Delilah Again
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2018 by Tedbiker

Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Sally and Jerry are asked to provide a 'safe house' for a girl who is to be a material witness in the trial of sex traffickers. But is she all she seems? Will she strain their relationship?

Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Heterosexual   Fiction   Spanking   Anal Sex   Cream Pie  

The phone rang. Cold calling? The caller display was blank. I shrugged and picked up. “Hello?”

“Jerry? Jonny.”

“Oh, Jonny! Good to hear your voice.” Johannes Schraeder was my contact with the shady organisation my great-uncle had been associated with. They – Jonny and his wife, Sue (never ‘Susie’), a doctor – had helped us sort out a problem with an old friend of Sally’s. We rescued Diane from durance vile, so to speak, and were then faced with an organisation which was more than we could deal with on our own. Diane was now happily married to Peter Starr, my solicitor.

“I hope you think so when I finish talking. I need a favour.”

“Well, I think Sally and I would be glad to help you out in any way we can.”

“Don’t commit yourself blind. Thanks largely to you, we’ve kicked over a hornet’s nest. The girls we rescued are okay, though still need support. But the deeper we go, the worse things get. Don’t worry about that – this is all over the place, but I think Cumbria is clean, at least for the moment. No, the problem is with our shortage of safe houses.”

“You need us to take some of your rescues?”

“Only one, just now. And not exactly a rescue. This one is a material witness. She came to us. We need to have her out of sight and safe until she can appear in court. The case she’s a part of is going to be dealt with officially.”

“I’ll have a word with Sally, but I doubt she’ll raise any objection.”

“Make sure she doesn’t feel obligated, Jerry.” He paused. “There’ll be some money – expenses – we don’t expect you to carry the cost of this. But, Jerry, I’d suggest you don’t show her everything you’ve got if you don’t have to. Your shooting range, for example. Those hidey-holes Sally showed us. Unless you actually need to conceal her. But we’d rather avoid that necessity.”

“Leave it with me, Jonny. I’ll get back to you after lunch, if that’s okay.”

“Um, I’ll ring you, Jerry, if you don’t mind. This number ... well, you can’t call it back.”

“Okay. Fine. Later, then, Jonny.”

I went out of my little study, through the kitchen. Sally was there, my Sally, doing things with vegetables and meat and herbs and spices. My mouth watered.

“I’m going to go and shoot one of those new Glocks, Sweetie.” We’d had them quite a while, but I was still getting used to the smaller, lighter, weapon. The Browning that Sally taught me to use is larger and heavier with a longer barrel, hence potentially more accurate, I suppose. There is a concealed, mostly underground, shooting range in the grounds of the property, with a wide selection of firearms, most of which are highly illegal in this country. They include weapons acquired by my great-uncle during the course of his career, plus three Glock 42 compact auto-loading hand-guns and some air-guns I bought which are legal. I spent an hour there on the Glocks, trying to get used to them and doing okay, then half an hour with an air-pistol. I think it’d be possible to be quite dangerous with that if one were accurate enough, and it’s good for sight-picture.

I cleared up, put things away, and went back to the house.

“There you are, Master. I was just going to come and call you.” Sally is my wife, my partner, my life, not my slave, but she likes to pretend I own her. I say ‘pretend’ – to Sally I think it is more real than the law. She wants to be owned, to be ordered. At least once a month she ‘needs’ to be punished. It would be more difficult for me if spanking her did not result in the most spectacular sex of our relationship – and, let me say, sex, making love, with Sally is always wonderful.

She is also an excellent cook. I salivated at the smells in the kitchen. “Let me clean up,” I said.

“You have time for that, Master.” She smiled at me, an almost predatory smile. “Do you need help, Master?”

I chuckled. “That depends on how much time we have before lunch is ready.”

Her face adopted a thoughtful expression. “I don’t think it’ll spoil before you’ve had a shower. I will wait before putting the pasta in. I will help you. Make sure you are properly clean.”

Let me clarify. Sally’s ‘help’ in the shower does not expedite getting clean. F’sure, I get clean, as does Sally, but the process is very thorough and soon I have an uncomfortably hard problem which Sally insists on taking care of. That doesn’t take long, however it’s tackled. On the occasion I’m thinking of, she turned away and leant against the shower wall, arching her back. She’s wet. Very wet, and not from the shower. I slid into her snug heat and reached to cup her perfect titties as I thrust. No. Not long at all.

Unfortunately, that process requires further cleaning up. Time. Sally pops a tampon in ‘to stop leaving drips on the floor’, and, both dry, I follow her, both of us still nude, to the kitchen. I never get tired of watching her – lithe, supple, alluring.

