by Nosbert


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Hi there, remember me? My name is Nicholas Sherwood, but everybody calls me Woody. I’m a retired detective and I live in a remote Shropshire village called Lower Clunley. My home is called the ‘Old Game Keeper’s Cottage’ and I have two beautiful woman living with me.

Sandra Miller, or Sandy as she is better known, is a redhead from Birmingham and she insists she’s still aged thirty-nine. The other woman in my life is Anthea Hamilton. She’s a blonde that originates from the London area, and when not demanding sex she tells me she’s thirty-one, and that’s possibly correct, she’s not at that fibbing age yet.

Both girls, I’m pleased to tell you, have good looks, gorgeous bodies and an insatiable appetite for sex, either straight or BDSM, it doesn’t matter which. However, I’ve never let this get me down, and I don’t think I’ve ever failed to come up to the job once, although I do wake up with sore testicles some mornings.

Anyway, all that said, what I have for you here is another exciting adventure. I didn’t particularly want the assignment, but somehow, when the time came, it was just something I had to do.

So now that it’s all over I’d like to share my experiences with you the reader and tell you all about it.


And this is how it all began:-


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CHAPTER ONE - Our Australian Friends


It was late July; the sun was beating down; my garden smelt of honeysuckle and roses; bees were buzzing all around; and Sandy, Anthea and myself were out on the terrace lazing on our sunbeds and supping ice-cold drinks.

The heat was unbearable; the air heavy and clammy, and it wasn’t a day for any strenuous activity. I was dressed in boxer shorts. My bare chest and legs lapping up the sun. Sandy was wearing a bikini, and Anthea was completely naked in an attempt to get an all over and even suntan. She was wanting to ‘get rid of the last of her white bits’ as she put it.

If there was anything to upset the idyll, then I guess it had to be the shortage of suntan oil. The girls were down to their last bottle, and there wasn’t much left in that either. I’d threatened more than once to confiscate the bottle if they continued to squabble over what little remained.

So there we were, all three of us, Sandy, Anthea and myself lazing on a sunny afternoon, and without a care in the world - apart from the lack of suntan oil - when the telephone rang inside the cottage.

I looked to the two girls. They were flat out on their sunbeds and suddenly both had become very hard of hearing.

I could see that the phone was never going to get answered unless I went myself.

“All right, I’ll get it,” I told them and huffed off into the house.

I moved into the hallway and picked up the receiver.

“Hello, Woody speaking,” I said.

“G’day Sport, how ya doing me old cobber?” came the reply on the other end of the line.

I recognised the caller immediately. There was only one person I knew with an Australian accent that would greet me in such a manner.

“Bruce!” I exclaimed and a little shocked, “where are you calling from?”

For the record, Sandy and myself bumped into Bruce and his partner Jenny on our recent European excursion. (See the closing chapters of Submissive Work.) They are a lovely couple, full of fun, both in their late twenties, and very much into BDSM. I’d invited them to call in on us if they were ever passing this way. That was four months ago, and to be quite honest, when the telephone rang, I’d forgotten all about our Australian friends.

As for Bruce, perhaps a word of caution is needed before I get too far into the story. I’ve always suspected that Bruce overdoes the Aussie persona on purpose, just to get a bit of a rise out of the straight laced English people he meets and have a bit of fun with them. But I’ll portray him as he comes across and I’ll let you make up your own mind on this issue. Jenny on the other hand is a quiet lass. She doesn’t say much, and is most definitely the submissive in the partnership.

Anyway, Bruce took his time in answering. It seemed that he was a little lost.

“Right this minute Sport, I’m not quite sure,” he said hesitantly, “I’m in a phone booth outside a post office in a village called Lower Clunley, and I’m wondering if I’m anywhere near your place?”

I think my eyes lit up with delight. I knew exactly where he was phoning from.

“Bruce, you’re about two miles away,” I informed him.

I heard Bruce give thanks to some unknown god before addressing me properly.

“Blimey Sport, that’s a relief,” he answered. “I’ve been driving round these little narrow lanes for over an hour, and all I’ve met are tractors and sheep.”

“Don’t worry Bruce, you’re here. You finally made it,” I remarked.

There was a bit of a chuckle.

“Well, if that’s the case Sport,” he said, “Jenny and myself are here and just dying to meet me old mates Woody and Sandy again.”

I thought how best to give Bruce instructions on how to get to my cottage, but decided it would be better to collect him and let him follow. The old cart track that leads to my home goes past a farm called ‘The Burrows’ before it gets to my cottage, and both track and cottage are very hard to find even at the best of times.

