Dan spoke to the camera: ‘I must admit I’m finding it rather interesting. In fact I think I might even be getting the beginning of an erection and I’m honestly not sure if it’s the boys or the girls that are turning me on . . .’
Across the room, talking to Madame Cyn, Dan spotted a man in women’s clothes. He knew the group included a post-op male to female transsexual and at least a couple of other men who liked to cross-dress. He tried to work out if the person talking to Cyn was the transsexual or just a weekend transvestite.
The make-up was convincing enough, and he/she had all the feminine gestures off pat. He held his wineglass by the stem and sipped from it demurely. His nails were long and scarlet and his figure seemed curvy and suitably female, though Dan knew this could be achieved just as easily by artifice and underwear as by female hormones. But his make-up was thick and masklike with a five o’clock shadow clearly visible beneath the layers of foundation.
What did you do with your tackle when you put on a skirt? Dan wondered. There must be some way of strapping it down out of the way. There was clearly more to cross-dressing than putting on a bit of slap and shoving tissues down your bra. It all seemed like a lot of effort and, though Dan didn’t think he could be bothered to go to all that trouble, he could just about imagine the sense of liberation and excitement of adopting the female role.
If he was honest, the sheer alienness of it was what appealed to him most; the otherness that women represented. He had no doubt that walking a mile in a pair of stilettos and a wig would be both exciting and surprising. Though the idea of actually changing sex held no appeal, like most men he had an innate curiosity about women’s lives. If he could have spent 24 hours as a woman, he’d have leapt at the chance.
Though he supposed it made him shallow, the first thing he’d want to try was sex. Who wouldn’t want to experience multiple orgasms and the ability to keep going as long as you wanted? And owning nipples that actually worked, surely that would be worth experiencing?
He watched the cross-dresser talking to Madame Cyn. In their heels, they were a similar height and, if he had to choose which of them had done a better job on their make-up, it would have to be the transvestite. Come to think of it, he had a better figure too, even if it was padding.
‘I’m definitely beginning to get aroused,’ he said into the camera. ‘I think I need a drink . . .’ He headed for the kitchen, followed by the crew.
The kitchen was fitted out in Shaker style and decorated in the same pink colour palette as the living room. There was a large conservatory attached to it where half a dozen people were sitting eating. Dan helped himself to a glass of red wine, filled a plate with food at the buffet, then went into the conservatory and sat down.
He turned to speak to the crew. ‘Why don’t you go and see what’s happening in the other room? There’s no point in you filming me eating. I’ll come back through when I’m finished.’
They made their way back into the kitchen.
Across the conservatory a small skinny woman with cerise-pink hair stood talking to a man dressed like a highwayman. He wore knee breeches, silk stockings and buckled shoes and a ruffled shirt under a long brocade waistcoat, which did nothing to conceal his generous belly.
Though balding on top, his hair was long and caught back in a ponytail and held in place by a black velvet ribbon. Dan thought he must be at least fifty and the overall effect was more Sid James in Carry on Dick than Adam Ant’s beautifully androgynous dandy highwayman.
The woman’s hair was arranged in two bunches high up on her head and reminded Dan of drooping bunny ears. Her eyes were heavily outlined in kohl and her lipstick was a deep red, so dark it almost looked black. She was obviously wearing heavy foundation but seemed not to have applied any blusher, giving her a doll-like appearance.
She wore a leather or PVC corset in the same shade as her hair and, beneath it, a garment that could only loosely be described as a skirt made out of chiffon in rainbow colours. It had a jagged hem and stood out from her hips as if it was either starched or boned. Her fishnet tights had been deliberately torn in several places, allowing circles of pale flesh to be seen. On her feet were heavy knee boots with rows of buckles up the side in bright-red leather. Around her neck was a leather collar which was padlocked. It had sharp-looking spikes at least two inches long and Dan wondered how she avoided hurting herself on them.
He tried to work out if she and the highwayman were a couple. From their body language it was obvious they were on intimate terms, but he couldn’t have thought of an unlikelier pair. He’d have expected her to go for someone more like herself, punky, gothy and young. But, in this world, maybe the usual standards didn’t apply.
He watched the punky girl talking to the highwayman. He noticed that the man had a small riding crop dangling by a strap from his wrist. The tip of the crop – what he knew from his research was referred to as the slapper – was in the shape of a tiny human hand.
The girl turned to look at something out of the window and Dan noticed that her skirt barely covered her buttocks at the back. He could see them sloping outwards and disappearing under the jagged hem. As far as he could see, she wasn’t wearing knickers. He could clearly see her naked fishnet-covered buttocks. Maybe, though, she was wearing a thong. Without thinking, he dipped his head and tried to see under her skirt.
The highwayman said something to the girl and she turned to look at Dan. Caught in the act, he straightened up guiltily and felt his face colouring. He shrugged apologetically and mouthed the word sorry. The girl walked over and sat down beside him.
‘I take it you’re Dan? I’m Poppy.’
‘Guilty as charged. I’m sorry you caught me looking up your dress.’
‘Only sorry I caught you?’
‘Well, the view was rather spectacular to be honest. You see I was trying to decide if you’re wearing knickers or not.’
