“I will settle up here. Wait for me in the foyer.”
Back in a lavatory stall for the fifth time that evening, people must think her gastric condition critical by now, she hauled up her dress, and crouched, opening her knees wide to expose her suffering vulva. The labia were stretched downward so tightly by the tandem weights as to defeat her purpose, so she positioned herself over the lavatory seat and rested the weights on it to relieve the tension somewhat. Now she could get freely at the engorged nub of her clitoris. Of course, in its aroused state, it had been protruding between the upper portions of the stressed labia but she needed better access to it if she was to carry out what her companion had so delicately indicated he required. Now she could stroke the little spear to its maximum stature, and free it from the folds around it, so that it stood out, red and proud. Taking a deep breath, she positioned the opened clip around the sensitive point, as he had described it, and carefully released it until it started to grip the delicate bud.
Her breath escaped, half whistle, half hiss, all pain. It hurt. Oh, how it hurt! She steeled herself to relax her grip on the clip, and allow the full force of its jaws to bite into her, but she could not bear the agony, and pressed down again to relieve the pressure. She made a second, and then a third, attempt to relax her hold completely, then, sobbing with pain and failure, steeled herself for one last effort. She closed her eyes, let go of the clip, and jammed her knuckles in her mouth, biting on her fingers almost to the bone, mewling and snorting through her nose, as she tried to ride out the atrocious hurt. She swayed and keened and held on, and little by little the terrible anguish dropped to a level where, albeit with great difficulty, she could just about contain the pain. She stood, and took the whole weight of the ‘main’ and ‘dessert’, while she straightened her gown as best she could, then left the stall and shuffled out. She had abandoned any hope of appearing to move normally up to the foyer, but moved slowly, a silvery tinkle marking her pain-filled progress. She stood with her back to the wall, obediently awaiting her Master’s appearance, half lost in a fog of pain.
Suddenly she became aware that someone stood in front of her, observing her agonised grimace. It was a woman she had been conscious of before, who had seemed to take a special interest in her so frequent crossings of the floor. One of the most elegant and fashionable of the diners, about her own age, with a short crop of brightest gold, which showed off the beautiful skull and perfect facial structure. She wore diamond drops in her ears, and a deep collar of white fire. Matching bracelets adorned both wrists, and she wore her diamonds like trophies of war, or were they a slave’s regalia?
“I expect you found the main course and dessert quite satisfying,” she remarked in a quiet, cultured tone, “and the cherry brandy’s very bracing, but, personally, I found our friend’s tipping policy the most impressive, certainly it encourages the provision of one’s best service. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And she was gone.
She knew! The bitch knew, she’d been put through the hoop too, damn her! Through her pain, Madeleine realised with a shock that for one moment she’d been consumed by jealousy, so that for one instant, she’d almost forgotten her pain and humiliation. Jealousy of this unknown woman, because this unknown man, she didn’t even know his name, had woven the same tapestry of agony on her body as on her own. She shook away the madness, and concentrated on the anguish that filled her body, the crab-like grip on her lips, the terrible pincers in her breasts and, above all, the stabbing, throbbing, shrieking pain where the bunched ends of all her erotic highways met in her clitoris, and were being crushed by the fiendish little clamp.
Again she was roused from her pain-induced paralysis by the presence of a watcher. This time it was her host, her client, her Master for the time being, who beckoned to her to follow. In the car he waited while she settled in her seat, all her hurts reactivated by the contortions required to enter the vehicle.
“Your place or mine?” he asked, casually, “Yours, I think. It will save Carl having to take you back later.”
All the way he kept up his one-sided conversation about contemporary life and Art, apparently content with her nods and mmms. She collected her key from the desk, ignoring the curious looks engendered by her bizarre costume and the tinkling sound that accompanied every movement, and led her host, now her guest, into her apartment.
“You can offer me coffee and some more brandy,” he graciously conceded, “while I look forward to what further delights you can serve me.”
Once more she obeyed him without demur, then stood docilely, awaiting his further orders.
