“How long do I have to wear these?”
“You’ll see,” he repeated.
To her surprise—and not a little consternation—they left the Underground at Barbican.
“Why are we going here?” she fretted.
“Never mind. Come on.”
He found a quiet spot, a little hidden area behind one of the many concrete staircases and walkways that surrounded the Barbican estate, pulled her into its darkness and kissed her hard, his hands under her skirt, checking her for continuing tension.
“Karl-Heinz,” she pleaded in a whisper, unbearably turned on by the dangerous dynamics of the situation. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Here.” He pressed his fingers against the gusset of her knickers until her pussy lips were outlined against the cotton. He separated them as far apart as they could go then set about rubbing and stroking her clit. The thin layer of cotton between his fingers and her bud seemed to make everything ruder and dirtier somehow. She felt how soaked it was, how it rucked and wrinkled while he stroked.
“Feels very hot down here,” he commented. “You are holding on to those balls, aren’t you?”
She clenched tighter and whimpered, hanging on to him for dear life.
With his other hand he pushed at her plug, finding the outline of the flange and jiggling it slightly so that the plug jostled inside her.
The combination of this with her filled pussy and her hot clit soon became too much to deal with. She bucked up and down and the balls made their mellow ringing sounds as she came hard, gushing until her knickers felt dripping wet.
Von Ritter laughed softly and held her tight through her orgasm.
“Good, good,” he said. “Are they still inside?”
She nodded, resting her head against his chest.
“Okay. Now I want you to kneel down on that filthy floor and suck me.”
Still clenching, her pussy fluttering around the balls as if begging to be allowed to let them go, she dropped onto the grimy concrete and unfastened von Ritter’s trousers.
He didn’t take long to come, fucking her mouth with his hand in her hair until Lydia felt that he was close. But he took his cock out of her mouth first and directed it into her cleavage, spattering the neckline of her dress and letting fat drops of spunk slide down between her breasts.
“Karl-Heinz!” she gasped. “You’ve stained my dress.”
“I know,” he said, stroking her cheek and hair. “You’re covered in it.”
She stood up, dusting the worst of the city dirt off her knees.
“Now then, my little Lydia, I have to go. Goodbye.”
“What? You can’t just leave me here…like this!”
She stared down at herself, aghast. Her wet, semen-stained dress, her prickly-hot knickers, the balls and plug now uncomfortable and starting to sting inside her. She looked—and smelt—like the lowest whore imaginable.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said gently. “You’re going to call on Milan.”
“I’m what?”
“It’s okay. I called him earlier and told him to expect you. Go on, now. He’s waiting for you.”
Von Ritter took her hand and led her out, onto the thankfully underpopulated concourse, towards the entrance to Milan’s block.
“What did he say? When you called him?”
“Not much,” said an implacable von Ritter. “Just that he’d be waiting for you.”