‘And what’s the verdict?’
‘The jury’s still out. But I must admit I rather hope you’re not, though I don’t know what that says about me.’
‘Just that you’re a bloke. They all do it, they just aren’t usually so blatant about it.’
‘I really am sorry. Normally I’m much more gentlemanly. It’s just that I feel a bit like a kid let loose in a toyshop. I don’t think I’ve seen so much flesh or kinky clothing on display outside the pages of a porn mag or my own sordid imagination. I’m afraid I was a little overcome.’
Poppy laughed. She opened her handbag, which Dan noticed was in the shape of a coffin, and took out a cigarette. She lit it and inhaled deeply.
‘They told me you were a charmer. I can see how you get people to make such fools of themselves on screen. Where’s your camera crew by the way? I’ve been aching for the opportunity to show off.’
‘I told them to go into the main room while I ate. Do you enjoy showing off?’
Poppy made a show of looking down at her clothes. ‘Well, I’m hardly the retiring type, am I?’
‘Do you go out like that? I mean to work and to the supermarket? Not that there’s anything wrong with the way you’re dressed, by the way. It’s very original and, as a matter of fact, I find it rather exciting.’
‘Actually, I do go to work dressed like this because my husband and I run a fetish furniture company and I have been known to push a trolley round Sainsbury’s in my fishnets, but mostly I go for something a little more comfortable.’
‘Is that your husband?’ Dan nodded towards the highwayman.
Poppy laughed. ‘No. That’s just Nick. Or Master Nicholas, as he likes to call himself. You’d better watch out because he does tend to hog the limelight. He’s been on the telly loads of times. The trouble is, he loves the exposure so much he never seems to realise they’re using him.’
‘I thought he looked familiar. But I hope you don’t think I intend to make fools out of all of you. I’m honestly just curious about “the lifestyle” and I want to understand it. So much of the stuff you s
ee about it in the media is exploitative and sensational, I wanted to take an honest look at it and the people who do it.’
‘Fine with me, but it’ll be hard not to make it seem sensational, I’d have thought. After all, most of what we do is incomprehensible and downright outrageous to a lot of people.’
‘I suppose what I’m saying is that I don’t want to make you look like weirdos.’
‘No need to worry about it, Dan. We do a good enough job of that ourselves. To tell you the truth, I love outraging the vanilla world. I relish my status as a weirdo. If I had to choose between my life and a traditional wifey with two point four kids and nice little semi who only gets shagged once a month on a Saturday, or twice if Man U win a game, I’d pick mine every time.’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Anything.’
‘Are you dom or sub?’
‘What do you think? And does it have to be one or the other? People always make that assumption but some of us just like pain but aren’t really submissive and others switch depending on who they’re playing with. It’s not usually as clear-cut as you make it sound. But, go on, what do you think?’
‘I’m completely confused now . . . Dom, yes I think you’re dom.’
‘You’re nearly right. I’m dom with everybody but my husband. He’s the one and only man I’ve ever submitted to. It’s just the way it works between us. Which are you?’
‘I’m not sure to be honest. What do you think I am?’
‘Sub, no doubt about it. You might not know it, but you long to kneel naked at the feet of a dominant woman and to feel the kiss of her whip. You want to feel the shame and helplessness as she punishes you and the frustration as she denies you orgasm. It’s written all over you.’
‘You think so?’
‘Oh yes. Your cheeks have gone all pink and you’re breathing’s grown shallow. I bet things are even feeling a little cramped in your underwear by now, aren’t they?’ Poppy’s eyes narrowed as she spoke. Her voice had grown husky and deep. She was looking straight at him and there was no mistaking the authority in her eyes. ‘You can’t deny it, you know it’s true, come on, tell mistress.’
‘Can I get back to you on that one?’
She burst out laughing. ‘No need, sweetheart. Both of us know the answer already.’
When he’d finished eating Dan wandered back into the main room. The party seemed to have taken off. Madame Cyn was leading around a young man on the end of a leash. He was naked except for spiked leather bands around his wrist and ankle and the collar around his neck. He was extensively tattooed with a complicated black Celtic design down his arms and over his chest. The design went down into a point between his nipples then snaked a winding path across his abdomen, terminating just above his crotch.
Someone handed Cyn a long thin whip and she ordered the naked man to kneel. Dan took a quick glance at the cameramen to make sure they were getting it all on film and sat down to watch. The man got to his knees and bent forwards, resting his forearms on the floor and his forehead on the carpet. From where Dan was sitting he had a good view of the man’s arse and his genitals dangling between his legs.
Cyn trailed the tip of the whip up the crack of his arse and the man’s body jolted. She ran it up and down his cleft and around the dark bud of his hole. The man’s body was trembling. He was breathing audibly and Dan could see his hands flexing into fists as the whip teased him.
Without warning, Cyn raised the whip into the air and brought it down across both buttocks. There was an audible swish then a sharp crack as it made contact. The man let out a deep guttural moan and Dan was unable to tell whether it was from pleasure or pain.
Cyn whipped him again, raising her arm above her shoulder and bringing it down with great force. The room was silent, all eyes on the action. The sound of the whip slashing through the air then slapping against flesh seemed to underline the intensity of the moment.