The spaghetti only took a few minutes before she was placing a heaped plate in front of me. Parmesan there. As she has, from time to time, she knelt next to my chair – her preferred position at mealtimes, though she knows I’d like her to eat at the table with me. I twirled spaghetti and sauce on my fork and popped the result in my mouth – delicious, as always. But then, loaded the fork again for Sally. Like the shower, this is not conducive to speed, but I suppose it’s good for our digestion. Red wine. Vino rosso, I suppose? Yes.

Tiramisu. She must have got that in Ambleside. Coffee, just the way I like it. I took my cup into the lounge, a towel on the sofa; Sally has never tolerated my helping in the kitchen.

She appeared and knelt next to me. Laid her head on my knee. I caressed her silky hair. We were silent together, but we were together.

“The phone call this morning...” I began, and stopped. “Sally,” I started again, and she lifted her head to look at me, concern in her eyes. “Look, I know you don’t like to think this, but this house, everything, is as much yours as mine...”

“Master? Is something wrong? Do you want me to go?”

“No! Oh, God, no! Sally, I love you. I don’t want to think about living without you. No. It’s just...” I sighed, “I don’t want you to do something you don’t like because you feel you have to. The call, it was from Jonny Schraeder.”

“Ah! And he wants you ... us ... to do something?”

“Yeah. You remember the girls who were rescued from the people who had Diane? How they were found places away from here?”

“Of course.”

“It seems that Jonny and his crew keep finding more, and they’re running out of safe houses to take them.”

“He wants us to take some? How many?”

“Only one, this time, at least.”

“That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Well, there was something in Jonny’s voice ... Look, darling, I want to make sure you’re quite happy to have this woman in the house, and I want you to promise that if there’s anything which bothers you, you’ll say.”

“I promise.”

“Good. And, Sally, that’s an order. You will tell me if there’s anything; anything, that worries you. Understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“So ... Jonny’s going to give me a call sometime this afternoon, and I’ll tell him yes then, with the proviso that he promises to find somewhere else if she’s a problem. In the meantime, Slave, how dare you even think I’d want to get rid of you? Let alone deprive you of your share in the inheritance?”

She scrabbled away backwards, and crouched, face to the floor. “I’m sorry, Master!”

“I should think so! Get upstairs. Kneel on the edge of the bed for punishment.”

“Yes, Master!” And she scuttled upstairs, much too enthusiastically.

However, I had something new for her; a flogger, which is supposed to sting, redden and sensitise the skin, but not break the skin. I fetched it, in its velvet bag, from the bottom drawer of the desk in my study. Gave it a few experimental flicks – I had read the little handbook which came with it and practised the different ways of applying it, though not, of course, on a living subject.

Sally was facing away from me as I entered the room, so she didn’t see what I had in my hand. “Ten, Slave, to start with. Count the strokes.”

“Yes, Master.” I could hear disappointment in her voice. Ten strokes would be a minimum if I was using a paddle and she would be wanting more than that. Of course, if she wasn’t satisfied, she could always ‘forget’ to count a stroke.

I approached and laid the first stroke from her right. It produced a surprised “OH!”, followed by, “One, Master, thank you.”

I laid the second from the left, and alternated sides until the tenth. The last stroke I tried a trickier stroke, which flicked the tips of the leather tails against her pussy, which was blossoming open, moist, with the clitoris clearly in evidence. It may not have been a perfect stroke, but it worked; she squealed, and orgasmed. The spasm threw her forward onto her front, and she was still twitching.

“Slave!” Sally slowly pulled herself back into position.

“Sorry, Master. That was ten. Thank you.”

Her bottom – round, pink, her pussy glistening – could not be ignored and I buried my erection to the root in her pussy. A couple of thrusts and ... blow me, if she wasn’t coming again! I had to hold her hips firmly to keep her in place in order to not slip out.

I erupted, and it was all I could do to flop on to the bed. Sally and I dragged ourselves up the bed in order to cuddle and sleep.

The phone woke me, Sally’s wide eyes on mine – how long had she been awake? I grabbed the handset. Landline, no cell-phone signal here in the valley, cordless extensions in bedroom, study and kitchen. Speaker phone.

“Jerry? It’s Jonny. Have you had a word with Sally?”

“Yes, and she’s here with me, Jonny. It’s yes, providing we can ask for her to be taken somewhere else if we can’t cope with her.”

“Good. And, yes, if there are any problems you will have a number to call. I was going to talk to you about that, actually, if you were otherwise agreeable. This isn’t your regular abused, submissive victim. She’s going to be a material witness in a criminal action, if we get to court. We just aren’t sure of her. Here’s the thing. I want your permission to monitor your phone and broadband; aren’t you on satellite now?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, I, we, don’t care what you access on the net, but we want to know if she’s playing both sides of the fence, or if she’s scamming us, you know. Without cell coverage, we can be fairly sure of noticing if she has any unauthorised communications.”

