Perfect Slave

by Becky Bell

  Title Page

  PERFECT SLAVE

  by

  Becky Bell

  Publisher Information

  Perfect Slave published in 1999, 2002 and 2010 by

  Chimera Books Ltd.

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Digital Edition converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

  New authors welcome, or if you’re already a published author of erotic fiction and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to

  hear from you.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex

  This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this eBook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Becky Bell. The right of Becky Bell to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chapter One

  The gag filled her mouth completely, pressing her tongue down, tickling the back of her throat. It was phallus-shaped, and though made from black rubber was rigid and unyielding. It was sealed into her mouth by a strap of thick black leather buckled tightly at the back of her head, under her long blonde hair. The aroma of leather and rubber mixed together to create a pungent scent which she inhaled deeply. It was intoxicating.

  By contrast to the harshness of the gag the blindfold was soft and silky, a mask of black satin shaped to fit over the eyes and the bridge of the nose, and padded on the inside so as to exclude even the faintest hint of light. The elasticated straps that held it in place were tight and the material pressed against her eyelids.

  She was naked apart from a pair of white panties; tiny thong-cut panties, no more than a triangle of silk covering her mons and a thin gusset that had already buried itself in the rubbery lips of her sex. And high heels of course. White patent leather shoes with an ankle strap and heels so high they forced her feet into an almost vertical stance. She couldn’t have walked more than a few steps in them, but then walking was the last thing he had in mind for her.

  She felt her arms being drawn behind her back. Her breasts were large and very round and this action lifted them and made them quiver. A coarse thick leather strap was being threaded under the top of her arms. She heard it being fed into a buckle. It was tugged tight, forcing her shoulders back and pushing her chest out. Her breasts quivered again. A surge of excitement made her moan. Her whole body was trembling. This was, after all, what she craved more than anything else.

  Leather cuffs were being wound around her wrists. They were padded on the inside with something spongy and soft. She felt them tighten one after another, and heard the two little buckles that held them in place being fastened. She listened intently as she heard the click of a snap-lock being fixed into a D-ring on the left-hand cuff, then pulled over to the right, effectively binding her wrists together. She loved all the little metallic noises, like the sound of bridles and tack being applied to a horse. It was the same thing after all; the horse being prepared for the rider, the slave being prepared for the master.

  She heard the pulley being cranked down now, and started as the cold metal ring attached to the overhead rope brushed against the small of her back. More clicks. Another snap-lock. Her wrists were pulled up slightly as the cuffs were locked into the metal ring.

  He took two steps back. She imagined him looking at her, examining the way the bondage had transformed her body.

  She sensed him kneeling in front of her. She felt padded leather cuffs being wrapped around her ankles. They were attached to a shiny metal bar. He had made her lay it on the floor in front of her before he’d applied the blindfold. In fact she had been made to prepare all the equipment for him while he sat in a large upright chair and watched her every move.

  The metal bar and the ankle cuffs made it impossible for her to close her legs. She was intensely aware of the gusset of the panties. It had worked its way right up against her clitoris, which was swollen and throbbing wildly.

  She heard him walking over to the crank of the pulley. It clicked through the ratchet that controlled its movements. Click. Click. Click. Each sound drew the white nylon rope higher, forcing her wrists up into the air behind her back. As her wrists rose the geometry of her body demanded that her head dipped. Click. Click. Click. Her arms were being raised until they were almost vertical, her torso bent at right angles from her waist. The clicking stopped.

  It was perfect. More perfect than anything she had imagined. And she had imagined this for so long it didn’t seem possible that at last it was no longer just a cherished private fantasy, but a living breathing reality that was setting her whole body alight with passion. There was pain, of course. She’d always known there would be pain. And so it had proved. But it was a pain like no other, a pain striated with a pleasure as intense as anything she’d ever felt in her life. The cramp in her shoulder muscles and her back was extreme. But it was indivisible from the pleasure that throbbed in her nipples and her clitoris and in the depths of her cunt.

  There was worst to come, she knew. That was why he’d made her lay out all the equipment. She’d handled the nipple clips herself, seen their sharp, serrated jaws and felt the weight of the metal pendants that hung down from them. She had laid the whip out too.

  He had paused. He was looking at her again, she was sure, examining her new position. Her tight, apple-shaped buttocks were thrust upward. Her large, fleshy breasts hung down like inverted pyramids. She was sure he would be able to see that her labia, on either side of the thin creased gusset of her panties, were glistening with the sticky sap of her body. She had never been so wet.

