The Red Collection by Portia Da Costa

my pants down. People who might see me when he makes me do what I’ve got to do – out here in the open.
    I’ll just have to take a chance. Not that I’ve much option. It’s either go where he instructs me to or wet myself anyway. If we were in the middle of the Borough Hall car park in broad daylight now, I’d probably have to go. He leads me a little way along what feels like a rough path. Tall stalks of grass brush my legs, and with my knickers around my knees every shuffling uneven step makes me gasp.
    ‘Here,’ he says eventually, then, without warning, he swoops down. I feel him pluck at my pants, and I get the message. Feeling as if my eyes are going to pop out beneath my blindfold, I step out of my underwear, moaning with every move or jolt.
    I don’t know what he does with my knickers, but I suspect that I’m not going to get them back. And I don’t care. All I want now is to squat down and let it all go.
    But, of course, once I’m down, legs akimbo, I can’t. And the multicoloured frustration is so keen I want to wail. Even with the rushing river so close by, I’m all locked up.
    ‘I can’t go,’ I snivel.
    ‘Oh, poor baby,’ he murmurs. ‘Poor Miss Lewis. Do you want me to help you?’
    Oh, God, yes!
    I sense his great presence beside me and, if it wouldn’t be so appallingly uncomfortable that I’d probably scream, I’d fall down on my knees and press my lips against his shoes.
    He crouches at my side, and once more he slips his hand between my thighs.
    And when one long, square-tipped finger works its magic, I do scream. But silently, inside, behind my bitten lip as everything cuts loose and I piss and have an orgasm simultaneously.
    This time I don’t blank, but seem to experience a moment of total clarity. The sounds around me come into sharp focus. The running water. The echo of my own torrent. The bashing and pounding of my heart. The heavy, broken breathing of the man at my side, who’s unable to mask his physical excitement in the execution of one of his own particular perversions. He’s wanted to do this ever since I described once being brought off this way by a girlfriend in a transport café.
    Silently, as I come down, he hands me tissues to clean myself with, then disposes of them I know not where. I don’t feel as if I can speak as we track backwards back to the Toyota. I want to touch him again. Or, more properly, touch him for the first time in the course of this escapade. But somehow I know it’s not the time yet.
    How long is this bloody road trip going to last?
    ‘Are we there yet?’
    We seem to have been driving for hours. Certainly long enough for my inner tension, and my libido, to crank right back up to screaming point again. I clench myself hard around the intrusion in my bottom, imagining that it’s Mr Stone’s magnificent dick.
    ‘I asked you not to ask that again,’ he states, mock coolly.
    I pout, hoping the mutinous thrust of my lip will goad him. I know I’m acting bratty, but I also know that’s what he wants . This magical mystery tour is turning out to be a pick-and-mix of all his favourite kinks, and there’s one more I’d like to add to the selection.
    I wait two minutes, then I ask again.
    ‘No. But we soon will be. And you’ll regret it, young lady.’
    Bingo! He’s taken the bait.
    Or have I taken his?
    The car speeds up, and we twist and turn through the unseen roads and streets. There’s passing traffic, so we’re probably not in the country or by the river, I guess. I can’t see him, and he doesn’t speak, but there’s a quality to the air that seems to press on my skin. He’s as impatient as I am, and, even though he’s a past master at disguising his emotions, I know him. And I can read him in the silence and the dark.
    We stop, he wrenches on the handbrake, and says, ‘We’re here. Are you satisfied?’
    ‘No,’ I say pertly.
    ‘Well, we’ll see about that, then, shall we?’
    In far less time than it takes me to