Alice Marlowe

Chapter One-2

“Oh, god,” said Alice, feeling doubly wicked for taking the Lord’s name in vain. And then it happened, a sort of wave of pleasure sweeping through her groin, setting everything trembling, uncontrollably.

“Good,” said Alice when the sensations had died a little. Charlotte took her hand away and instead put it up under her own dress. Alice watched her while her hand went to work. It was not long before her body shook, her thighs trembling, the pit of her belly quivering.

The next time Charlotte showed Alice exactly where to put her hand and Alice brought her friend off. After that, mutual m**********n happened almost daily. Such activities set Alice’s mind wandering, thinking about other things that might be done apart simply from using one’s hand. It was at that time that Alice developed an interest in pain, which she realised had some sort of connection in her mind to s****l desire. Without telling Charlotte, because it seemed such a perverse thing, she began to inflict pain, albeit of a moderate nature, on her own body. She became adept at tying herself up with a cord. She would wrap it round her waist, tying a knot at the back, then draw it between the cheeks of her bottom, through the lips of her cunt, and up to the waist, where she made another knot after drawing the cord up as hard as she could. She found that if she did this standing up, when she sat down the cord pulled tighter than ever, so tight it took her breath away. She could feel it biting into her clit.

Pain, she found, increased the pleasure of orgasm. It made it sharper, more focussed. She would take a handful of stinging nettles from the undergrowth at the bottom of the garden, and would stuff them into her drawers. The pain was intense, but soon settled down into a kind of warm tingle, greatly conducive to a bout of m**********n productive of several orgasms in quick succession. Another trick was to gather some of the sharp little stones from one of the garden paths. She would take them up to her room and spread them on top of her desk. Then, pulling down the front of her dress and slipping her shift off her shoulders, she would bend down so that her breasts were forced into the gravel. She was particularly aroused if some of the points of the stones pricked against her n*****s. Once she spread the gravel on the flat arm of a wooden chair, then removed her drawers and stood astride it and lowered herself until the gravel was pressing into the lips of her cunt. She let her whole weight fall on the sharp little stones while she rubbed her clit until she came.

As she got older and her body developed, she began to experiment with pain more and more. Her breasts, and more particularly her n*****s, grew larger and she found that the n*****s were extraordinary sensitive; it was as though there was a direct connection from the n*****s all the way down to her cunt. When she hurt her n*****s, her cunt throbbed and ached. She got some thin but strong string and tied each n****e up, as tight as she could manage. At first the pain was not too bad, but after a while it grew more intense, especially when she pulled on the string with her fingers. When she thought she could bear it no longer, she forced herself to delay untying the strings until she had m*********d. Sometimes she would dig her nails into her n*****s, harder and harder, forcing herself to bear ever more pain. She searched for some sort of grips that would fit onto her n*****s and give her pain while her hands remained free, to work between her legs. One day, looking around her father’s study while he was out visiting a parishioner, she came across a small packet of metal clips which he used to bind papers together. She took a couple and went up to her room. The clips were strong and it took some effort to open them. Cautiously, she placed one over a n****e and slowly let go. At first the pain was agonising. It took her breath away, and she thought she must remove the clip at once. But after half a minute or so the pain had lessened to the extent that it was just about bearable. Taking a deep breath, she put the second clip on her other n****e. She forced herself to take more deep breaths, until the pain should subside a little. When it did, she put a hand between her legs, exploring. She slid a finger in between the lips of her cunt, and was astonished how wet she was, even after such a short time. Her clit was swollen too, as much as it had ever been. She began to stroke it, gently, while with her other hand she played with the clips, trying to see how much more pain she got if she twisted them a little, or pulled on them. She tried to make herself last longer, but her clit had a will of its own, and all too soon her orgasm exploded, shaking her to the core. Quickly she took off the clips.

Other experiments followed. She liked to press herself up against the sharp corner of a table, grinding her clit against the hard wood, mixing pain with pleasure until she came. More and more, she wanted not only pain, but the sensation of being penetrated. She became practised at f*****g herself with her fingers, ramming them into herself hard, over and over. She looked for objects that might serve the same purpose. In the woodshed at the bottom of the garden her father kept a few tools. A small hand-fork for digging up weeds had a stout wooden handle. Hitching up her skirt, pulling down her drawers, she carefully pulled her lips apart and inserted the handle. At first it seemed much too big. She was, after all, a virgin; nothing bigger than her finger had ever penetrated her. But she was determined to try an object that would force her cunt open wider. She persisted with the handle, inching it in little by little. It hurt a bit, but she told herself pain was good, there could be no real pleasure without it. At last the handle was in, all the way. She tried moving it in and out. Was this what it was like to be f****d by a man? She had only a vague idea of how big a man’s c**k might be.