“So you don’t want me to limit her access?”

“No, anything that goes through your router should be obvious. Not sure if she’ll have her own phone, iPad, whatever.”

“I’ve got a basic laptop she can use. The desk-top is password protected – I wouldn’t want an outsider poking around in that.”

“Good! Look. I can’t get away. A colleague will bring her up. Could you meet them somewhere? Lancaster, perhaps?”

“Carnforth, perhaps? The station museum?”

He laughed. “Perfect! She won’t like it much, but Rob Forrest will love it. By the way, he’s tall, slim, silver haired and bearded, and very gay. In both senses. Meet in the cafe?”

“Excellent! Should be able to find each other easily.”

“Oh, and Jerry – I don’t suppose you were thinking of using your motorbike, but she’s not a motorbike person. More of a two suitcase for the weekend person.”

“Oh? The more you tell me the more I’m looking forward to this. Not.”

Another chuckle. “Yeah. Not your type at all. Which won’t stop her turning on the charm. But she’s not Sally by any stretch. Sally?”

“Yes, Mister Shrae ... Jonny?”

“Don’t let her bully you. Don’t. And don’t worry about Jerry, dear, she really is not his sort.”

A few more pleasantries on both sides, and he hung up. I took Sally’s head in both hands, relishing the warmth and the silky softness of her hair, and kissed her. “Come walk with me, Sally.”

“Yes, Master. Do you wish to shower first? Dress?”

“I don’t think so. I want to walk naked in my woodland with my naked woodland nymph.”

When Sally smiles – which she does often, nowadays, it seems to light her up from inside. Inevitably, I smiled back.

There is a public footpath through our property, and we do see walkers using it from time to time. Mostly, they keep to the marked track and they rarely disturb us. It was a mild day in June, so it was quite possible that there might be the odd visitor passing through, but we had our own paths, winding through our own woodland, and little of where we were going was visible from the path. Of course, there was always a slight possibility of someone trespassing, but in that case they could suffer the possibility of being offended by our nudity. Risk? I suppose there might be someone who could threaten harm, but I suspect they would not be expecting our ability to defend ourselves.

I’d suppose many would think I was strange; wanting to walk, nude, in my woodland, holding my (also nude) wife’s hand. But, you know what? My whole life since coming north to attend my great-uncle’s funeral has been weird, but I couldn’t be happier. Sally, my masochistic, submissive, wife is beautiful and loving. The house, which Uncle Jeremiah left to us when Sally was his ‘housekeeper’ and I was his godson, is a character-full old farmhouse set in several acres of Cumbrian hillside. I don’t mind the remoteness; with Sally, I’m never alone unless I want to be. The country is beautiful and between us we have enough money to live comfortably without having to earn a living. Sally’s mindset, living to serve, is strange to me, but I believe she’s happy. I have several voluntary commitments – to the Mountain Rescue, to the National Trust – and I have all I need between my inheritance, my music, and my wife.

We walked briskly – it was mild, but in Cumbria that does not equate to ‘ambling about in the nude’ weather. The ground was mossy, or sometimes covered with old leaves, sometimes bare earth. Care was needed to avoid the occasional protruding rock, root, or stick. Sally’s feet were hard from rarely wearing shoes. Mine are not. But it was a lovely walk. Had it been just a little warmer, we might have had a romantic interlude among the trees. Well, you can guess what I mean. We hadn’t been married that long.

On the way back to the house, “Sally, I’ll need to drive to Carnforth to collect this girl. Do you want to come with me?”

“Do you want me to come, Master?”

“I always enjoy your company, Sweetie, but in this case, I don’t mind either way. It’s your choice.”

She didn’t respond immediately, and we were almost to the kitchen door before she spoke. “I think I’d rather stay here. I’ll make that Bolognese you like. Let me know if our guest has any strange ideas of food.”

“That’d be great! In that case, I think I’ll give the Lotus an outing.”

In case you were thinking of the sleek sports cars like the Elan, Elite and Elise, I must disillusion you. Ours is a Lotus Seven, the wire-wheeled, open, old-fashioned sports car built until the early seventies. Ours dates from 1961. The design is still produced by Caterham Cars, but ours is an original Lotus. It has a tuned two-litre Ford engine and is frighteningly fast. And exhilarating, if terrifying, to drive.


In the morning, I rang my National Trust contact to apologise that I wouldn’t be available that day, ate the substantial breakfast Sally placed in front of me to sustain me through the expected rigours of the day, and extracted the Lotus from the garage, watched by my wife.

“Master?”

“Yes ... Slave?”

“Permission to make a suggestion?”

“Granted.”