“Hoist your dress to your waist,” he instructed, “and bend over the table. Put your feet as far apart as the chain allows. Flex your knees, and open yourself up as far as you can go.” He continued to sit, sipping his brandy and contemplating her bare buttocks, her parted thighs, her openly offered vulva, distorted now by the downward pull of the weights which stretched it into a narrow slit, and the little brown anal dimple. He noted the fading spoor of the cold-blooded, emotionless thrashing she had endured only a fortnight before. The welts had subsided to pale multicoloured tracks, while the raw patch on her right buttock showed freshly healed pink skin.
“I agreed with Madame that I wouldn’t whip you tonight, but now I’ve met you I’ll certainly give myself that pleasure in the future. I understand your services are much in demand, and I’ll have to wait a while for a white bottom to work on,” he added, “so for now, I’ll just consider whether to fuck you, or if perhaps buggery would be best.”
Lying across the table, the hard edge digging into her belly, her sore breasts pressed against its surface, the weights, hanging free in this position, dragging at her labia and, still the supreme torture, the hateful clamp squeezing hot jets of agony from her clitoris, she still managed a flush of arousal at the threats to her vagina and bum. She heard him put down his glass, and go into the bathroom. She waited, motionless, while she listened to him rummaging in her bathroom cabinet. A moment later, and he was behind her again, and she felt cold cream pressed into her anus. So it was to be buggery then, most men chose it when then saw her displayed thus, especially with her buttocks marked by the rod. A fresh erotic spasm traversed her belly, despite the pain that filled it, or perhaps that merely intensified her lust.
His hands gripped her rear cheeks, his thumbs pressing either side of the anointed anus, and then she felt the rock hard tip of his ready member probing the puckered brown mouth. The pressure increased, adding the pain of a stretched sphincter to the myriad hurts she had already incurred, and then he launched himself in an all out thrust, deep into her rectum. The shock and the pain wrenched one sharp cry from her and then she relapsed into gasps and moans, as he proceeded to ride her steadily, deep, implacable, heedless of her groans. As she felt his lust build to climax, her own flowered too, and when he discharged into her ravaged bowel, she cried out again, not from the additional pain his last violent thrusts occasioned in her crushed sexual parts, but to celebrate the shattering climax which released the tensions building all night to this unbearable summit. Totally exhausted by pain, lust, and their consummation, she collapsed over the table. Abandoning her there, his semen leaking from her bruised anus, her lust trickling from her oozing vagina, he adjusted his fly, and got ready to leave. At the door he turned.
“I’ve paid for your use for the night, so you’ll keep those clips on until breakfast time, say, nine o’clock. I’ll arrange for the key to your fetters to be delivered in the morning.” Dimly, she heard the door close behind him.
CHAPTER SIX‘
‘Duty and Discipline’
It was a trying night. She had dragged her aching body off the table, wincing as the weights took up their unrelenting tension in her nether parts, and crawled into her bed. As so many times before, the exhaustion brought on by so much pain, and sexual excitement, with the ultimate satisfaction of consummation, carried her down into sleep, despite her hurts, but in the night the call of na
ture became too powerful to resist. She staggered out of bed, and the returning awareness of the evil little silver torturers that still gripped her tenderest part, hit her like a blow. She gave a little scream, and clutched her groin with manacled hands, as if to grasp the clamps through the chain mail of the silver dress, and shuffled her way to the bathroom. As so many times already in this long night of agony, she worked the dress up over her hips, and sat on the lavatory to relieve the tension in her bladder in a long golden stream. When she stood again, she was conscious that there was nothing to stop her removing the crippling clamps and weights. Nothing that was except her client’s wishes. She was contracted to suffer in the manner he had devised, even though he was not present, and she would honour the contract.