She delivered half a dozen blows in quick succession. Dan noticed that her breasts wobbled as she wielded the whip and she had grown breathless. There was a pattern of red stripes across the man’s buttocks. Each time the whip made contact he moaned and his body jolted forwards.
Madame Cyn raised the whip high into the air. Dan could see a thin sheen of sweat across her collarbones. Her eyes were shining and intense. Her lips were parted. She brought the whip down with a crack that sounded like a gunshot and Dan realised he’d been holding his breath.
Dan’s heart was thumping. Tingles of delicious pleasure trickled down his spine.
Cyn’s hair had partially collapsed and the front had fallen over her face. One of her breasts had escaped the corset, its nipple hard and dark. She stood with her feet apart and delivered slash after slash across the man’s reddened buttocks. He moaned loudly, a deep animal sound that seemed to come from his soul.
He was lost in the moment, Dan realised, responding purely physically. It didn’t matter that he was in Cyn’s chintzy living room in front of a roomful of people and a camera crew; as far as he was concerned he was alone with the whip and his own torment and joy. Though he still couldn’t understand why anyone would want pain, it was clear to him that this was a transaction of mutual need.
Dan’s cock was tingling. The hairs on the back of his neck were erect and sensitive.
Cyn dropped the whip and got to her knees beside the man. She spoke to him quietly. She kissed him, not a lover’s kiss by any means, but the gesture seemed so intimate and personal that Dan felt like a voyeur intruding on a private moment.
Cyn helped the man to his feet and the crowd began to disperse. The camera crew moved over to Dan to get his reaction.
‘Did that get you going?’
Dan turned to see a tall slender woman in a slinky black dress standing by his side.
‘I’m not sure . . . yes, it did I suppose. But I’m sort of horrified as well. I mean, why would anyone voluntary submit to that kind of abuse?’
‘Did it look like abuse to you? He looked as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself to me.’
‘He certainly did. That’s why I’m confused I think. It was clearly consensual – and highly pleasurable. And yet, she was hurting him . . . giving him real pain. I’m having trouble understanding it.’ Dan was conscious of the crew filming a few feet away, but the woman didn’t seem at all bothered by their presence.
‘I’m not sure any of us fully understands it. There are plenty of books about the psychology of kink but, ultimately, we just do it because it feels good.’
‘And it feels good even if it hurts like hell?’
‘Especially then. Pleasure and pain . . . the divine dichotomy.’
Dan thought she sounded vaguely American – or maybe Canadian, as her vocabulary was definitely English. Her hair was a sleek black asymmetrical bob. Her dress had a deep V at the front which dipped almost to her waist. Her breasts were small and pointed and the nipples were clearly visible through the silky fabric. The sleeves of her gown were long and flowing. The look reminded him of someone but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
‘Now I’ve seen it in action I can see that’s possible but I’m not sure I’d want to try it for myself.’
‘You never know, you might enjoy it. I’m Sadie, by the way.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Sadie. Are you Canadian? I think I can detect a hint of an accent.’
‘Wash your mouth out! I’m American, from New York State, though I’ve lived here nearly thirty years now. So, do you think you want to try it for yourself?’
‘Personally, my instinct is to say no but, in the spirit of sharing and for the sake of the film, I’d consider it.’
‘You should come to my dungeon and do some filming there. I’m fairly certain you’ll find it illuminating.’
‘You have a dungeon? How medieval.’
‘More of a basement, really. It’s where I see my clients. I’m a professional dominatrix.’
‘Really? I thought they only existe
d in racy novels.’
‘Not at all. We’re very real and, since the Internet, pretty easy to find.’
‘So what do you do to people?’
She shrugged. ‘Whatever they want. Some want pain and there are various ways of delivering it. Others are attracted to humiliation and want to be led around on all fours like dogs and verbally abused. Some want to be dressed up . . . I have an extensive wardrobe. There’s also a medical fetish room where I can do enemas and piercings and that sort of thing. The list is endless.’
‘Do you stick needles through people’s nipples and nail their scrotums to boards like in the film Maîtresse?’
‘Yes, I do.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Whatever they want, as long as I’m sure I can do it safely.’
‘Wow. I must admit I thought that stuff was made up just for the movie.’
‘Well, now you know. If you’re serious about trying it for yourself, I’ll give you a session in my dungeon.’
‘And you’re happy for the crew to come along and film there?’
‘Sure. I’ve got several clients who’d be perfectly happy to take part. In fact they’d probably get off on it.’
‘Thanks, we’ll definitely take you up on that.’
‘And will you be taking up my offer of a private session?’
‘As long as you promise not to poke any needles in my nadgers.’
‘Spoilsport . . . But, of course, I’ll respect your limits. You’ll be perfectly safe.’
‘And you promise not to hurt me?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘No, darling, I definitely will. But you’ve got to remember that, while I may hurt you, I’ll never harm you.’
‘OK, it’s a deal. I’ll ask Sarah, my producer, to set it up.’
‘I’ll look forward to hearing from her.’
A Talent for Surrender Page 4