She moved the handle faster, pushing it in harder. With her other hand she began to rub her clit, and soon the wave of pleasure rolled over her, so intense it left her gasping. Gingerly she eased the handle out. At the end was some blood. At first she thought she had done herself an injury. But then she remembered what a friend had whispered to her once, that when a man took your virginity you bled. It was part of becoming a woman.

The bed in Alice’s room was an ornate affair of polished walnut. At the foot, the legs were surmounted by two pointed round knobs. One morning, lying in bed before getting up, Alice’s was stroking herself, something she did frequently, without necessarily pursuing it towards an orgasm. But then she had a thought. Perhaps the knobs might serve a function. She got out of bed and locked her door, something she was not supposed to do, but she couldn’t risk discovery, given what she intended.

Hitching up her nightdress, she positioned herself that that her legs were on either side of one of the knobs. Slowly she bent her knees, lowering herself so that the top of the knob pressed against her cunt. It was cold at first, but she didn’t mind that. She let her weight press down more. She could feel that the knob had gone into the space between the lips of her cunt, just a little way. She pressed down harder. The knob went in a little further. At first the knob had seemed too large; but she knew that several of the objects with which she had already penetrated herself had initially looked far too big. It was a matter of patience and determination. And of lust. She was getting excited at the thought of the hard wooden knob getting in deeper, and that was making her wet. She worked herself up and down a little and pressed still further. The knob was halfway in now. It would only need a little more force and penetration would be complete. Alice paused for a while and rubbed her clit. This made her more wet than ever. She resumed pressing down, and suddenly she seemed to open right up. The knob was lodged securely in her cunt. It felt big, enormous, in fact, but there was no pain, just a feeling of being stretched, of being full, which was good. She set about rubbing her clit with some focus, being possessed of a fierce desire for an orgasm, which duly arrived, with such force that her cunt clenched hard, so hard that it was painful against the solid wood object filling her. But pain was always good if it was incurred in the process of s****l gratification.

One day Charlotte told her that she had discovered her father’s secret library of pornography. In a locked drawer of the desk in his study were half a dozen works of a more or less scandalous nature. Charlotte had found where he kept the key to the drawer, and daringly had extracted one of the books.

“Won’t he miss it?” Alice said breathlessly as Charlotte showed her the work. It was a small book with a paper cover and looked as if it had been opened many times.

“He’s very absent minded,” Charlotte said. “He won’t notice it’s gone.”

The book was called My Secret Life, apparently written by a man who identified himself solely as Walter. The two girls flicked through the pages. It was very explicit, with much talk of f*****g, of c***s and cunts and asses. But there were no pictures; the girls were no closer to discovering the dimensions of a c**k when aroused, nor anything else about its appearance. Nevertheless, the book was informative about what circumstances would lead to such an arousal, and what could be expected to happen next. Walter pursued girls of all classes with an impressive single-mindedness, never, it seemed, taking no for an answer. At length Charlotte said she had to go home. She closed the book and said she would read it quickly and then lend it to Alice.

Alice continued to apply the clips she had found in her father’s study. They really were fearsome, cruel, even vicious. She forced herself into longer and longer sessions, in which she teased her clit remorselessly while the clips held her n*****s in a vice-like grip; her n*****s would remain sore all the next day. But increasingly she was beginning to find this unsatisfactory. Charlotte offered a glimpse into a real world, of who knew what levels of excitement.

When at last she got possession of My Secret Life, she read it eagerly. She learned much of the s****l psychology of men. Walter had an insatiable curiosity about the female body, wanting always to see its most intimate places, as well as fondle and penetrate them. Alice was relieved to find that, contrary to what was preached in church and in her home, modesty and restraint were not necessarily the qualities that governed women in their relations with men. Disappointingly, Alice could find little attention paid to the forms of s****l pleasure which she herself favoured and, according to her circumstances, practised. Men in Walter’s story were frequently beaten by women, but there was almost nothing about the opposite. Walter himself appeared to have no taste for inflicting pain, nor did he encounter any women who desired it. Alice began to wonder if she was, if not unique, then rare in her desire for physical suffering. Was she indeed some kind of pervert, whose sexuality was twisted, aberrant, even sick? She was reluctant to believe it was so. But she devoured the descriptions of Walter’s many acts of s****l congress; she noted that often, once Walter had persuaded a woman to accept his organ, she became as desirous as him. Women had s****l desire, there could be no question of that. And men, if they were anything like Walter, were consumed by their desire to look at women, to touch them, to penetrate them, in whatever orifice they could prise open.