“Just stay right where you are Bruce, and I’ll come and get you,” I told him.

“Sure thing Sport,” Bruce replied.

A few seconds later I was in my ageing Volvo Estate and on my way.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, Bruce and Jenny followed me in their campervan back to my cottage. They’d already met Sandy on a couple of occasions in Europe, so all I had to do was introduce them to Anthea.

The time was about two o’clock in the afternoon when our Australian friends arrived and we had a light meal. The girls quickly tossed up a salad and cracked open a couple of bottles of white wine. The girls drank the wine whilst Bruce and myself tackled cans of ice-cool lager straight from the fridge. After that, with five people stretched out on their sunbeds and soaking up the afternoon sun, Bruce and I got to talking.

Now I think you’ve got to imagine the arrangement of the sunbeds here, otherwise you might miss the point.

On the terrace all five sunbeds lay in a line and facing the sun. From left to right, from the viewpoint of the sun, first came Sandy, then me, then Anthea, then Bruce and finally Jenny. Bruce and myself wore shorts to protect our modesty. Bruce also had one of those silly hats over his face; you know the sort; one of those with corks dangling all around the brim. As for the girls, all three by this time had opted to rid themselves of any semblance of clothing; apart from sunglasses and a bit of jewellery; and all lay naked on their sunbeds.

You might not think it, but there was a reason for all this. Not the nudity! The order of the sunbeds I’m taking about! And this brings me back to my original point: Quite naturally Bruce and Jenny were together at one end of the line. There was nothing amiss there I don’t think. But on settling down I’d been forced to place my body between Anthea and Sandy. There was a bit of an argument brewing over the ownership of the last few drops of suntan oil, so I had to exercise my powers and confiscate what little remained.

Anthea eventually handed over the bottle, but only after a promise to punish her properly at some time of my choosing. But preferably that evening. Sandy, not to be outdone, said she too was partly to blame and should be punished in the same manner. Reluctantly, and only to keep the peace you understand, I was forced to agree to both girls’ demands.

Anyway, what it all boils down to is this: Anthea was laid out on her sunbed between me and Bruce. She was naked, had her eyes closed beneath her sunglasses, and looked to be fast asleep.

Bruce was telling me all about his and Jenny’s travels. Not counting the small principalities of Andorra, Gibraltar, Liechtenstein, Monaco, San Marino and the Vatican; they’d visited twelve European countries in all, and the United Kingdom was to be their thirteenth and last. They were nearing the end of their tour, but they still had a bit of time left. They were due to fly back to Australia in three weeks time, and the only places left to visit on their itinerary were Scotland and Wales.

Anyway, with so many countries already visited and such a lot to relate, I think you can appreciate that the conversation had been going on for quite sometime - and quite a few cans of chilled lager consumed may I add - before we got round to speaking about London: And I think you can also appreciate why we both thought all the girls to be asleep. We’d even discussed the purchase of a squirmy-rooter vibrator from a little shop in Soho without a sound or murmur from any one of them.

It was only when Bruce got round to talking about his and Jenny’s real life experiences in one of several London BDSM clubs visited, did I realise that Anthea had been listening to every word of our conversation.  

The word that brought her to life was; ‘Hendry’s’, though for a while she did not let on.

For those of you that have not had the privilege of reading ‘Submissive Work’, then the word; ‘Hendry’s’ will probably mean very little. So let me explain.

Hendry’s, in that story, was a most exclusive BDSM club a little way out to the west of London. The club was named after the man who ran the place, and Anthea had been his ‘dolly bird’. Hendry pampered her with designer clothing and expensive jewellery in return for her insatiable appetite for bondage and sex. It was the perfect relationship until Hendry got himself arrested and sent to jail for twenty years on two counts; one, handling Class-A drugs and two, grievous bodily harm.

I first met Anthea at Hendry’s back in March of this year, and I must admit her appetite for bondage and continuous multiple orgasms remains the same, although I have since managed to dissuade her of her more extravagant and expensive tastes in designer clothes and jewellery.

Anyway, the point is, at that precise moment in time, as I lay there chatting to Bruce and supping my ice-cool lager, I was under the impression that Hendry’s had been closed down by the police some three and a half months earlier.

I therefore remarked to Bruce: “Hendry’s? I thought the place had been closed down?”

Bruce took a swig from his can of lager before answering.

“No, it’s open again Sport,” he informed me. “Me and Jenny spent the entire evening in the dungeon there. Great place, I highly recommend it.”

It was my turn for a drink. The sun was really beating down on us that day.

“You managed to get in there then?” I asked quizzically.

I was curious and wondering just how he’d managed to do it?

