Taken By Force

My name's Karen Duthie. For the record – I know people are interested in this sort of thing – I'm 37 years old, five-feet-five tall, with short brown hair, hazel eyes, a reasonably pretty face, B-cup knockers, and a trim body thanks to 10 hours a week in the gym. I'm a staff trainer with a large company, based in London, but with offices in other major cities around Britain. I recently had to travel to Newcastle-upon-Tyne to train the staff there in a new IT software package we've installed. I expected the trip to be entirely routine, but it turned out to be anything but.

My colleague Julie was accompanying me on the trip. She's several years younger than me and, in my personal view, a bit of an airhead. We get on, but we're certainly not close friends. I had planned to fly to the North East, but Julie's terrified of flying, so we agreed to take a company car and share the driving for the 290 mile trip. Julie was to take the first half, then I'd take over. The first part of the plan went fine, except for my colleague's insistence on having the radio on. I'd have been happy with a news station, but she insisted on Radio One, a steady diet of inane pop music (accompanied by Julie's tuneless warbling) mixed with moronic prattling by DJs.

By the time we got to the motorway service station where we'd agreed to have lunch I was more than ready for a break. The meal was better than I'd have expected from one of those places, but that's where the trouble started. Having done her stint of the driving, Julie decided to have a couple of glasses of wine with her lunch. Then, when we got back to the car, I found she'd treated herself to a couple of bottles of alcopop – some sort of rum and cola mix I think – which she proceeded to swig for the rest of the journey. At least I got to switch the radio off, but then I had to put up with Julie's dull conversation about TV reality shows and God knows what else. Suffice to say, by the time we neared Newcastle Julie was fairly pissed, and I was thoroughly pissed off.

In a harassed moment I had stupidly agreed to let Julie book our accommodation, and the moment she told me we were heading for somewhere called the Jolly Welcome Inn my heart fell. You know how this works: if a housing estate is called Golden Meadows you just know it's going to look like a war zone two minutes after a major bombing offensive. We get a good financial allowance for hotels, but Julie's one of those people who likes to go as cheap as possible and pocket the difference.

Sure enough, the Jolly Welcome Inn was everything I expected. It was a few miles south of Newcastle, a squat grey motel apparently constructed entirely of concrete breeze blocks. The windows looked as if they hadn't been cleaned since the place was built – at least two had cracked panes – and from what I could see from the curtains, they hadn't seen a drop of water for considerably longer. The only other buildings as far as the eye could see were a grim industrial park, a massive power station, and an ugly red brick building which appeared to be some kind of pub. The huge motel car park contained only three other vehicles, one of which was a truck the size of an ocean liner.

For two pins I'd have insisted we go somewhere else, but it was late, I wanted to stretch my legs, my silk blouse and designer jeans were rumpled and sweaty, and I desperately needed a couple of gin and tonics and a long hot shower. We were checked in by a surly, unkempt middle-aged man, with three hairs plastered across his head to try and hide his baldness, who told us in a thick Geordie accent (the local dialect) that the 'inn' didn't have a bar. Just bloody brilliant, I thought. He also insisted on calling me 'pet', a local form of address for women which I found rather irritating.

Julie and I dragged our bags to our 'chalets' – I wasn't going to risk leaving anything of the slightest value in the car – then met up in the car park to walk across to the pub. I'd already had enough of her company for several years, but there was no way I was going to walk into a strange pub alone, especially not with my plummy Home Counties accent among a bunch of Geordie hicks.

I'd thought things couldn't get any worse until we opened the door of the bar. We were nearly blown backwards by the sheer volume of Black Sabbath screaming from the jukebox. I had expected to get ogled by dozens of beery men, but in fact the half dozen or so clients were all female. I found that comforting for about two seconds, until I noticed the predominance of greasy denims, leather and distinctly masculine hairstyles. There was one feminine looking girl, but she seemed to be in the process of having her face slowly eaten by a macho looking woman I took to be her girlfriend. Well, I thought, this is absolutely wonderful: not only had Julie managed to book us into the shittiest hotel in the North East of England, she'd apparently brilliantly found the only one with an en suite lesbian biker bar!

