Bettie Page Gets Pegged (Patreon)

Bettie was getting P.O.ed. It’d sounded like an interesting soiree, having Blue Book go to an interagency meet-up with the SSR. She’d been lucky to make a couple friends at Blue Book, but maybe the SSR would have a few people who both weren’t sticks-in-the-mud and could understand her double life.

Peggy Carter had seemed like a good candidate for sisterhood. She was another rare female agent, and such a looker that Bettie was surprised she wasn’t undercover as a movie star or something similarly glamorous. She could’ve been a pin-up in any magazine Bettie had ever posed for, with her long dark hair, her creamy white skin, and her traffic-stopping figure, obvious even in military uniform.

And the fact that she was a Brit in the All-American SSR made Bettie think that she had a story to tell, unlike a lot of the surprisingly boring people who played G-Men. Almost all of them GIs or flatfoots that may’ve been lighter on their feet than the average joe, but definitely didn’t get James Bond cause for worry.

And dull as dishwater Peggy Carter might not be, but she for sure had a stick up her tail. All business, greeting Bettie with chilly disdain those Brits did so well. “Yes, I’ve heard of you. Page, isn’t it? I’ve never seen your modeling, but I’m told it’s quite good. Interesting cover story—hiding in plain sight, one might say.”

“Ain’t nothing plain about the sight of me,” Bettie protested.

Peggy gave a tight-lipped smile at her ‘Southern charm.’ “Yes, well, we’re meant to compare fighting methods. Most painless if we keep it between us girls. Friendly rivalry might get a little unfriendly if I put one of your lads on his back.”

“Or if I end up on top of one of yours,” Bettie returned, realizing the innuendo only as it came out of her mouth.

Peggy smirked at her. “Quite.”

It was embarrassing for Bettie to misspeak to someone so put-together, a girl that could’ve been head cheerleader at any school Bettie had ever been to or swiped any man Bettie had ever stepped out with. But Bettie didn’t mind being underestimated. She’d get her own back in the ring, after she took off the jacket of her lavender ensemble and traded a few blows.

Only that didn’t go according to plan either. No matter how Bettie threw a punch, jabbed her knee, headbutted, Peggy was never there when the strike should’ve landed. She was like a snake biting, only in reverse—evading Bettie’s attacks rather than making her own. And when she did strike, it was irritating judo. Throwing Bettie around, using her own momentum against her, so that Bettie only had herself to blame as she got scuffed up and flustered.

The infuriating thing was that Bettie was used to going against gorillas who could outmuscle her. She was in the habit of outthinking them, taking them down with clever moves instead of overwhelming strength. Now, Peggy was doing the same to her. Bettie was being outmaneuvered and she goddamn hated it.

So even when the match was called—Peggy playing it off like they’d just been demonstrating the principles of judo, Bettie her willing victim—Bettie wanted to keep going. She didn’t care if she bruised every inch of skin on her chassis, she wanted to show Peggy Carter that just because she had some sophisticated accent and a job where she kept her clothes on, she wasn’t the goddamn First Lady! She wasn’t even American!

Bettie went to Peggy’s room on the Army base, picked the lock—for a locale picked out to host a spy agency meet-up, security sure wasn’t much of a priority—and let herself in. Then she stripped down to what she wore under her respectable dress. A corset, black stockings, and black panties. She kept on her gloves and high heels too.

Then she sat down to wait, hoping that when Peggy turned in for the evening, she didn’t have company. Just about every masher at Blue Book that Bettie had turned down had had an eye for Peggy too. Hopefully she was as discerning as Bettie was.

Bettie was finally in luck. When Peggy came in, she was alone. And real shocked to see Bettie waiting for her.

“You’ve a bloody cheek!” she gasped, seeing Bettie.

“If I do, you gave it to me!” Bettie retorted.

“That’s not what I… never mind. What are you doing here?”

“Don’t you already know?” Bettie taunted her. “Ain’t such a keen student of human psychology then, are you?”

“Ah.” Peggy crossed her arms. “I see you must be smarting over not being able to take me in a fight.”

“You cheated!” Bettie snapped at her.

“How?”

“If I knew that, I’d’a said something about it! But since I can’t, I’m just gonna take you on again. This time for all the marbles!”

Peggy raised a hand to her chin. “By that, you mean bragging rights, yes?”

“Don’t act like you ain’t got no ego, sister, swanning around like you own the place, all that prissy nonsense hanging all about you! Is that accent even real?”