The things to know here are: One, that Bruce has a little black book with the names and addresses of every BDSM club in Europe inside; two, he always manages to talk his way into them, thus the reason for finding him in the ‘El Calabozo’ club in Barcelona; and three, you don’t get into Hendry’s without someone checking on your background and you handing over five thousand pounds in cash in a sealed brown envelope. So I think you can now see the reason for my curiosity.

However, Bruce had the answer.

“Under new management Sport,” he informed me as he popped open another can with a hiss.

It was at this point Anthea came alive. As I said earlier, unknown to us both she’d been listening to every word of our conversation. She sat upright, pulled her sunglasses down to the end of her nose, and looked towards Bruce lying on the neighbouring sunbed.

“Who’s running the place now then?” she asked.

I looked to Bruce and shrugged my shoulders at Anthea’s intervention. He took the fact that she’d suddenly come alive in his stride. He swigged deeply from his can of lager before answering.

“D’un know Sheila,” answered Bruce, “but a tall guy with a Spanish accent met us at the door.”

Before I move on with this story, I can hear you asking now, ‘who’s Sheila?’. So let me explain once again. Bruce has a habit of calling everyone of the opposite sex ‘Sheila’, except for Jenny, who’s name he says he remembers; and every male person he addresses he calls Sport. He reckons it’s simpler that way and avoids putting names to faces. I hope that now clears up any confusion.

Anyway, back to the story. I thought I knew the guy with the Spanish accent.

“That would be Fernando,” I remarked.

“He’s still working there then is he?” intervened Anthea once more.

Bruce took another swig of lager, then smiled and nodded his head.

“Yeh, that was his name… Fernando Garcia,” he confirmed.

Anthea turned round on her sunbed to face me.

“Woody?” she asked. “Can we go please?”

I was taken a little aback by the question. I had no plans to go anywhere. Not until this heat wave was over anyway.

“Go where?” I asked, even though I knew precisely where she meant.

Anthea, as she does so well on these occasions, turned all lovey-dovey. She found the suntan lotion under my pillow where I’d been hiding it, unscrewed the top and poured the remaining contents all over my stomach and chest. Slowly she began to massage the oil into my skin.

“Please Woody!… Please can we go back to Hendry’s?” she asked in a demure and purring voice.

I decided to let her carry on with the treatment for a little while longer before telling her what I thought about Hendry’s. To be quite honest I had no intention of returning to the club.

I shook my head.

“I promised Harry Bell that I would never go back there again,” I told her.

What that had to do with it, I had no idea. It might have been the truth once, but that no longer applied. Detective Inspector Harry Bell’s drugs case, which eventually led to the arrest of Hendry, was all wrapped up now and the place no longer off limits. But it was the best excuse I could think of on the spur of the moment.

Anthea pulled a distorted face like she always does when not getting her own way. I was expecting her to raise a few verbal objections too, but I was mistaken. Instead she took hold of my shorts and pulled them down to my knees. She then shook and squeezed what was left of the suntan oil all over my genitals.

Gently massaging my balls, she asked again: “Please Woody, just this once. Please take me back to Hendry’s… please… please… please… pretty please.”

I was starting to get a hard on and decided to play this out a little longer. But I was still adamant on not going to Hendry’s.

“It’s a long way to London,” I told her, “and we’d have to go by train and stop in a hotel for a couple of nights.”

The trouble by now was, Anthea was beginning to see my arousal, and this just egged her on.

“Go on Woody, say you’ll take me, and I’ll sit astride you,” she told me, and at the same time proceeding to take up a little bit of vigorous pumping with her hands.

I was aware that all eyes were upon me. From the opposite ends of the line of sunbeds, both Sandy and Jenny were sitting up and looking on, and so was Bruce. I realised that there was no way Anthea was going to stop the action now. Sometime in the very near future I was going to shoot my load with everybody looking on. So, in order to avoid embarrassment, I relented and gave in to Anthea’s demands. It was a hard decision to make, I can tell you.

“All right!.. all right!… I’ll take you,” I told her, “I’ll take you to Hendry’s”

Anthea stopped the pumping, leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.

“Woody, you’re so wonderful,” she praised.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought I’d got away with it and began to pull up my shorts, but Anthea had other ideas. I should have known it. Anthea’s not the sort to be stopped dead in her tracks where sex is concerned. Quick hands prevented my shorts being returned to my waist. Then, before I knew it, she was stood astride the sunbed and with her hands targeting my throbbing dick into her pussy.

“How’s that?” she asked as she eased her body down to a point where she was sat on top of me.

