Classmates' Revenge

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Reunion

They’d barely been back a week. And despite idyllic digs they were already growing bored. Sparkplug Tara was due in tonight – at last! But somehow the suspense just made things worse. Though the entire estate was theirs it was too hot to jet-ski, swim, lounge about the dock or pool or do much of anything outside – ninety and it wasn’t even officially summer yet!

They’d spent too long already working out; that just-refurbished gym totally rocked. Still there were some kinds of exercise you simply couldn’t overdo.

Left with no more diverting way to kill off the day, the recently reunited classmates were playing ‘domme-on-top’ – this for the ten thousandth time. Coming up tails on the coin toss meant it was Julie’s turn to be the b***h. Lucky Carrie got the title character. An hour or more in and she was really strutting her stuff, an enthusiastic embodiment of their favorite game’s name.

“Come on girl! Stick that can in the air! You’ve got to wiggle it if you want it whipped!”

Cram climate change – millions in money meant they could gambol about bare-assed in air-conditioned comfort. They were staying in the master suite, the sybaritic wing that had always housed Carrie’s parents. Now Frank and Eva Mitchell were hundreds of miles distant, spending this season (and hopefully several hence) at a rented penthouse in Boston.

Surely they were hovering insufferably over their infant grand-twins, the dual boon of Carrie’s brother Trevor and his fecund Columbian wife. ¡Muchas Gracias Jimena, and talk about an ideal setup! The twenty-two year-old lady of the manor had also dismissed the domestic help for the day so they didn’t even need to be discreet. Julie yelped out beautifully loud as Carrie zapped her plumped-up buttock.

Her thumb on the dial of the shock-wand, she eased the charge a notch higher. After flinching instinctively away Julie gigglingly obeyed, raising that wonderfully curvy bum.

It was agreed the big blonde made the best b***h of the bunch, though roles were randomly assigned by design. That had been their compact since Fifty Shades of Grey mania enveloped their private high school. There they’d developed their shared delight in domination games.

Now with college behind them too and nothing but a lifetime of indolence beckoning the three pampered graduates remained best friends and casual lovers: intimate playmates from day care all the way through cheerleaders’ clique and separate university degrees.

Guys had come and inevitably gone. So had assorted girls. Still their informal club endured. Barring accidental scarring, none of the three ever made complaint about their arrangement. It was even convenient that the current b***h-on-bottom enjoyed that role (and being tied up in particular) considerably more than even Carrie and Tara. She’d come up with their best bondage bits by far. Now she was wallowing in an absolute classic.

With each leg folded up and tied ankle-to-thigh, buxom beauty Julie sprawled in the center of Frank’s magnificent eighteenth-century bed. Denied rising higher than a squat, even after wrestling her way upright she could only turn and shuffle some before falling back over, frog-legs awkwardly flopping. Her other limbs were more straightly restrained.

The intricate yet symmetrical harness roped all about her torso not only kept her melons swelled up splendidly tender. With her upper arms wrenched back into a triangle Julie’s shoulders were nearly dislodged from their sockets.

Tightly coiled spiral wrappings trapped her forearms pulse-to-pounding-pulse together from the apex of her elbows right down to purpling palms. Even these were locked to her coccyx. Two thin cords cut deep into her cunt coming back up to anchor each half of that elaborate tit-trussing in front.

Not quite hogtied, her minimal mobility superbly accentuated the appeal pitiful Julie presented. Gratuitous boobs ballooned, limbs all prettily pinned she was deliciously defenseless. Though she could range all over that expansive mattress, squirming and flipping in whimpering evasion, to escape the bed itself would break even her big bones.

Matching the sheets she struggled upon, the black satin eyeshade looked especially sexy set against her clear complexion and rich maize mane. Excitement and exertion turned dimpled-deep cheeks ruddy. Giggling Julie pressed one of these to that ebon bed while she waggled her nearly as lovely (if not so unblemished) nether ones enticingly. Fetchingly she wheedled.

“Don’t tease me you meanie! You said I’d get a whipping!”

“You’ll get what I give you, bitch.”