  She started as she felt his fingers touch her left breast. He weighed it in his hand, then pinched the nipple. She thought she heard the faintest of metallic tinkles as he picked up one of the nipple clips, the pendant clinking against the metal jaws. Almost immediately something cold closed around the deeply puckered flesh. She shivered. The little teeth in the spring-loaded jaws of the clip sunk into her nipple and a hot, searing pain shot through her. The extraordinary thing was that it was accompanied by a wave of pleasure that was sharper than anything she could ever remember feeling before. The second clip followed, producing the same result. She was trembling all over, unable to control her body’s reactions.

  As she began to regain some semblance of control again she realised he must still be holding the tear-shaped weights attached to each clip. Now, very slowly, he lowered them, taking up the slack in the little chains until they were hanging free. The weights were heavy. They dragged her breasts down and cut the jaws of the clips deeper into her tender flesh, but she relished them. She shook her breasts from side to side, making the pendants swing so violently they knocked into each other and produced an almost overwhelming shock of that unique melange of pain and pleasure she had already come to love.

  She was coming. Her whole body was on fire. How many times had she laid on her bed trying to imagine what this would be like? How many times had she masturbated, her fingers plucking furiously at her clit, the handle of her hairbrush jammed into her vagina, a silk scarf tied over her eyes so she could concentrate on the blank screen of her mind where she could imagine herself lying tied a
nd helpless in front of her master? And the graphic reality was a thousand times more arousing than anything she’d conjured up. By means of a few straps and chains he had removed her will, her ability to say or do anything he did not wish her to say or do. She belonged to him. She was his slave. It was that knowledge quite as much as the physical excitement that was producing her first orgasm. She strained every muscle against every single bond, wallowing in the feeling of being so totally constricted and came, her clitoris pulsing violently against the thin strap of white silk tautly bisecting her sex.

  But that was only the beginning. She knew that. She would come again and again. She simply could not stop herself. She had never felt so sexually alive. That was the point. The bondage, the gag, the blindfold meant that all her energy and feeling were concentrated on her sex. There was nothing else.

  The nipple clips seemed to claw at her breasts like tiny hands, pulling them down, the whole breast stretched and tenderised. She heard him move. There was the lightest gust of air as he came up behind her. She smelt his musky aftershave mixed with the scent of rubber and leather. She knew what he was going to do now and she had never wanted anything more in her life. Her buttocks were tingling in anticipation.

  The whip was long and tapering with a braided leather handle topped by a brass boss. He picked it up and ran the lash up her inner thigh. She moaned into the gag as it flicked against her labia.

  ‘So needy,’ he said. It was the first words he’d spoken since he’d ordered her to prepare the equipment. His voice sounded different, lower and more strained. ‘You want it so badly, don’t you?’

  She nodded her head.

  ‘I knew from the moment I set eyes on you, Andrea. It’s what you’ve always wanted.’

  The whip pressed into her labia then sawed back and forth. If he did this for much longer she could come again. At the back the panties were no more than a thin thong that rose from the cleft of her buttocks and joined the equally narrow strap that formed the waistband. He hooked the whip under this thong then pulled it outward, forcing the gusset of the panties even more tightly into her sex. Then he allowed it to slip out from under the silk and the thong snapped back against her buttocks.

  She could imagine him standing behind her in the heavy scarlet velvet robe, braided in gold thread. She could imagine him raising the whip.

  Thwack! She screamed into the gag, pulling against her bonds. She had developed a long and increasingly complex masturbation ritual for herself. Being whipped was always part of the scenario. But she had never been whipped in reality, never even been spanked, and had underestimated the withering pain. However much she had expected it nothing could have prepared her for this. Her whole body shuddered. The tear-shaped pendants knocked against each other, producing a second shock of sensation. But then pleasure; thick, sticky throbbing pleasure simply overwhelmed her. Had she not been so firmly bound she would have fallen to her knees unable to support herself.

  Thwack! This time, if anything the pain was more intense. The whip had landed lower, closer to her sex. Perhaps for this reason the interval between the pain and the intense pleasure that followed was shorter and the pleasure even more intense. She heard the rustle of the velvet robe as he raised the whip again. She could feel the two weals on her bottom throbbing as strongly as her clitoris and at the same frequency. As the whip landed for a third time she came, simply unable to control herself, the searing pain and the extraordinary pleasure it produced rooting itself directly to her clit and creating wild spasms in it.

  He had seen what had happened. He let her orgasm run its course then smoothed his hand across her buttocks. His touch was so soft and tender, his hand so deliciously cool in contrast to the heat the weals were generating, that she almost came again.

  ‘A secret slave,’ he repeated quietly. ‘You have wanted this for a long time, haven’t you?’