I grabbed Julie's arm and, competing with Ozzy Osbourne, screamed, "Christ Julie, let's go somewhere else, I'm not drinking in this dump." Unfortunately, the strains of Paranoid came to an abrupt end as I reached the words 'this dump'. In the deafening silence which followed I was suddenly the focus of attention for every eye in the room – except those of the lovers, who seemed intent on screwing each other right there in the bar.

As the relatively tranquil opening notes of Nazareth's Love Hurts filled the musical void, Julie, ignoring the hostile glares in my direction, sniggered and said, "There isn't anywhere else Kaz. Besides, I like this place; it's got, er, character."

Yeah, I thought, so's Hannibal Lecter, but I wouldn't accept a lunch invitation from him. She was right, though, there wasn't anywhere else and I needed that drink more by the moment. So I picked my way delicately across the sticky wooden floor of the bar and asked for a G and T. The barmaid, a stocky bottle blonde in her forties with a 1970s skinhead hairstyle and a ring through her nose, stared at me as if I'd asked for a Sloe Comfortable Harvey Zombie on the Beach, complete with parasol. After three seconds, realising I wasn't going to relent and order a sensible drink, she gave a heavy sigh, selected a glass, wiped it on her Southern Comfort T shirt, filled it as required, then placed it in front of me, saying, with heavy sarcasm, "There you go, princess." Julie, bowing to local custom, ordered a Newcastle Brown Ale.

We chose a table in a dark, isolated corner. Julie slumped on a velveteen bench and stared with open amusement at the denizens of the pub. I resisted the temptation to put a handkerchief of my grimy bar stool and sat with my back to them, carefully sipping my drink from the side of the glass without the pre-existing lipstick stain. Conversation was near impossible with the jukebox working its way through the entire history of heavy metal. After maybe five minutes I became aware of a dark shadow looming over me. Glancing up, I saw the most extraordinary woman standing staring down at us.

She was in her mid-20s, I reckoned, and had to be six-feet-two, with shoulders that Arnold Schwarzenegger would envy. She had heavily gelled, short dark blonde hair, piercing pale blue eyes, cheeks pocked by acne scars and big rubbery lips. Her clothes were, apart from the footwear, absolute clichéd biker: a black Motorhead T shirt, oil-spattered denim waistcoat, studded with silver stars, black leather trousers, and heavy industrial boots. Her left forearm had a tattoo of a vicious looking black dragon breathing fire. I couldn't help noticing her boobs – they were huge, at least D-cup, but they weren't benefiting from the support of any bra cup that night. Her nipples stood out like coat hooks. In one of her huge hands she held a glass filled with a clear liquid. I began to reach for my purse, ready to surrender it without a fight. But the woman turned to Julie and, in a deep gravely voice which cut straight through Deep Purple's best efforts, said, "D'ya mind if I buy ya girlfriend a drink?"

Julie, the stupid cow, nearly wet herself laughing at that. With tears in her eyes, she shook her head, her long blonde hair whipping across her face, and chortled, "No, not at all, on you go sweetheart." I was too stunned to ask if anybody was bothered whether the hell I minded.

The woman took the chair next to my stool and placed the glass she was holding in front of me. "I'm Pearl. What's your name pet?"

Caught off guard by her directness, I mumbled, "Karen. Er, Mrs Duthie." I felt a strong need to emphasise my marital status. I realised I was nervously twisting my wedding ring with the thumb and forefinger of my other hand. I didn't want to accept this woman's hospitality, but I'd finished my own drink, and God, did I need another! So I sipped the refresher – it was a double measure, at least. For the next few minutes I sat in a daze as a diesel dyke I'd met less than five minutes before chatted me up, and Julie grinned at me as if I was the best show in town. Pearl asked me where I lived, what I did for a living, what I was doing in Newcastle, that sort of thing. As my admirer talked, and I gave the briefest answers possible, my sensitive nose picked up a miasma of scents from her – the slightly pungent aroma of her hair gel, her perspiration, beer on her breath, stale cigarette smoke from her clothes, and the leathery whiff of her trousers.

I have to admit, I was hypnotised by Pearl's intense stare and her pendulous tits, which shifted slightly inside her T shirt whenever she adjusted her position. My gaze kept drifting from her face to her chest, then back again. I must say at this stage that I had never had the slightest sexual interest in women, not even in dreams or fantasies. Finally, with no prior hint that it was coming, she leaned into me and, in a whisper they could probably hear on the other side of the bar, said, "Why don't you come back to my place Karen? I'll give ya the best lickin' ya've ever had in ya life."

