by Sarah Veitch
No sooner had I spoken than he yanked away my towel and revealed the metal belt. He stared at it lewdly and produced the silver key from his pocket. He released the padlock easily and snapped up the shield before he pulled me towards the slatted bench that ran the length of the room and spanked me soundly. I have never been chastised before, except by you. He aimed carefully, pausing between blows, but with irregular intervals, prolonging my pain and shame. When he was done he led me across to his caretaker's cottage. He hung the belt, like a trophy, beside a picture of himself as a sergeant-major, the peak of his cap tipped low over his brow. I hardly slept that night on the mattress he slung on the kitchen floor, tormented by your cruelty.
The coaching sessions began at dawn before even the keenest members arrived and continued when the club closed at night. In spite of his wizened frame, Jock was a consummate player, aiming the balls precisely, forcing me to lunge awkwardly around the court until he called me to the net and ordered me to bend over it. He raised my skirt and pulled down my knickers while barking disparagements at my ineptitude. I grasped the netting, ready for the spanking I anticipated. But when he lifted his racquet in the air, all I could do was wait for the inevitable thud of the leather-bound handle as it met my buttocks.
Those days with Jock, while he drilled me like a young soldier in his command, were so hard. One evening, he removed my shirt to observe my serve better and when I didn't reach high enough, he unfastened my bra and attached weights to my nipples. I blinked back my tears but my stoicism earned me no mercy. After that, he took away my underwear so that I was constantly exposed to his leers. Sometimes he fastened me to the struts of his umpire's chair and groped me with his calloused hands. I tolerated his intrusions into my body but it gave me no pleasure and he punished me for my denial with his racquet, a branch from the overhanging trees or the flat of his huge palm. My days were spent locked in the cottage unless he took me to the locker room, tied me on my back to the slatted bench and between his other duties, came to sneer at my fear of discovery. One afternoon, he brought a woman. She was in her forties with a handsome, horsey face. She looked down at me mockingly before lifting my skirt to tease between my parted thighs. When she found my clitoris, my mortification was complete.
But although she gloated over the beating I received for succumbing to her delving touch, I am grateful to her. As my orgasm seeped through me, Jock turned me and used his belt to thrash me. And, as you have taught me to absorb the pain, so under the slicing cuts of leather, the surges built for a second time.
That afternoon signalled my surrender. I stopped struggling for control when he beat me and let the throbbing heat well inside me. I let him gratify me with his gnarled fingers and punish my lust, until my mind confused the two and I no longer resisted either. For a while he enjoyed my hankering descent as I accepted his regime but I suspect his real satisfaction comes from dismantling the resistance of those in his charge. Yesterday, he reapplied my chastity belt and released me.
Now I am alone again in my studio, struggling with new discoveries, unable to assuage my longing for you while the shield prevents it. By now, Jock will have returned the key. Will you send for me and release me now, my love?
Leo shut down his laptop and looked out at the teaming bustle of the Tokyo night. He had been awaiting the arrival of her letter since Jock had called to report her release. Now he longed to pick up the phone and hear her voice, sleepy and warm with desire. But he resisted and let his mind fill with thoughts of the old soldier arousing and punishing her. His second letter would reach her in a few hours and it was too late to prevent it.
This evening you will attend a concert at a private house. Again, you must seek the person who holds the key and find your deepest recesses of HUMILITY. When you have learned the lesson, you must write to me again.
I confess, I wept when I received your new instructions. I thought that my time with Jock was proof enough. The house in Mayfair was imposing and elegantly designed. The other guests chatted as we were taken through to the music room. A silk-draped ceiling hung from a central pillar and exotic rugs were strewn in the style of an Eastern tent. The audience of about thirty people seated themselves on the sumptuous couches and embroidered cushions. Our host, Peter, a distinguished man in his fifties with a shock of silver hair, guided me to a low stool and sat beside me. As soon as the cellist raised her bow, I guessed it was him. His thigh stiffened against my green silk dress - the one you bought for me in Milan. In spite of the way it clung to my hips, the chastity belt was hidden beneath it. Schubert's melodies helped to calm my nerves, as did the wine I gulped when we gathered in the adjoining salon, before I dared approach him. He enquired how I had enjoyed the music and I talked loquaciously about a superior performance I had attended.