Carrie zapped her again in quick succession: left butt, right sole, right butt, left sole; little piggy, big toe – dead center in the asshole! Then she hit her right on the clit where this was kept all swollen and exposed by those deep-cutting ropes.

Banzai!

Banzai and bulls-eye. That brought the loudest yelp yet, along with a snubbed half-leap that tumbled the bound blonde back onto her arms and side. It also brought tears trickling from under that airliner blindfold. About damn time!

Brimming with sadistic lust at the sight, Carrie dialed the wand up again and shocked those tender wet cheeks too, each side just beyond the dimple before finally taking pity. Julie’s shrieks were getting absolutely frantic. They awoke and bespoke a reciprocal arousal as Carrie backed off and started in with the lunging whip.

The distance from the edge of the bed was ideal. Holding the stiff four-foot shaft in her free hand she could flick out with the lash, aiming its identical length with artistic precision.

Designed for guiding rather than goading a mount, that thin leather thong could still break the skin if used too exuberantly. Carrie was an old pro with it though. She lay down almost legible stripes and curlicues that while masochistically and aesthetically treasurable would fade away within a few days. It was the unpredictability more than the amplitude of each sense-spike that made it so rewarding – not that they didn’t all bemoan the need to avoid leaving permanent marks! Still the expertise Carrie wielded had Julie truly in a tizzy within minutes.

“Ah goddess yes, give it to me!”

Ask and thee shall receive. There was a divine creativity to this really.

Between the elegant calligraphy of her whip-welts and the virtuosity with which she darted back in to infuse a n****e or lip or nose tip – or other particularly erogenous spot – the domme-on-top flitted fluidly around her mewling medium like artistry in its original orogeny.

Reading Julie’s giggles, pleas, sobs and screams intuitively, Carrie deftly kept her thrashings protectively back from the edge of the bed and urged her on toward transubstantiation with one unanticipated tribulation after another. Only when the pitch of the b***h’s delirium was at its peak did she toss aside her toys. Wielding just the one gripped in her cunt she pounced.

This kind of c**k was called a ‘share’.

Surpassing the old strap-on dildo, it stayed in place solely by means of its inner extension.

The entire time she’d spent binding and dominating Julie, this had jutted up from Carrie’s stuffed crotch: a horse-hung hermaphrodite’s indefatigable faux phallus. When she fell on the b***h at last, yanked those seam-splitting ropes apart and drove into the ready wetness between, the domme-on-top both gave and got. With her every plunging thrust, that connecting bi-c**k rocked on her clit and g-spot in response. From that point on they were both screaming.

As the intensity increased they might indeed have been mistaken for supernatural beings: a predatory harpy and her naively seized naiad perhaps. Pitilessly pinned plaything and rampaging ravisher, they sent echoes of oblivious ecstasy reverberating out from that vast master suite all through the empty halls and open spaces of the family mansion.

Damping this racket by half, Carrie crushed that tear-streaked visage between her t**s.

While not as massive as Julie’s these were easily more firm and taut. She b***h-slapped her envious friend with their shapely weight, knowing how thrillingly that demeaned her. She also showed no consideration whatsoever for the roughness of her f*****g – also knowing that in all these years Julie had never yet protested.

This b***h couldn’t get it too brutally, though the crystal-shattering shrieks she pealed forth at each climax suggested an exaltation that it might be fatal to over-sustain. Still (and as ever) it was the domme-on-top who was the first one drained.

No one who wasn’t a machine (or a real Supreme Being) could go on hammer-jabbing away for longer than her receptacle could revel in excruciated acceptance. Especially when impaled p***y-agony was the point. That’s why they flipped a coin. When Carrie at last collapsed, their final mutual throe still shuddering through their flesh and shivering as intimations in the air, Julie crooned with rue.

“Oooooooh, a million million more I could’ve come...”

“Tell it to Tara, ungrammatical one. We need her here to tag-team.”

“That’s always the best isn’t it? Heads, heads and tails: we all win.”

“Yeah, you get your million millions while we work ourselves silly. Lazy chubby.”

“Guilty and guilty.”