“Is yours?” Peggy demanded in turn.

“Of course it is!”

“Of course it is,” Peggy agreed. “Who’d try and sound like that on purpose?”

“Why you—I’m giving you twenty seconds to get out of that upholstery, just cuz I’m too much of a lady to wreck your outfit and your face!”

“Very well,” Peggy said, reaching behind herself to unzip her dress. “I suppose it’d be too-too much to ask you to help me out of this?”

What’d she mean by that? Bettie wondered. For some reason, her mind jumped back to the wait for Peggy, her awareness of being in Peggy’s room, surrounded by her clothes, her food, her luggage. She’d been seized by an urge to masturbate and had stretched her legs instead, looking all around for glimmers of her opponent’s personality in the anonymous space she’d colonized. All she saw were things she could use to pleasure her cunt—things she could pretend were a man’s cock.

She’d ended up standing in the middle of the room, trying to ignore her throbbing breasts and ass and cunt, wishing Peggy would get there already, hurry back and be there so they could fight and Bettie could work all these unsettled feelings out of herself, go back to normal like she’d been before their one-sided (cheating) fight.

Peggy undressed. As if fated, she wore white bra, white panties, white garters under her dress. Her breasts looked even more oversized in her skimpy bra, as was the case with her abundant hips. The dress had been tight enough, but her lace underwear looked more like a censor’s ink than any kind of garment.

Bettie swallowed. She’d really never seen anyone so lovely. She told herself she wasn’t the best judge of her own beauty—maybe this was the feel people got, looking at her starkers. Why men liked peeping at her so much. Even why the mashers came on so strong, wanting this funny feeling to be less teasing and silly and be more… something.

“There,” Peggy said, hanging her dress up. “I’m sure this isn’t up to your standards, but I happen to think I look quite nice.”

“You do,” Bettie muttered, before her face darkened. “What? Y’all saying I don’t!?”

“No, you look rather nice. As befits a view that men pay so much to see.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. If one likes being looked at.”

“I like being paid more. Suppose a fancy-pants like you don’t have to worry much about earning a living!”

Finally, Peggy looked a touch chagrinned. “I suppose not… but I have taken on a noble calling and I do put my best effort into my work!”

“And I don’t?”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to! I’m sure you thought it plenty, trouncing me the way you did…”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I’m gonna put my fist in your mouth!” Bettie threatened. “Enough chit-chat; I’m getting sick of your limey talk! Last chance to take your dentures out, then I’m busting you in the chops!”

“Very well. If you’re so determined to be combative.” Peggy put up her dukes. “Remember—this is by your request!”

“Cheese and crackers, how many of your teeth I gotta knock out to keep you from talking so funny!?”

“Try it, you little trollop!”

They fought—again. If Peggy was unnerved by being challenged to a rematch, she didn’t show it. Bettie had tried to center herself, tried to put a stopper on her fighting mad temper, but Peggy was still as slippery as ever, treating Bettie like a gorilla. Whenever Bettie punched, Peggy had a block. Whenever Bettie kicked, Peggy danced out of the way.

And when Peggy struck, she didn’t let up like she had when they’d been doing this for kicks and giggles. No, she let Bettie overcommit to a punch, smoothly sidestepped it, then barreled into Bettie’s back, knocking her facedown onto the bed while she held Bettie down with her body. She grasped Bettie’s hands for good measure, wrenching them between their bodies, at the small of Bettie’s back, holding them crossed and hyperextended so Bettie couldn’t get loose. Bettie struggled ferociously, but with Peggy’s weight on top of her and the awkward position she’d been contorted into, bent over the bedside, there was no getting free.

“Does this bother you?” Peggy asked, her voice tight—not taunting, but curious, wiring into Bettie’s thoughts. “Feeling helpless? Powerless? Trapped? Or do you like it?”

“Get off me!” Bettie snarled, but Peggy wasn’t going anywhere.

“I looked up some of your pictures,” Peggy drawled in her crisp, self-amused accent. “All those images of you being spanked and whipped and tied up. Did you pose for those simply because they paid the best? I imagine a girl like you must be able to make quite a bit of money, just taking your clothes off. Why the whips? Why the handcuffs?”

“Shut up! I don’t have to talk to you!”

“Does it put thoughts into your head? Make you feel a certain way? Maybe when you go home after a photo shoot, knowing how men look at you, knowing what they’ll be thinking, knowing all the fantasies they’ll have about you while they jerk off—“

“Shut up! Shut up!”