'You demonstrate the arrogance of youth,' he retorted.
'Perhaps it needs tempering?' I responded.
He waited until I blushed under the scrutiny of his glare. 'Go to the music room and wait.'
Thirty minutes later, he strode into the room. I had little time to compose myself before his hand reached for the neckline of my dress. With one sharp jerk, he ripped the delicate silk from neck to hem. Beneath it, I was naked except for the thin steel glinting in the candlelight, accentuating my pubic mound. He produced the key with a flourish and let his hands brush against my protruding lips while he skilfully removed the device. Wordlessly, he pushed me down on the cushions and held my neck to receive my first spanking. Jock's tutelage had released my inhibitions and added to the recent removal of the shield, the floodgates opened under his practiced hand and I betrayed myself quickly. My moans masked the entrance of the woman and it wasn't until he'd hauled me trembling to my feet that he introduced his sister, Margaret. I recognised her angular features instantly as the woman Jock had brought to the changing room.
'I'll take her tonight,' she stated haughtily. She took me upstairs to her rooms, furnished to her more Victorian taste, and made me grasp the bedpost while she laced me into a whalebone corset. It left my ribs and waist encased and my breasts exposed and I panted for breath as she buckled a heavy collar around my neck. That is how I remained trussed throughout my stay there.
From then on they passed me between them, colluding in their methods to degrade me. Often Margaret would send me downstairs with a note detailing my misdemeanours, and Peter would dictate my punishment. If I was forced to wake him, my chastisement was the greater. He kept a selection of whips, canes and tawses and took time, while I crouched on the end of his leash, to choose. Often he lashed me to the central pillar in the music room and used his favourite - a vicious cat-o'-nine-tails. The leather thongs licked up between the crack in my buttocks and stung my tenderest skin. If I derived any pleasure from it, he turned me and brought the tails down between my parted gash, whipping the hardening berry. When he drove the thick studded handle into either orifice, he watched me gasp, his thin lips twisting cruelly.
Upstairs, Margaret treated me as her servant, always on my knees. And whenever she desired, she raised her skirts and jerked on my leash, compelling me to seek out her swelling clitoris. One afternoon, she held a bridge party for her female friends. I was made to crouch beneath the table and pleasure whoever was designated dummy for the hand. I should have felt more humbled by my task but I confess that I found the anonymous lips enthralling and pride in hearing the tight gasps of release as they succumbed to my tongue.
But there was no anonymity on the last night when they finally annulled my vanity. I heard the guests arriving. 'A special concert tonight,' Margaret breathed huskily, her eyes bright with anticipation as she tightened the laces of my corset.
How can I describe the humiliation as the recital began, of being made to crawl between their groping hands? And to be required to service whoever lifted their dress or opened their trousers, their juices mingling in my mouth, soaking my cheeks and breasts? To have a woman pinch my nipples while her husband rams his length down my throat or thrust he
r fingers into me and use my juices to lubricate herself?
When the music ended, Peter took me to the stage and blindfolded me. He laid me face down on the long piano stool and offered the men a choice of implements. He held my shoulders while he allowed each man three strikes, to be alternated with the women pleasuring me. The first beatings felt sharp - the thwack of a cane - a wide tawse slapping my buttocks apart - and the women, competing with their mouths and hands. But as they turned me over and over, faster and faster, and my orgasms collided and converged with the heavy blows, every sense was opened until my disembodied voice begged incoherently for more. Until I relinquished all resistance and was purged of every boundary - until I sank into a well of consciousness.