It was not as easy to sleep now, her first exhaustion relieved, but eventually she dozed off. In the morning she could do little in the way of refresh herself. Of course she could shower in the dress, but she couldn’t get dry. The idea of cutting the spaghetti straps was out of the question, it belonged to the Master, the man of silver, and she was obligated to him until nine o’clock. Eight thirty, and the phone rang. It was the front desk to say there was a letter for her for immediate delivery, and the porter was on his way up. She cracked open her door to take a white envelope, just the kind she’d often seen on the desk in the foyer. She was pretty certain that ‘Mr Silver’ had left it the previous night, together with a generous contribution to the porter’s benevolent fund, and instructions not to deliver it until the morning.
Well, he was rich enough to buy such service, just as he had bought hers, and she would keep her side of the bargain, to the bitter end. And bitter it was. The clips had been on hr lips and nipples for nearly twelve hours now, and were almost more than she could bear. She spent the last half hour sitting on a plump cushion, her ankles crossed, at least the shackles allowed that, so that the weight was taken off her labia and she could part her thighs without putting any inadvertent pressure on the clip that was crucifying her with its grip on her shrieking clitoris. She sat cradling her sore breasts in her arms, rocking backwards and forwards as a low, anguished keening sound escaped her lips.
The figures of the digital clock seemed frozen. Hours seemed to pass before it would reluctantly concede another minute, while she hugged her pain and moaned, but finally nine o’clock appeared and, with a low groan, she got to her knees and opened the envelope. She found a tiny silver key, and a card, on which he’d written, “WE WILL MEET AGAIN WHEN YOUR ARSE IS WHITE.”
She had no time to shudder at the implications of that message, other messages from her tortured parts were too urgent. Quickly she removed her sandals with their built in shackles, then her manacles. She ignored the collar, and turned her attention to the scorpion devices in her flesh. Her hands free now, it was the work of seconds to peel the silver sheath over her head, to stand nude and aching, her hands on her breasts. She examined the martyred nipples. The point pressure of the ring ends had not cut off all circulation to the points they gripped, but they were swollen and bruised, no longer pink, but an angry purple, swelling around the wire ends that all but met in the middle, so deeply had they sunk into the tender flesh. Though she had not worn clips quite like these before, she had enough experience to know that the worst moments had yet to be faced, indeed inflicted on herself, before she could find relief, at last, from these devil’s bites. Very carefully she drew the ends of the ring apart, relieving the pressure on the points, but unable to spring them far enough apart to get them clear of the hideously swollen and distorted nipple. As the blood flowed back into the crushed flesh, the pain hit her like a rising tide. She gritted her teeth and snatched the ring free, to the accompaniment of a sharp cry. Now it all had to be done again on the other nipple.
Another minute, another cry, and she was cupping her sore and throbbing nipples in her hands, but not for long. The poor stretched labia and crushed clitoris still cried out for liberation, even though the road to it was lined with more excruciating pain. The weights first. That’s the easy bit, just a welcome removal of the tension, but now the clamps, buried deep in tumified labial flesh, as purple as the nipples, must be released, and she knew very well that this was going to hurt. She had to pull the jaws out of the flesh to which they had stuck under the prolonged and unrelenting pressure, and groaned with her pain as each came away. She rubbed the bruised lips until the throbbing hurt had subsided to manageable proportions, then turned her attention to the pulsing stub of her clitoris, swollen now to twice the size it attained under even the fiercest arousal, darkly bruised, and crushed out of recognition by the pressure of the tiny jaws. She knew, instinctively, for a moment, it was going to be sheer hell, but it was hell while she delayed too, and it would have to be faced. She held the deadly little mechanism gently, trying not to aggravate the effect it was having, then with one quick movement squeezed down hard to open the jaws, and whipped it away from her tortured nubbin. As the tiny teeth pulled out of the swollen flesh to which it clung, she shrieked out loud at the shaft of agony which lanced her centre, dropped the fiendish clip and clasped her hands over her wounded vulva. It was several minutes before she could control her sobs and moans sufficiently to straighten up, and take her hands from between her thighs. Now, at last, she could take the bath for which she longed so much. She was sweaty and stained from what she had endured these last twelve hours. Perspiration had matted her hair, her face still bore the traces of the melon juice, the gravy, the chocolate sauce, from where he had fed her like a child before the watching women and their escorts, and between her thighs, she stank of the sticky sexual emissions, both his and hers.