“There are false number-plates in the garage.”

I considered that. Of course there were false plates in the garage! Why didn’t I think of that? I mean, every good spy keeps a selection of false plates, just in case, don’t they? “Good idea. Where are they?”

Being as old as it is, the Lotus has white on black plates, not the reflective black on white or yellow modern plates, and the front one is an adhesive strip on the bonnet – I’ve never been convinced as to the legality of that, I thought they were supposed to be vertical.

Sally opened a panel I hadn’t noticed in the side of a large, wheeled tool-chest. In it were modern reflective plates as well as white on black ones and black adhesive plates with adhesive numbers and letters; there was also a list, only four years old, of valid numbers for the different vehicles – valid in the sense that they belonged to vehicles of the correct type and model. We chose a number and screwed the rear plate on, then covered the old front plate with the new number. I kissed Sally, pulled on a flat cap appropriate to the style of the car and drove down to the gate where Sally opened it for me and closed it after I left.

I didn’t hurry. I wasn’t that familiar with the car – I much prefer a motorcycle – but, as I drove, things meshed in my head, and hands and feet soon picked up the necessary skills. It took a couple of hours to get to Carnforth Station, just north of Lancaster.

Carnforth Station is a now museum; its main claim to fame being one of the settings for the 1945 film ‘Brief Encounter’. The station itself was closed during the Beeching cuts. (Don’t get me started on Richard Beeching and Ernest Marples.) I had a cup of coffee as I was waiting, before browsing the displays.

I was back in the cafe when the couple I was waiting for entered. I say ‘couple’. A man and a woman, anyway.

He was, as described, tall, slim, bearded with silver hair, and very ... well, camp. She was much younger. About five foot six, with a, um, striking physique; dressed to make sure any male noticed her, makeup applied with a trowel – no, that’s unkind. She was heavily, if expertly, made up. Blonde hair, but over half an inch of dark roots showing. The most obvious feature was her bosom, which drew the eye like a magnet regardless of one’s preference.

I stood and held out a hand to the man. “Mister Forrest, I presume.”

“Indeed. It’s good to meet you, Mister Smallbridge. Jonny Schraeder extends his regards and apologies for not making the run himself.”

“Thank him. I’m glad to meet you, too.”

“Let me introduce Lisette Connors. Lisette, Jerry Smallbridge, who will be your host as we wait for the court case.”

Her hand was slim and warm in mine. Her smile predatory. “We’ll try to make you comfortable,” I said.

“We?” her voice would best be described as ‘sultry’. It was amazing what could be conveyed by one, short, word.

“Oh, yes. Sally, my wife, and I.”

Her expression turned thoughtful. “How lovely.” The words did not convey the same message as her tone.

I glanced at Rob Forrest. “Bite to eat?” Raised an eyebrow at Lisette.

“Yes, I will,” Rob said.

“Why not?” was Lisette’s response.

The cafe offers light meals. As we perused the menu, I commented, “Sally’s preparing a Bolognese for supper. If there’s nothing here which suits, we can stop en route if you’d rather.”

She shrugged. “They’ve got salads. Quiche. That’ll do for now.”

We parted from Rob in the car park and watched him slide into a battered Corolla, back it out, and take off towards the M6. I led the way to the Lotus.

“What’s that?” Disdain evident in her voice.

“It’s a 1961, original, Lotus Seven.” I opened up the tiny boot and, not without some subvocal imprecation, managed to fit two hard suitcases in. “I’m a motorcyclist. My uncle left us several vehicles, but they’re all classics. The roads are narrow where we’re going and this is the most compact car we have. As I say, we mostly use a motorcycle. Sally often uses a BMW and sidecar combination, which is even older than this.”

“The wind, though! What about my hair?”

I didn’t think the wind would be a great problem. Her hair looked as though it was glued in place. I hadn’t seen a single strand move since we met. But I reached into the glove-pocket and pulled out a head-scarf, which I handed to her. “Try this,” I said. “Look, if the wind really bothers you, we’ll put up the top, but I can tell you it’s not much good. Besides, it’s a nice day for riding in an open-top sports car.”

She did not look convinced, but, “Okay.”

Rather sceptically, not to mention awkwardly, she tied the headscarf over her hair; climbed in, fastened her seat- belt, and we set off.

I didn’t hang about on the way back, having become more comfortable with the vehicle, but even so it was not much less than two hours later when I pulled in, opened the gate, drove through, shut the gate (I really did need to organise a gate-opener) and drove up to stop outside the front door.

Lisette untied the head scarf and released the seat belt as I walked round to the passenger side and offered her a hand. A slight blush was perceptible through the make up as she got out. My hand? Or the drive? I waved at the front door. “Let’s get you settled,” I said.

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