With my stiffened dick entombed within her love-nest, I shut my eyes.

“Bloody marvellous,” I whispered to her, and hoping that no one else could overhear.

Anthea began to move her body rhythmically up and down. I closed my eyes even tighter and just let it happen.

However, she’d only gone two or three strokes when I heard Bruce call: “Hey sport,… Sheila,… come off it will you!… that’s straight sex!… we didn’t come all this way to watch that!… we were promised a BDSM party that would blow all other BDSM parties into oblivion… so come off it you two… If we’re going to start playing games, then let’s have a little bit of bondage thrown in for good measure.”

Anthea stopped her rising and falling action and I opened my eyes. She was sat astride me and leaning forward with her hands on my chest. We were almost face to face and I could see that she was beaming with delight. Slowly she eased herself upwards until she was no longer impaled on my shaft, she then stepped aside to reveal my massive erection to the rest of the onlookers.

“What do you suggest then Bruce?” asked Anthea and grinning with eager anticipation all over her face.

I quickly pulled my shorts back up to my waist.

Bruce looked across the lawn to a couple of apple trees growing over on the far side. He gave the matter some consideration and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Cowgirls and Indians,” he announced after a lengthy pause.

“Cowgirls!” remarked Anthea and looking bemused.

Bruce nodded his head.

“That’s right Sheila, you three are to be the cowgirls, and Woody and me are going to be the Indians, and we’re going to capture you and tie you up,” he told her, and at the same time pointing towards the trees.

By the sudden change on Anthea’s face, I could see that she was starting to get the picture. Her eyes followed the pointing finger across the lawn to the apple trees.

“You’re going to capture us and tie us to the trees?” she asked and wanting confirmation.

Bruce nodded his head.

“You got it in one Sheila,” he told her.

Anthea gave a little clap of her hands in glee. She always gets excited when the thought of bondage is imminent.

“Do you want us to dress up as cowgirls first?” she asked.

Bruce rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Anthea was standing naked amongst the sunbeds, and the other two girls were both in a similar state of undress.

He shook his head.

“No need for that Sheila,” he told Anthea, “we’re only going to take everything off again. So let’s pretend you were all bathing in a lake when you get captured. That should solve the problem.”

I sat myself up on the sunbed and looked to my left and right. Sandy and Jenny were propped up on one elbow and listening to Bruce’s suggestions. Neither had spoken as yet and I wondered if they were as keen as Anthea to play this little game.

I looked to Sandy.

“What do you think Sandy?” I asked.

I was thinking that perhaps Sandy might like to sit this one out, so I was a little surprised to see her nod her head.

“Yes!, why not?” she said and started to rise up from the sunbed.

I turned my head the other way. Jenny too was getting to her feet. Suddenly all eyes were staring at me.

“Well Sport?,” asked Bruce, “are you going to join in our little game?”

I rose from my sunbed. I was unsure about the heat. I wasn’t up to any strenuous activity, but decided if I carried a can of chilled lager with me, I’d survive the ordeal.

“Why not?” I answered with a sort of ‘couldn’t care less’ attitude and a shrug to my shoulders.

Bruce smiled, as did the three girls. From the look on their faces I could see that despite the heat, everybody was eager to participate.

“I guess we’re going to need lots of rope then,” said Bruce. “Something to go round and round the girls and the trees.”

All eyes turned to me for a solution. I gave a little grin and shrugged my shoulders. The trouble was, I hadn’t got an answer.

I returned my gaze to Anthea stood alongside my sunbed. If anybody knew where ropes in copious quantities were to be found, then Anthea would be the best person to ask.

“What have we got in the way of rope then Anthea?” I queried.

Anthea shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. Strangely rope was the one thing we were in short supply of. We had leather cuffs and chains in abundance, and handcuffs by the dozens. But when it came to providing rope I think the longest piece in existence would come to something like three feet in length.

In desperate need of inspiration, I looked to the two apple trees over on the far side of the lawn. Then the answer came to me: It was the washing line. It stretched from a branch high up in one of the trees and crossed the lawn to a bracket on the corner of the cottage. There was also a sturdy line-prop at the centre to hold the washing high. With all the heat, no one had done any washing that day, or to be more exact, nobody had done anything since the heat wave began a couple of days ago, so the line remained empty.

“Will a washing line do?” I asked Bruce as I first pointed to the corner of the cottage then traced a line with my finger across to the apple tree away in the distance.

Bruce looked to the washing line and his face beamed.

He nodded his head.

“It sure will Sport,” he told me with a glint to his eye.

