Henry Morgan - The drivers

With trembling fingers he began undoing her blouse, each button exposing more succulent cleavage until finally she was clad only in her black lacy bra, the one she wore on her regular Friday nights out.

Next for removal were her white denims. Peter undid the button before slipping down the zip.

When he tried to pull the denims from her he found the heavy cotton jeans reluctant to oblige without firmly yanking them from side to side. Eventually he managed to get them down and threw them on the pile with her other clothes. That left Claire lying across the chair in only her bra and knickers. Both were quite intricate and daring, suitable for her night out.

Now he had her almost naked, Peter was struck by the resemblance she bore to Susan. They were a similar size and weight and he found himself wondering what lay beneath her flimsy lace underwear. He wiped away the sweat that seemed to be running freely down his forehead as his mind swirled at the consequence of what he had done.

It was wrong to have brought Claire here like this, but he could not go to the passover without a swop. The only thing that mattered to him was Susan's rescue, and surely Claire would forgive him if he achieved that.

He took up the bag of things he had bought during the day and emptied the contents on the floor. Among them was a heavily studded dog collar which he quickly buckled around Claire's neck. It made him feel very ruthless and he found the sleek appearance it gave her quite pleasing.

To add the other items he had bought Claire would obviously have to lose her underwear.

Among these were a set of leather cuffs, which Peter attached to Claire's wrists in case she should recover before he had finished her preparation. Despite having to lift her from the chair to reach her arm she remained dead to the world. Safe from the possibility of flailing finger nails, Peter leant over the sleeping woman and undid her bra, freeing the heavy tits which dropped sidewards.

It was the first time he had seen Claire topless, and he liked what he saw. He allowed himself a moment to caress the wonderful pink mounds, squeezing the flesh and rolling her nipples between finger and thumb.

Even as she slept the sensation of having her nipples stroked aroused her, the brown nubs quickly swelling at his touch. For a second or so Peter continued his actions, smiling and revelling in the feelings it was bringing him, until suddenly he realised what he was doing. It had not been his intention to touch Claire in a sexual way, only to use her to help Susan. What he was doing made him no better than The Drivers.

But now he had come this far, he simply had to see it through. He just had to control himself.

With a new resolve Peter hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Claire's panties and eased them down. When he came to her mons his eyes widened with surprise as her shaven pleat came into view.

How he loved a smooth cunt!

Susan had shaved for him once and was too embarrassed to do it again. Claire obviously did it as a matter of course, or perhaps that new boy friend insisted upon it. Maybe he even did it for her. Unable to help himself, Peter ran the palm of his hand between her legs, allowing his forefinger to push its way inside her sex lips. Although Claire's lips were large they were nowhere near the size of Susan's pronounced labia, which hung down some considerable length and with which Peter enjoyed playing so much.

He toyed with Claire for some time, noting the slight rasp on her mons that suggested whoever did the shaving hadn't done it for a day or two. Peter decided to get her into the rest of her gear and then he would take care of that particular matter.

He dressed her in a very tight black rubber waspie that pinched her waist and left her tits and thighs exposed. Then he drew up some black stockings, attaching them to the heavy suspenders of the corset, and finished her off with a pair of black leather boots that reached her knees, giving her some extra height due to the four inch heels.

Happy with her dress, he fetched a razor and soap and sat down to lather her quim.

The invigorating swirl of the shaving brush had the effect of rousing Claire from her sleep. She was aware of a dull ache behind her eyes and the faint taste of anaesthetic, but when she tried to lift her hands to her forehead they wouldn't move. Her last memory was of being in her garden and she had no idea how she had made it inside.

She lifted her head to speak, becoming confused at the sight of her body in a tight rubber waspie.

"Jeff," she whispered, thinking it was her lover. "What's going on?"

The blade glided across her mons, revealing her thick lipped smile in all its glory. She enjoyed the feeling, dropping her head back over the arm of the chair as it swept across her again. When she opened her eyes the next time the fluorescent strip light shouted out like a long white exclamation mark against the ceiling. There was no strip light in her house. She wasn't at home! Peter saw the realisation on her face and acted quickly by attaching a lead to the back of her collar and running it under the chair. When he put his foot on it at his side Claire was unable to move her head.

"Is it you, Peter?"

Peter answered with further sweeps of the blade.

"Don't struggle," he warned her. "I don't want to slip with this razor."

She remained perfectly still as he renewed the lather and continued his task. Each time he pulled her between thumb and finger or brushed her clitoris she shuddered. The very thought that this middle aged man had made love to her sister and now had her legs spread before him filled her with anger and disgust. As he finished, Peter wiped away some soap that had run between the cheeks of her bottom, making her humiliation grow as he took time around her anus.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her head still forced to face the ceiling. "I know we've never really liked each other, but this!"

Peter tied the end of the lead to the bottom of the chair then stood up so she could see his face. It was flushed red, with determination, with desire and with confusion.

"I was telling the truth yesterday, Claire," he pleaded. "All of it. All I want is Susan back and you're the last chance. You have to help."

"Listen to yourself," she grated. "What you sound like." She wanted to close her legs but if she did it meant hanging them over the chair and that lifted her head and pulled the collar tight around her neck. The only way she could keep it relatively loose was to lift her legs up onto the seat and that meant they flopped open. "You know you're getting yourself into deep trouble, Peter. Let me go now and we'll say no more about it."

Peter studied her almost naked body closely. He had brought her here, stripped her and shaved her cunt. His mind was reeling, his thoughts tumbling over in his head. He had been so sure she would see reason, help him rescue Susan. Seeing her tied to the chair, her tits and pussy on display, he wondered where it had all gone wrong. Why had this happened to him?

All he wanted was his boring, mundane life back.

"You've gone and lost it, Pete," she said. "Lost it all. Susan, and now after this, they're going to put you away."

"No," he replied. "Not when Susan tells them I'm right."

"Right!" Claire laughed. "You couldn't be right to save your life. You couldn't satisfy your wife, and you can't accept it when she finds someone who can. Because that's what's happened." Her voice had that spiteful venomous edge. She was trying to hurt him, damage his ego, and she knew how to do it. "She's probably with him now, in bed. Screwing each other stupid. He's got his thick cock up her, banging her good and hard, like you never could."

She paused for breath before continuing her tirade. "And what have you got? Denial and revenge. You're still on your own, still sleeping alone. She's got a proper man. What have you got? Nothing."