I thought Julie was going to slide off her seat she found that so hilarious, the fucking bitch. Pearl seemed oblivious to her, continuing to snare me in her gaze, like a rabbit caught in headlights. As she leaned close, her warm tits rested lightly on my forearm on the table. I got a sudden attack of shivers. Christ, why was I letting a bloody pushy butch lesbian more than ten years younger than me even come close? Delicately withdrawing my arm, I stuttered, "Look Pearl, you're a very nice girl – woman – person – and I'm grateful for the drink. I'll gladly buy you one back. But as I told you, I'm married – very happily married – and I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm just not, er, gay, and I'm not interested."

The corners of Pearl's lips twitched upwards in a smile. Adopting what she presumably considered a seductive tone, and leaning closer still, placing a hand on mine, she said, "Come on pet, I can tell ya're interested. Ya haven't taken your eyes off me tits since I sat here. Come home with me and they're all yours. Five minutes in bed with me and ya'll be climbing the walls beggin' for more. Ask any of the girls over there." She flicked her head back, indicating the other drinkers, several of whom were watching the encounter with mild amused interest. Pearl continued, "Your little friend here obviously doesn't mind, and I'm sure she won't tell your old man, will ya sweetheart?" Knowing Julie, she wouldn't tell my husband, she'd just send an e-mail about it to every person in the entire bloody company. As it was, I was dreading the wind-up I'd probably get about this back at my office.

To be fair, though, Julie did actually come through for me at that point, belatedly. She could see I was getting dead worried, and slammed her pint glass onto the table with a resounding thud. Then she slurred, "Look butch, she's said she's not interested, okay? It's been a bit of fun, but why don't you take the hint now and just sling your hook, like a good little dyke."

Now, Julie's so petite she makes Kylie Minogue look like Mike Tyson. Pearl leapt to her feet, her fists bunching and her face darkening in outrage. The back of her chair hit the floor with a smack which echoed around the suddenly dead silent pub. I began to scrabble for my mobile 'phone, to call an ambulance for Julie and a police escort for myself. Then Pearl visibly untensed, and said, "Aye, fair enough." She glanced coolly at me. "I'll see ya around, kidda. Forget the drink." Then she drifted off to the bar and started guffawing with her mates.

I threw back the dregs of my drink and dragged Julie to her feet. She had gone white, clearly appreciating the danger she'd been in. I was still furious with her for her part in putting me in the situation in the first place. I snapped, "Come on Jules, let's get the fuck out of here, while we still can." With that I hustled her across the road to the motel and shoved her through the door of her apartment. As I walked as quickly as possible to my own front door I glanced back at the pub – and saw a tall figure silhouetted in the open doorway.

As I closed the door behind me my body sagged with weariness, and the release of tension. I stripped off and had my long awaited shower. The pipes gurgled and belched, and the trickling warm water – it never got hot – lasted only a few minutes, but I felt refreshed and sleepy as I slipped on my nightdress. I gave my husband a quick all, and spoke to my eleven-year old daughter, then slipped gratefully under the thin duvet on the double bed. I had just picked up my brief for the training session, to read through it, when there was a soft tap on the door. I thought it had to be Julie and, snatching off my reading glasses with an explosion of breath, I pulled on my dressing gown and stomped across the floor, ready to rip her head off. I dragged the door open – and stared into the chest of a female mountain in denim and leather.

I was momentarily too stunned to react. Without a word Pearl brushed past me into the room, kicking the door closed with her heel. Then she turned and said quietly, "Now ya little friend's not around ya don't need to pretend ya're not interested anymore Karen. There's just you, me – and this nice big bed of yours, with the whole night ahead of us."

I stood in shock as she dropped her waistcoat on the bedpost and kicked off her boots, revealing a pair of very pale, slightly grubby feet. My brain finally clicked into gear. Clutching my dressing gown around my throat, I snarled, "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? Get out of here. Go on, get out, now, or I'll call the manager."

Pearl smiled confidently at me, her eyes boring into me. Hands on hips, she shook her head slowly, and said, in the same undertone as before, "No you won't."