I moved away to take down the washing line whilst Bruce turned to the girls. He was eager to get something started. All the girls were naked except for sunglasses and jewellery. He removed his corked festooned hat and held it out towards them.

“Drop your sunglasses and other items in here then Sheila’s,” he told them. “I don’t think cowgirls ever wore sunglasses, especially when they’re meant to be bathing in a lake.”

Somewhat reluctantly all three girls removed their belongings and dropped them in Bruce’s hat. Jenny wore a medallion style necklace. She removed it and dropped it into the hat along with everything else. Now they were all well and truly naked.

Bruce placed his hat on a sunbed and turned to the girls.

“Right girls, this is what I propose we do,” he told them.

Now to tell this story accurately, then you must appreciate that I was not present when Bruce explained his ‘Cowgirls and Indians’ fantasy to the girls. I was over on the far side of the lawn and halfway up a tree when all this was happening. So I can only describe the subsequent actions as I saw them, and from my own standpoint, as I followed along with the action.

 By the time I returned with the washing line and the line-prop the action had already started. Bruce and the girls had moved away from the terrace and were playing with a hose pipe on the edge of the lawn. Bruce was aiming the pipe skywards and squeezing the end to cause a spray. The girls were underneath and taking full advantage of the cooling shower. I wanted to join in with them but was told to go away. Apparently only cowgirls need apply!

“We’ve changed the scene Sport… from a lake to a waterfall,” Bruce informed me as I slunk away with head bowed and wondering what I had to do to be a cowgirl.

I gave a little nod at Bruce’s ingenuity, but that was all. I was still hot and disgruntled after expending energy climbing up the tree.

“Is that what’s happening?” I grunted and still preferring to take the role of a cowgirl if I had half a chance.

Bruce just smiled and squirted the hose pipe full blast at the girls. They all squealed loudly as the jet blasted against their naked bodies, but not surprisingly, in this heat, no one stepped aside.  

I placed the line-prop against the side of the cottage and showed Bruce the coil of washing line. If I remember correctly, when I purchased it, the label on the packet had read; ‘one-hundred feet of nylon coated washing line’.

“Will this do?” I asked.

Bruce smiled. It was obvious he was enjoying himself.

“Sure thing Sport,” he told me with a wink, “but I think we’ll need a knife or something to cut it.”

I frowned. I was hoping to return the washing line to its original state once this little game was over, but I could see the problem, we had two trees and three girls to cater for. In the name of good ‘Commonwealth Relations’, I decided to sacrifice my washing line and made a mental note to buy a new one the next time I went shopping in the village.

“Okay… I’ll get something to cut the line with,” I told Bruce and scurried off to the kitchen.

On my return I found Bruce holding a couple of bamboo canes he’d taken out of a large flower pot on my terrace. I looked to the fallen plant hanging down the outside of the pot and hoped it would survive.

Bruce had taken the two canes and the string that held my Winter Jasmine in place and made a bow and arrow out of them. It did not look like the arrow would shoot, but that was not the point. I guess you could just call it symbolic.

Anyway, the point is, the three girls were standing in a great puddle of water on the lawn and had their hands in the air. Bruce was pointing his makeshift bow and arrow at them.

Bruce waited for me to come alongside before speaking.

Gesturing with his pretend bow and arrow he pointed to Jenny and then to the side of the cottage.

“You squaw,.. get line-prop,” he told her in his best broken Red Indian, “and bring here to Big Chief.”

Jenny splashed away, traced wet footprints across the terrace, collected the line-prop and returned to the puddle which was rapidly drying out.

Bruce turned to me.

“You… Medicine Man,” he told me, “you cut rope to bind hands and feet.”

This was bad news, I wanted to be a Big Chief like Bruce, or even a Little Chief would do, but I tried not to show my disappointment. I therefore did as I was told and hacked off two lengths of washing line, both about three feet in length. I offered both pieces to the self designated Big Chief.

“No… you give to squaw,” he told me, and indicating with his arrow that it was Sandy’s turn to take up the action.

I handed the two short lengths of washing line to Sandy, then took a step back from the puddle. To be quite honest, no one had told me the plot, and I hadn’t a clue what was happening. Just to show how disgruntled I was feeling, I stuck my tongue out at Bruce whilst his back was turned. It made me feel a lot better.

Bruce turned his arrow on Anthea.

“You.. squaw… lie down on ground,” he told her.

Anthea dropped hurriedly down on the lawn with a splash and rolled over onto her back. She’d obviously been told the plot and was keen to get on with it.

Bruce’s threatening arrow moved back to Sandy.

“You.. squaw… bind hands and feet of squaw together,” he told her.