“Is it an adrenaline rush?” Peggy asked, her lips now directly at Bettie’s ear. “Like completing a mission? Being in a fight? I understand it, the high, the satisfaction. It feels so good and it’s so deep inside you. You must want more of it so bad. But you don’t know how to get it. You don’t even know how to ask me to give it to you.”

Bettie couldn’t say anything. Peggy reached up to her scalp, taking a hair tie out of her ponytail, which let out her unbound hair into a ravishing messiness. She brought the hair tie down and wrapped it around Bettie’s wrists. Something she did to it made the elastic far tighter than any hair tie Bettie’d ever met. Some kind of spy gadget from the SSR. Bettie tried to pull her hands free, but the weirdo handcuffs had her bound tight.

“Stop struggling,” Peggy ordered, accented voice cold as a martini. “Right now. I’ll give it to you, but I don’t want any more attitude and I don’t want you to resist. You’re going to admit you want this or I’ll get dressed and leave you there all night. Gagged, of course. You’d like that some amount, I’m sure. But you’d be missing out.”

Bettie didn’t know why, but she stopped struggling. A calm descended over her. She felt less anxious now—like she understood the rules, at least. They made a certain amount of sense.

Peggy got up and went to her bureau. She took out a whip and looked back at Bettie, draped over the edge of her mattress, her thick, creamy ass sticking out provocatively. Peggy felt pangs of desire prickling inside her. The thought of punishing Bettie—playing with her—filled her with excitement. She looked over Bettie’s body with a practiced eye.

It really was a sadist’s wet dream. All those delicious curves, that milky pale skin, the tension pulling her taut, making Bettie await whatever dire pain Peggy decided to inflict on her. Peggy lifted her hand, the thongs of her whip trailing up after the handle she gripped, and she flicked the business end lightly across Bettie’s buttocks.

Bettie flinched but stayed where Peggy had positioned her. Then the whip lashed across her back, above the corset, leaving red welts in her white shoulders. Peggy exerted herself now. The blow burned where it landed.

“Speak,” Peggy ordered, her tone brooking no disagreement.

“Yes, Peggy. Whip me for being naughty! Make me pay for disobeying you! I want it! I need it! Make me a good girl!” Bettie keened.

Peggy bit her lip. The girl truly was a submissive, but willful and enthusiastic enough to be a challenge. Not out of rebelliousness, but because any dominant would be hard-pressed to accommodate her. But Peggy hadn’t gotten where she was by backing down from any little difficulty.

The whip lashed across Bettie’s panties again with a satisfying smack.

“OWWW!” Bettie cried out.

Again the whip landed, making her buttocks jiggle to the tune they played.

“OH! OH!” she yelled.

Peggy’s harsh blows burned Bettie’s ass, right through her panties, leaving her cheeks flushed and glowing red. Bettie squirmed and wiggled over the side of the mattress. She stood on one foot and then on the other, switching back and forth, moaning and sighing as the pain reverberated in her body. And yet she loved every bit of it.

She loved Peggy’s dominance. She loved the harsh treatment, being used, being Peggy’s bitch. She wanted nothing more than that feeling, over and over again, as Peggy caused strange and wonderful feelings to run through her pained body. The hurt, the shame, the humiliation and degradation, it all seemed to free some deeper sensation than sex had ever been able to access. Bettie wasn’t a prude, she enjoyed a good lay, but this felt like it had meaning, had purpose!

The whip had stopped now. Peggy rolled Bettie over, onto her back. She looked into Bettie’s big blue eyes, saw the excitement and the pleasure and the need for more. Then she kissed between Bettie’s thighs—the wet spot in the front of her panties. Bettie gasped. When Peggy peeled her underwear down her legs, she mewled, almost hyperventilating, she was breathing so hard.

“You know what to call me,” Peggy said, her soft words hitting Bettie as hard as the whip.

“Oh, Mistress, it’s beautiful, it’s lovely,” Bettie moaned. “Let me feel your mouth again, ohhh, I love it!”

Peggy’s tongue licked through the lips of her willing victim’s sex, turning Bettie’s utterances into squeals of delight. Peggy loved to hear them. She had a feeling of power over the writhing Bettie. She curled her tongue into Bettie’s sopping pussy with glee.

She wanted to bring her new pet to orgasm—wanted to give her the pleasure she knew Bettie deserved. She wanted to tie them together with both pain and pleasure. She wasn’t satisfied with just being her lover: she wanted to be Bettie Page’s Queen.