  She nodded. She had told him nothing about her fantasies, about the dreams that had obsessed her for so long, but he seemed to know.

  She heard him moving around in front of her.

  ‘It might surprise you to learn how many women imagine they want to be a slave, to have a master and be totally in his control. But when faced with the reality, with the pain and discomfort, with the need to obey without question, they realise it is not what they want after all. There is a stark difference between dreams and reality. In reality few women have the... shall we call it the ability... to be a real slave.’ He was taking off his robe. She heard the heavy garment drop to the floor. Her long, very straight blonde hair hung on either side of her face. He pulled it to one side then began unstrapping the gag. ‘You are one of them, child. I am sure of that now. Every slave must have a master to make them complete.’

  The gag was pulled from her mouth. The rubber-covered phallus was covered with her saliva.

  ‘You know that is true, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, master.’ She had never used that word before; though she had dreamt of using it so many times it made her shiver to actually be able to say it.

  He gave a little giggle of delight. ‘So it appears fortuitous that we met.’

  It was. She had never imagined her fantasies would come true. She thought of them as something she would keep secret, a private little world she did not understand, but that she used to give her mysterious delight when she masturbated or, in recent months, with a man when she found the act of sex failed to arouse. But she had never imagined that the world she had created for herself actually existed. But here with Charles Darrington Hawksworth, in his house, in this specially equipped punishment room he had brought her to, she realised that she’d found what she wanted, and that the world she dreamt of was a living breathing reality.

  Charles Darrington Hawksworth was her master now.

  It had started one week earlier on Tuesday morning.

  Andrea Hamilton worked for Silverton Communications, a small private company that designed the software necessary to communicate with orbiting telecommunication satellites. It was very successful, and in the two years Andrea had been employed at the company it had cornered a large chuck of the market.

  Andrea was bright. She had got a first at Manchester University in electronics and had been recruited by Silverton on graduation to work in their research and development programme. She liked the work and the people she worked for.

  As usual Andrea had taken the tube to work from her small flat in Islington.

  Silverton had a sleek and futuristic office building in North London, a circular tower with black glass windows and a stainless steel revolving door that looked as though it might be a set for a science fiction film. Andrea’s office was on the third floor.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Hi.’ Pam Mitchell was short and cute. She had fizzy black hair and a rather chubby figure, and always insisted on wearing spiky high-heels in a vain attempt to increase her height. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘It was on the telly this morning.’

  ‘What was, Pam?’

  ‘Silverton. They’ve sold out to Darrington International.’

  ‘What?’ Andrea was astonished. Edward Highfield, the chairman, managing director and major shareholder of Silverton, had always sworn he would never sell out. It was his company and, he had told his staff on numerous occasions, that was the way he wanted to keep it.

  ‘He’s obviously had an offer he can’t refuse. There’s a meeting downstairs at eleven. We’re all supposed to be there. He’s going to explain the situation, apparently.’

  ‘Darrington. They’re huge.’ Andrea sat down at her desk. She had a sinking feeling. Any company taken over by a multi-national conglomerate was bound to suffer redundancies, and she was sure it would be a case of last in first out. With only two years’ experience not only would she be first out, but it would be hard for her to find another job in what was a
n extremely crowded field.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ Pam said, reading her thoughts.

  At ten to eleven Pam and Andrea made their way down to the big conference room on the ground floor. As they trekked across the foyer with the other employees, all expressing their views on what was most likely to happen to them, Andrea glimpsed a large black Mercedes stretch limousine drawing up at the front door. It had black windows and Andrea could not see inside.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Andrea said, nodding towards the car. Its doors still remained firmly closed.

  ‘Big wig from Darrington, I guess,’ Pam replied.

  They trooped into the conference room, which was designed like a large lecture hall, with raked seating and a wooden rostrum. Edward Highfield was sitting on the rostrum behind a desk. He was making notes on a laptop computer, pointedly not looking up as his audience assembled. He looked, Andrea thought, decidedly sheepish.

  At eleven precisely he got to his feet.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentleman,’ he said. ‘I am sure that you have all heard the news. I was sorry that I was not able to communicate my intents to you personally, but unfortunately the press got hold of the story. You all know what the press is like these days.’ This was intended to be light-hearted, but no one so much as tittered.

  ‘As you know I never wanted to part with this company, but I’ve been approached by Darrington International with an offer which I believe will enhance the prospects for all of us. The problem with a business like ours is the need for constant investment. We are at the cutting edge of technology, and unfortunately in order to keep ahead of the game we are obliged to spend more and more on research and development. Darrington offers us a chance to do just that. In addition, I have a cast iron assurance from the chairman of Darrington that all your jobs will be protected.’