Sandy knelt down on the wet lawn and proceeded to tie Anthea’s hands together at the front. She bound them tightly, passing the rope both around and between the wrists, and in doing so, using up all three feet of the line before finally securing the knot. She then proceeded to do the same with Anthea’s ankles.

Throughout all this, it was noticeable that Anthea had that warm glow of satisfaction all over her face that she does so well when it comes to bondage. I think I was pleased for her, and thankful to Bruce for allowing me a brief respite from Anthea’s continuous demands for bondage and sex in copious quantities.

Bruce’s arrow moved across to Jenny who was stood holding the line-prop.

“You… squaw… put pole through hands and feet,” he told her.

Jenny bent down and threaded the pole between Anthea’s bound arms and then through between her legs. Sandy, without being told, was standing by the feet ready to take a hold of the line-prop. Once through she raised up her end, as did Jenny opposite, and both kept the pole there just a few feet off the ground. All this resulted in Anthea lying on her back, in the puddle, suspended from the pole, and with both arms and legs in the air.

Bruce’s threatening arrow now passed backwards and forwards between Sandy and Jenny. I had worries for my best line-prop. I could see what was going to happen and I didn’t particularly want to see it broken.

“You squaws… pick up squaw on ground and carry,” he told the two girls.

Sandy made a quick dash to the sunbeds to retrieve two towels. She handed one to Jenny. The two girls then raised Anthea up from out of the puddle and placed the line-prop on their shoulders. I could see the reason for the towels now. They made suitable padding between line-prop and bare shoulders.

I watched the pole bend under Anthea’s weight and prayed that it wasn’t going to break.

Bruce waited for the girls to get comfortable under the strain before issuing his next instruction.

“Right.. squaws… you carry prisoner to camp,” he told them.

Sandy set off in the lead with Jenny trailing behind, and with Anthea tethered to the pole between them. Bruce followed on close behind, still with threatening bow and arrow in his hands.

I took up the rear. I had what was left of the washing line, a steak knife and a can of ice-cool lager in my hands. I began to wonder whether a Medicine Man would be seen carrying such things? Somehow I didn’t think so. My image of a Medicine Man was of a prancing, brainless idiot, with buffalo horns on his head, a string of bones about his neck, and perhaps a skull or two in his hands. I put the coil of washing rope about my neck and pretended the can of lager to be a skull. I then started to follow on dancing like a brainless idiot. Thinking back, I’m glad no one saw me.

We circled the lawn and the apple trees, and returned to the terrace, splashing through the puddle once more before setting off around the cottage in a figure of eight. At one point I began to sing ‘Following the leader’ from Peter Pan, but this was quickly frowned upon and I was told to shut up. I guess some people in the party were taking things a little too seriously.

On our return to the terrace we made for the apple trees once more. I guess our camp had to be some distance from the waterfall to seem realistic, and I began to wonder just how many more circuits there were to go. Anyway, thankfully that was the lot, and it was two very grateful girls that dumped Anthea from their shoulders the moment they were ordered to put her down.

Bruce turned to me and motioned his bow and arrow between Sandy and Jenny.

“Right… Medicine Man,” he told me, “you cut more rope… we tie these two squaws to totem poles.”

I assumed for totem poles he meant apple trees, so I didn’t question it.

I hacked off two more lengths of washing line. This time they were long and about forty feet in length. Of what remained there was probably still another ten to fifteen feet left in the coil. I tossed one forty feet length to Bruce, then looked to the two standing girls. I assumed it would be my responsibility to tie Sandy to one tree, whilst Bruce did the same to Jenny over on the other side. I set off with this I mind, but I was stopped almost immediately by Big Chief.

“I take this squaw,” he said and motioning towards Sandy, “you take other squaw… I tie my squaw to this totem pole… you tie your squaw to that one.”

 I smiled and suddenly wanted to get into the thick of the action. I think, after spending the last few months either tying up Sandy or Anthea, or both on numerous occasions, the thought of doing it to someone completely different came as a welcome relief. Anyway I can honestly report that I got stuck into my allotted task with relish.

I took a big swig of lager, put down the can and turned to Jenny. With the steak knife held out in front of me I threatened her.

We were actually under the wrong tree at the time. Bruce had chosen the nearest tree and we had a little walk to get to ours.

“You squaw… move to totem pole over there,” I told Jenny and using my best Red Indian accent.

Jenny complied with a look of anguish at the steak knife and a few words of submission; “Please oh great Medicine Man… do not harm me… I will do as you command.”