Oh Leo. To know you sanctioned such a public degradation is hard but as I begged, I found a place beyond my conscious self. Peter secured my chastity belt before he released me and once again I am unable to soothe my longing. Will you be home soon, my love?
Leo finished reading and clicked the remote. Beth's image writhing, blindfolded on the piano stool appeared on the screen. Peter had done well. The tape had been waiting when he arrived in New York. He watched it again, engrossed in her ascent into the unhindered world where pain and pleasure fuse. One final test. The hardest one of all - for both of them. He wiped the sweat from his brow, suddenly uneasy.
I have returned the key to you. This evening you will go to a nightclub and confront the UNKNOWN. You will dress provocatively and hand the key to your guide, yourself. And whatever events unfold, you must describe to me.
In spite of your directions, it was a difficult place to find, hidden beneath the arches in South London and the smell of female sweat overpowered me as I entered its cave-like interior. I tottered uncertainly towards the bar on my stiletto heels. A heavy woman in a plaid shirt was the first to buy me a drink. Soon I was encircled by others, similarly dressed, squeezing predatorily against me and I was pleased that, beneath my short skirt, the metal shield offered me protection. The club was packed but every eye turned when Evelyn appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in a tailored evening suit and her hair cut into a sleek, mannish bob that framed her perfect oval face. She sensed new blood at once and the crowd parted with unspoken abeyance to allow her a clear view.
I was so sure that you had sent her that when she tapped her silver-topped cane on the floor, I followed her from the club like a puppy. As soon as we arrived at her airy loft apartment, she undressed me. Her eyes widened when she saw the metal guard and the padlock that secured it, and wider still when she saw the marks that still crisscrossed my body. I expected her to reach for the key, nestling openly between my breasts and remove the belt to spank me as her predecessors had done. But instead she laid me on her bed and caressed me until I ached with shameless need and begged her to use the key to release me.
'One day, you will ask for its return,' she whispered as she undid the padlock and placed it, with the device, in her desk drawer. That night, we made love until dawn and I discovered uncharted depths in another woman's arms. When I woke, she was writing at her desk, lit by a shaft of morning sun from the skylight. She carried me to the bathroom and rubbed ointment into my blemishes. When she'd bathed me, she fed me and lifted me into bed, while she continued working. And that became the pattern of our lives. She asked no questions and tended to my every need. I was never out of her sight. Even in the bathroom, she would knead my stomach while I emptied myself and I craved her attentions and hated the times she ignored me, absorbed by her writing.
But as time passed, she began to torture me. She stayed longer at her desk and became perfunctory in her care of me. Try as I did to please her, nothing brought back our joyful passion. My frustration grew as I became her prisoner, more trapped than the belt has ever rendered me, deprived of my work - but unable to summon the will to leave. At night, she still rolled her tongue around my clitoris, peeling back the hood until the raw bud swelled and drove me into white ecstasy. But as my pleasure subsided she turned away, leaving me bereft. Until at last I couldn't bear another moment of her heartlessness and begged her to return the key.
'Then you must earn it!' Her eyes flashed with the same fervour I have seen in yours.
The following morning, I awoke to find my ankles fastened to the bed by thin chains. Several hours later she returned, laden with packages. Before she unpacked her purchases, she cleaned and fed me with all the affection she had shown in our early days.
The ropes she slung over the high wooden beams were strong enough to bear my weight in any position she devised. While she worked, she kept me doubled above her and I endured the pain in my limbs, longing for the times she broke off and sought inspiration by plunging her fist into the heat of my body. When my orgasm exploded, she beat me with a short bamboo cane which she kept ready on her desk. She became fascinated in finding new ways to punish me and devoted all our evenings to that pursuit. But afterwards, she would take me to her bed and kiss away the pain she had inflicted, stroking the heat out of my burning buttocks, leading us both into relentless rapture.
