of the buttons already done up, dropped her cute knickers, straightened everything up then turned around so I could see. At first glance her smaller-than-usual chest on her fairy-like body could barely cope with the DD's she was now sporting. She wiggled her bust in front of me, the white shirt swaying from side to side while the naked ginger bush with the red straps at the top of her legs woggled the other way in contrast.

“I want these all the time, but I can't be bothered,” she admitted, a smile breaking through at last.

I put my hands out towards her, and she leaned forwards as I was still sitting on the bed. My hands closed around her breast forms, and I waggled them to and fro, up and down and side to side. She looked perplexed.

“Is that what having breasts feels like?” she asked, frowning. “Is that all there is?”

“Yes, pretty much,” I replied. “Apart from the near-constant sweating under your boobs, the back-ache, changing your bra every day - and sometimes more often than that, the nipple chafing, the expense of buying new bras, the frequent re-adjusting of the bra straps, the tan lines, being stared at by men, being criticised for having too much of a bust or not enough of one when there's nothing you can do to change it ...”

“I know that one,” she butted in.

“... and having to have six bras of each of the nineteen different bra types in each of the seventy-five colours they're made in ...” I gave up.

She paused, then turned around, took the shirt and bra off again and put everything back in the drawer.

“That's that, then. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes please.”

..................................................

(To be continued in Chapter 18)