She was standing between me and the room 'phone. – no, I wouldn't be calling anyone. Although I go to the gym regularly, not only was Pearl bigger than me, she was also clearly far physically stronger. My eyes flicked to the front door of the apartment, to my right. My bare feet would be cut to ribbons on the rough surface of the car park, but...Pearl anticipated my movement and, in two steps, she was at the door, the flat of one huge hand slamming against it, while the other hand grabbed my shoulder. She spun me into her arms, enveloped me in a bear hug, and slammed her lips onto mine. As my jaw dropped in shock she thrust a long, sinuous tongue deep into my mouth. I felt my face beginning to redden as I struggled for breath. With revulsion I felt one of her hands scrabbling at my clothing behind me, then cold fingers wrapped around my naked buttock.

Still kissing me, Pearl used her bulk to walk me backwards towards the bed, where she threw me down. I was terrified and horrified: I was about to be raped – by another woman! Momentarily free of Pearl's grip, I turned onto my hands and knees and tried to scramble across the bed. A grip like iron caught my ankle, and a moment later my head jerked as she grabbed the collar of my dressing gown and she pulled me back. I tried to shrug out of the garment but my arms got tangled up in it.

Pearl tore the dressing gown from me and hurled it to the floor, growling as she struggled with me, "Don't piss me off!" She flipped me onto my back then dived on top of me. I flailed at her with my hands but, laughing, she managed to grab both my wrists in one of her huge ham hocks and pinned my arms above my head. I tried to scream, but I just couldn't gather the breath to do it. I shuddered as she licked one of my shaved armpits. Then she forced her tongue back into my mouth.

As she bore down on me, I felt her hand close around the top of my nightdress. There was a moment of pain in my shoulders as she pulled at it, then the flimsy cotton binding the straps to the body of the garment gave way, and I felt my assailant's T shirt rubbing against my naked breasts. I was almost out of my mind with fear at what was about to happen. When Pearl switched her focus from my face, sucking one of my boobs into her mouth while squeezing the other one with her spare hand, I begged her with a sob to stop. She released my tit from her mouth long enough to mutter, "Trust me, you'll thank me for this in the end, I guarantee it."

Then she resumed sucking on my breast, softly nibbling at my nipple, her tongue flicking across it. Her spare hand – the one not restraining my arms – squeezed my other boob in a steady rhythm, her thumb pressing the nipple into the soft flesh which surrounded it, My husband isn't really much of a one for foreplay, and never really touches my breasts, in fact he hasn't for a long time. He has dozens of strong points, but sexual dynamism has never been one of them. Despite my fear, I felt a new sensation rising within my body: a warmth that was slowly spreading across my chest, and up towards my face. A tiny part of my mind admitted that what Pearl was doing to my boobies felt good.

She removed her spare hand from my tit, and brushed it across my stomach, then down my shaved pubis. Instinctively I tried to clamp my legs together, but Pearl's leather-clad knees easily forced them apart, then her big fingers began stroking firmly along my labia. Gradually she inserted two or three fingers into my pussy, and began stirring them around. I was shocked to realise I was distinctly damp, and getting wetter by the moment. I didn't want Pearl to do this to me, of course I didn't, but I had stopped sobbing and was now lying passively beneath her as she licked and fingered me. The heat in my chest was threatening to link up with a growing warmth in my pussy, to meet as an inferno in my belly.

I gasped as Pearl's tongue slipped into my belly button. It was only then that I realised she was no longer holding my hands. Far from fighting her, though, I found that a knuckle of one finger was caught between my teeth as I panted around it while, without realising, I had started caressing one of my tits with the other hand, my fingers slipping down it and tweaking the erect nipple. Pearl's fingers withdrew from my cunt and I felt her hands firmly grip my thighs. Then I felt warm breath on my labia, and I twitched in anticipation as her nose pressed against my pussy. I heard myself moan as her long tongue connected, first with my perineum then my pussy lips, dragging from back to front then reversing the course. I moaned louder as a bolt of lightening shot up my pussy.

I heard Pearl chuckle as she raised her head. Softly, teasingly, she asked, "D'ya like this then?" I nodded wildly as she licked me again. Her head raised again. "Does ya husband do this for ya?"

I shook my head and groaned, "Oh God, no, never."

"D'ya want me to carry on?"

Jesus, of course I did! I was desperate for her to take me to climax, and of course she knew that. She commanded, "Tell me what ya want."