The long hot soak did wonders for her bruised mind, as well as her swollen flesh and soiled body. By the time she had dried herself again, her sore nipples and battered vulva had subsided to a dull, and somewhat erotic, throbbing, while she had acquired that warm feeling of satisfaction which was her real reward for the pain filled sessions she submitted to. Glowing, inside and out, she collected the discarded souvenirs of her martyrdom, the sandals with their ankle chain, the wrist fetters, the clips and rings, noting that they were all solid silver, and packed them in a drawer. She picked up the crumpled silver sheath and hung it in the wardrobe, and it was only then, clad only in her towel, she made for the kitchen, that she recalled the collar on her neck. She put up a hand to finger the broad, smooth hoop, and touch the still locked clasp, but continued on her way, ravenous for her breakfast.
It stayed around her neck all week as, in the euphoria that always followed when she had been made to suffer, she threw herself into the freelance work that screened what was now her ‘real’ life.
The following week Madame returned her to ‘light duties’, in this case a dinner party for four wealthy and sophisticated couples, satiated with straight sex and always willing to pay for some bizarre scene. She had to serve them naked, though they accepted her collar, a fixture now. Since her bottom was still ‘out of bounds’, waiting for the last faint traces to fade so that she could be offered unblemished to some cruel rod, they punished her faults, mostly imaginary, by caning her hands.
The women were the worst. The men simply enjoyed having her lush nudity to hand, and exercising their mastery by inflicting pain on her whenever the excuse, however flimsy, occurred. The women tried to humiliate her at every turn: besides whipping her poor swollen hands with just as much ferocity, and with an unreasoning hatred, it seemed, underlying all their actions.
The evening had started innocuously enough. She’d had to strip in front of the exquisitely expensively dressed women. She’d dressed conservatively enough in black and white for the occasion, though even her simplest clothes tended to display a touch of elegance these days, with her high income.
“Those things are sheer presumption on a girl of her class,” one declared, “C & A would be more suitable for the slut. Have her strip like the bitch she is.”
And so she’d had to strip in front of them all, meekly folding
her dress and underwear as instructed, and retaining only her shoes and her silver collar.
They then went on to made a critical survey of her body and appearance. Every aspect was covered, with verdicts ranging from at best damnation by faint praise, to outright sneering, and all delivered in casual comments to one another, behaving as if she were not present or, even more humiliating, as if she were some dumb animal, incapable of human speech. They thought her glorious glossy mane ‘lacked sophistication’ or ‘had a touch of vulgarity’, that her firm shapely breasts made ‘a meagre little bosom’ and tweaked her nipples cruelly. They slandered her flat taut belly by calling it a ‘paunch’ and drove their fists into her with enough force to drive her breath out, doubling her up with their blows, and then told her to ‘stand up girl, and don’t slouch. You’re getting round shoulders’. They told her she had a fat arse and flabby thighs, that her feet were too big, and her toes bent, that her body hair was disgusting and her skin coarse, her make-up was pathetic and she smelt. By the time they had completed their assessment of her she felt more humiliated than ever she had at the hands of any of the men, who had put her to degrading tasks, made her sweat or soil herself, or had mocked at her labours.
Now she had to serve these mocking harpies. At every turn they made trouble for her. If she but came near, a glass would be spilled and, condemned without appeal, she would have to hold out each hand in turn to receive four cuts with a thin whippy cane, bringing tears to her eyes, strangled cries from her throat, and extra strokes if she dropped her hand between cuts. Her service was too slow or surly; her portions too large or too small; her arm was jogged deliberately, to make her spill vegetables or sauces; dirty plates were tipped to drop cutlery to the floor; and then she would be reprimanded for bending her knees if she did so, and for grossness in displaying her buttocks if she failed to bend them.
Madeleine Page 7