Having said her lines according to the script, she set off with me holding the knife to her back. The knife wasn’t in contact, but it nearly came to that. Jenny had gone no more than a couple of paces when we were buzzed by a bee. It was huge. It had the body the size of a golf ball and the humming nearly burst my eardrums. (Perhaps I exaggerate a little here, but it was huge, honestly it was!). Anyway, Jenny froze, then turned and leapt into my arms. I must say the sensation of those big tits of hers pressed against my own naked chest made me forget all about the bee, and I think I got an instant hard on.

I heard Bruce call from somewhere behind me: “Don’t mind her Sport!… she always does that when she sees a bee.”

I waited until the bee had moved away, then dropped Jenny to her feet. The scare had aroused her to the point where her nipples now stood erect and firm. I licked my lips, then looked around hoping for a swarm to appear. But no such luck and it was time to resume our little game.

I repeated my instruction.

“You squaw… move to totem pole over there,” I told her once more.

Having recovered from the bee scare, Jenny smiled at me and repeated her lines.

“Please oh great Medicine Man… do not harm me… I will do as you command,” she said again.

I waved my knife to indicate that she should turn and walk.

Jenny obliged and set off towards our allotted totem pole. I followed her with knife less threatening now, and watched as she placed her back against the apple tree - sorry totem pole! - and wrapped her arms behind the trunk. The trunk was not very big and she was able to clasp her hands together around the back.

I stepped forward and started by lashing one end of the rope about a wrist, then passing it around the other and drawing the hands together. I then had another thirty-five feet or more to play with. This I proceeded to pass around Jenny’s body and the tree in continuous loops. With one loop in particular I took great satisfaction in squashing her breasts by passing the rope directly over what were still very much erect and hardened nipples, and pulling extra tight.

By the time I’d got down to Jenny’s feet I was running out of washing line. I looked across to Bruce. He was doing more or less the same as me on Sandy. He had however made Sandy stand with her feet to either side of the trunk and was finishing off by lashing them in this position. I took this as my cue and decided to do the same to Jenny.

“Squaw,… put legs to either side of tree,” I told her.

Jenny, as ever, did exactly as she was told, and I finished off the rope by lashing the ankles to the base of the tree in that spread position.

Once done, my next step was to move away and retrieved my can of lager from under Bruce’s tree. Tying Jenny had been thirsty work. I took a huge swig and offered the can to Bruce who promptly finished off what was left with a large resounding burp.

“This heap big thirsty work… me best get another can,” I told him in my best broken Red Indian.

Bruce wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Better make that half a dozen cans Sport,” he told me and reverting to his natural Australian accent.

I smiled and hurried away to collect a six pack from the fridge.

I returned to discover that Bruce had been active despite his desperate need for liquid refreshment. He had sliced the last of the washing line in half and tied each piece to the ends of the line-prop that remained threaded between Anthea’s bound arms and legs.

He waited until I arrived before giving me my orders. I guess giving orders is what Big Chiefs did best.

“Right Sport… what I want you to do is lift the pole up so that I can tie the ends to the branches between the two trees,” he told me.

I wondered where Bruce’s Red Indian accent had gone and offered him a can of lager in the hope that it might restore his throat. He popped the can open and knocked back most of the contents. I popped open a can of my own and surveyed the branches in question. I could see Bruce’s intentions though questioned his rationality. The line-prop would fit nicely between the two apple trees and, secured to the two branches involved, would leave Anthea suspended from it some three to four feet off the ground. The only problem I could foresee was getting the pole up there in the first place. It looked like strenuous work to me.

I then had what I thought to be an excellent idea, so I put it to Bruce.

“Maybe we should untie squaws and get to help,” I said and giving Big Chief my best rendering of a Red Indian accent.

Bruce glared back at me, and immediately I realised what a stupid suggestion I’d made.

“You Medicine Man… you strong… we no need squaws,” he told me.

I felt like telling Big Chief that I didn’t particularly want to be Medicine Man in the first place: And ‘me not strong’. But I considered the alternative and decided it best to keep quiet. The last thing I wanted was to be demoted to an ordinary Brave. Lowly ranks might not be allowed to join in the fun later. However, there was one consolation, if nothing else I was grateful that the lager had managed to soothe his throat enough to revert to speaking like a Red Indian again.

Reluctantly I grabbed hold of one end of the line-prop; the end nearest Anthea’s hands; and raised it up to the branch above my head. With the prop tilted at some forty-five degrees to the ground, Anthea slid down the pole and ended up sitting on her backside. This helped greatly and I managed to hold everything in place whilst Bruce secured the rope to the branch.