Giggling led to lip-nibbling. Finally she breathed a hopeful sigh.

“Are you going to slather me now mistress? Sit on my face and make me partake?”

Carrie didn’t need to see through the eyeshade to know that Julie’s jewel-blue soul-openings were gleaming all uniquely meek and greedy. She’d seen them so ad finitum. Nor did she protest at what amounted to topping from the bottom. She was about to oblige the great cunt-glutton when her phone interrupted.

Neither raised a plaint – it was Tara’s ringtone. Though she wasn’t due in for hours yet, hope leaped up. They hadn’t been a trio since puking in the New Year.

“Speak of the demon!” Julie cheered. “Get it, quick!”

Carrie was already out of her body and over the bed. She snatched the little computer off the carved and polished, intricately inlaid mahogany headboard.

“Tara darling!”

“Heiress Carrie!”

“What are you doing?”

“I am debarking darling, stepping out of the cab that has taken me from the airship that has returned me to our stultifying little nativity. How are you and Julie?”

“How do you think? We are playing domme-on-top – and badly missing you here to tag-team – or double up.”

“Girl, I’ve been looking forward to nothing more. I even got bumped up a flight.”

“So we noticed. Now get your bad ass over here. Frank and Eva have left the entire estate to me. I am mistress of all survey.”

Tara snorted. “If I oblige thee we will never leave. And first I must visit my own born home: make nice with the polite talk, show off my sheepskin, hug and kiss my little sis. Sweet sixteen and she’s getting t**s like yours, I swear.”

“Jealous.”

“Jezebel. Just wait ‘til I get heads.”

“That’s a very tired double entendre dear. One I’m going plunge back down your gullet.”

“You and your hard-earned English B.A.”

“You and yours. Congratulations and all. So when shall we get together, graduate? It’s already…holy crap, it’s four-forty!”

“Time flies when you’re banging bum.”

“We hadn’t even got that far.”

Holding the phone to her ear, Carrie removed her c**k. Then she knee-walked back over to straddle Julie’s still blindfolded face. She gasped at the first touch of that slavishly adept tongue.

“So – oh! – what’s it going to be?”

“How about dinner at Reilly’s? If it cools down enough we’ll get a table on the terrace. We’ll kind of advertise that we’re back and see who else is in town. Who is, by the way?”

“Nobody we give a s**t about.” Barely able to concentrate on such mundanity, Carrie rattled off a string of names. Tara snorted again.

“Remind me why we came back here.”

“Because I’ve got the estate until Christmas at least. Because we all made it through college without succumbing to a husband. And so you could – oh! – eat my p***y like Julie is doing.”

“Nobody can do it like Julie. Nobody I’ve ever met anyway. And we’ll see who eats whose what. All you’ll survey will be my curvy butt. So what do you say, six-thirty?”

“Six-thirty it is. And tell little Trisha – oh! – I’ve got some great bras she can borrow.”

“What, and let you corrupt her? She still thinks pastels are sexy.”

“They are – on anyone but you.”

“Bitch.”

“Not until I lose a coin toss.”

“All right. If Julie ever pulls her face out of your pie, tell her I said hi. Otherwise I’ll see you both this evening.”

“You’ve got it girl!”

Carrie ended the call. She checked the time again before tossing the phone on the bed. They had half an hour to enjoy this yet before moving the party to the shower.

***

With multimillionaire parents of her own (even after the divorce) Julie Meade had stayed in four-star hotels from Honolulu to Stockholm, from Zurich to Rio to New Zealand. Perhaps there were no gold-plated and ivory fixtures in the master bath at Sapphire Lakes Estate (aka Mitchell Manor or Carrie’s place) but it still compared favorably to any paid hospitality. The tub could host a pool party while the separate sauna and shower were just as accommodating.

When they stepped wet from the last it was straight onto radiating marble. The stone dried drips as they hit. The towels plucked toasty from equally heated shelves were virgin cotton by Frette. Even better, the facing mirrors they stepped between went from floor to coffered ceiling. The way they bounced reflections infinitely back and forth was particularly ideal for checking out – and marveling over – the condition of one’s skin.