Until last week, after she bathed me, instead of fastening me to the rafters, she took the chastity belt from her desk and fitted it securely. When she had locked it she offered me the key, the slightest frown being the only clue to her emotions. How do I explain this to you, Leo? Before we kissed goodbye, I hung it lovingly around her neck.
It felt good to be back in my studio, sketching with newfound freedom. But as the light faded, I was drawn to return to her and she was waiting to unlock the belt and punish me for my absence. Last night she had fitted a pulley to the skylight to which she fastened my wrists, with dumbbells around my ankles so she could move them at will. She selected a plaited crop and made me ask and thank her six times, ensuring each cut crossed the last, until I was striped to her satisfaction. She showed more zeal than ever and our passion afterwards was the greater for it. But as I lay in her arms, I knew the time had come to make my choice.
This morning, after she had fitted the chastity belt, I took the silver key from around her neck and left her.
Leo looked at his watch and paced the marble floor. He'd been home for a month and not a word, until now. His initial anxiety had turned to anger and frustration. Had the UNKNOWN proved his undoing? He regretted that he hadn't selected his own guide for her final trial. Now he feared this rival for her affections - yet he was intrigued by this female seducer with a mind so like his own.
Beth cleaned her brushes and considered her surrender under Jock's tutelage and her humility at the whim of the two siblings. But as she uncorked his favourite burgundy, it was the consequences of the unknown that concerned her. She continued to arrange the tray of glasses as the door opened behind her.
'We're expecting company, I see,' he said stiffly. A passing train delayed her need to respond but as it faded she turned to see Evelyn step into the studio behind Leo. Beth smiled to herself as she poured. Punctuality was another attribute they shared.
Beth sipped her wine, adding to the tension dancing between them, but Leo drank deeply, anxious for an early outcome to this charged encounter. A smile of triumph lit his handsome face as he tossed back the dregs and caught the silver key between his teeth. His doubts evaporated and he stepped forward confidently to claim her. It took all her strength to resist his embrace.
Evelyn looked away and put down her glass to leave, her hurt visible.
'Finish your drink,' Beth said softly. 'Please?'
Evelyn mustered every ounce of dignity and raised her glass. Leo turned to watch his adversary, just as she opened her mouth wide and the point of her tongue emerged - an identical silver key glinting in it.
'I had a duplicate cut this morning.' Beth's heart quickened as she waited for her two lovers to digest her words.
Leo was the first to raise his glass. He smiled slowly. 'To the Unknown?'
'To the Unknown.' Evelyn's voice was edged with a new expectation.
How alike they were - how
could she relinquish either one of them?
Beth sighed with happiness as their glasses met to seal their union and let her skirt drop to the floor, revealing the chastity belt clinging to the contours of her body, ready to be unlocked.
Think Pink
Bruce Anderson
ANY moment now he'd be thrashing the pertest bottom in Britain. Darren stared at Suzie Starr as the strains of Duran Duran's Planet Earth filled her villa. The pilot of Salvage With Suzie was about to begin.
Facing the cameras, Suzie started off with her customary confidence. 'I'm Suzie Starr and over the next eight weeks I'll show you how to recycle and reuse hundreds of everyday items. Together we'll replenish the environment.' The camera following, she walked into her dressing room and pointed to three pairs of bootcut jeans. 'Don't throw out yesterday's fashions - donate them to charity shops.' Holding up a worn dress, she added, 'And take older outfits to the Clothing Bank for recycling. They can be shredded and used for insulation or to stuff mattresses.'
'She's good,' Darren's production assistant murmured.
'Trust me, she's about to be very bad,' Darren said.
Following the rehearsed script, Suzie glided into the kitchen and examined a container of wilting salad leaves. 'Never throw decomposing food in the dustbin - compost it!' Arse a perfect peach in clingy black jeans, she wiggled her way to her palatial lounge and joined Darren on the settee. 'Now, I like curling up on the couch with an organic cocoa as much as the next girl - but for the next five minutes I'm going to be curling up with our producer Darren Scott, author of the bestseller Ending World.'