That was the easy part, next came the strenuous bit. I had to lift up the other end of the pole and hold it there whilst Bruce lashed the washing line to a branch on the tree opposite. I struggled and panted, and oozed buckets of sweat as I not only supported the pole but Anthea’s weight as well.

As Bruce tightened the line about the branch and the weight lifted from my upwardly raised arms I breathed a big sigh of relief. Immediately I collapsed to the lawn, clawed out for my can of lager, downed the remains and popped open another. Remember this was something like four o’clock in the afternoon and probably the hottest part of the day. I tossed Bruce another can. He sat down on the lawn by my side and popped it open.

“You take Medicine Man’s potion,” I told him. “It make you strong again.”

Bruce knocked back the can, burped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking.

“This heap good Medicine Man’s potion,” he told me with another burp.

We finished off our second cans before looking to each other and finally to the scene that greeted us. We had three naked women all trussed up. Two were lashed tightly to the trunks of the trees, whilst the third hung suspended between the branches.

“Now what we do Big Chief?” I asked as I shared out the two remaining cans of lager.

Bruce looked to me, burped again, patted me on the shoulder, and smiled.

“Me Sport, I’m going for a piss,” he told me and reverting to his normal Australian accent.

I was expecting Bruce to piss up my lilac bush, or kill off my hollyhocks, but to my astonishment he rose up from the lawn and made for the house. I followed with my own knees pressed tightly together. I must admit my own bladder was getting a bit full by now. We took it in turns in the loo, and I returned to the terrace to find Bruce stretched out on one of the sunbeds. I lay down on an adjoining sunbed next to him. By now the sun had moved around the house and a welcoming shadow was beginning to fall across the terrace. I lay back, folded my arms beneath my head and took comfort from the cooling conditions.

After taking a few minutes to acclimatise I asked the same question I’d asked whilst collapsed exhausted beneath the apple trees.  

“What we do now Big Chief?” I said to Bruce.

Bruce was into another can of lager. Whilst I was in the toilet he’d got another six pack from out of the fridge. He burped loudly before answering.

“Ug!… Big Chief tired… him sleep now,” he told me.

With all this heat around I found no reason to disagree. I settled down on the sunbed, took up an ice-cool lager, and looked across the lawn. Under the shade of the two apple trees I could see three white bodies shimmering in the heat haze that rose from the lawn: Two were lashed tightly to the trees, the other suspended by hands and feet from a horizontal pole lashed between the branches. I hoped that they were all enjoying themselves. I knew Anthea for one would be lapping it up. She would hang there all day and all night without a word of complaint if the need be. On the other hand, I hoped Sandy and Jenny were just as much into the spirit of the game as Anthea.

After that I dozed off.

I woke up to find Bruce snoring alongside of me. That corked hat of his was covering his face. I looked to my watch and was horrified. I guess it must have been something like four o’clock when we tied the girls to the trees. The time now was getting on for seven. The girls had been tied to the apple trees for something like three hours.

“Bruce!” I shouted loudly, then leant across the sunbeds and rocked his shoulder.

He grunted and came alive. He raised the corked hat from off his face and looked across to me.

“What time is it Sport?” he asked.

“Seven o’clock,” I told him.

Bruce sat up, clawed for a can of lager he’d been saving from somewhere beneath the sunbed, popped it open, took a big swig, burped loudly, then felt his stomach.

“You know what Sport?… I’m hungry,… I could demolish a kangaroo,” he informed me.

I must admit I was a little peckish myself. Though I thought a kangaroo a bit much.

“Me too,” I agreed and thinking steak and chips to be a better option.

“I guess we’d better untie the girls then, and get them to rustle up some tucker,” Bruce suggested.

Gone was Bruce’s Red Indian accent, so I guessed this was the end of our little game. I was a bit sad really. It was a sort of anticlimax. But then I had to agree, it was getting late and I guess everyone was feeling a bit peckish by now.

Slowly we rose from our sunbeds and set off for the apple trees. Or was it totem poles? I’m not sure whether the game had ended at this stage.

Anyway, as expected Anthea complained about being set free so soon. Apparently three hours wasn’t half long enough. But Sandy and Jenny seemed to take it all in their stride. The only way I could pacify Anthea was to remind her of the suntan oil. I’d promised to punish her for squabbling with Sandy over the last remnants in the bottle. Reluctantly she agreed, providing her punishment took place that night, and I spanked her really hard using a stiff hairbrush. I could see that this was the only way to keep the peace, so I agreed. After that she went away quite happily with Sandy and Jenny to rustle up a meal.

Oh, and by the way, it was steak and chips! Luckily we were right out of kangaroo meat!


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End of Chapter One