Dan wondered why transsexuals and TVs always seemed to opt for such stereotypes of femininity; few women who’d been born that way bothered to wear aprons these days.
But maybe, he reflected as he watched her taking a fresh batch of cookies out of the oven, he could understand it a little now that he’d tried it himself with Jo. When he put on a dress he wanted to be the best woman he could be – for Jo.
‘Is that a collar you’re wearing?’ Jim reached out a finger and touched Dan’s silver chain. ‘Don’t tell me someone’s nabbed you at last. Maybe it’s engraved, let me look . . .’
Dan reached up and covered the engraved padlock with his hand. ‘It’s nothing. Just jewellery. I saw it in a shop and liked the look of it.’
Madame Cyn leaned across the table. ‘Come off it, Dan. A straight-laced public schoolboy like you doesn’t suddenly start wearing a dog collar. You’re not Johnny Rotten.’
‘Someone’s obviously given it to you. Whose little doggy are you, Dan?’ Nick raised both his hands in front of him in imitation of a begging dog.
‘Oh, leave the poor boy alone.’ Christina put a plate of biscuits down on the table. ‘If he doesn’t want to tell us then that’s his right.’ She sat down beside Dan. ‘Though I reckon we’ve all got a pretty good idea who it is . . .’
‘What do you mean?’ Dan tried to sound dignified.
‘It’s Jo, isn’t it? Come on, you can tell us.’ Christina knelt down in front of Dan. She carefully turned over his padlock and read the inscription. ‘It says, “This dog belongs to Jo Lennox.” Well, now . . . aren’t you a lucky dog?’
Fifteen
The next weekend Jo dressed them up in identical leather retro dresses with nipped-in waists and shoulder pads. Underneath they both wore waspie corsets, long-line bras and silk French knickers. Jo had applied heavy red lipstick and pinned back the front of her hair in a style which reminded Dan of his grandmother’s wartime wedding photos. Dan wore a wig in the same style and Jo did his make-up to match hers.
‘What do you think?’ Jo stood beside Dan, looking in the full-length mirror.
Dan was tingling all over. His cock twitched inside his gaff. ‘If there were three of us we could be a kinky version of the Andrews Sisters. Are you going to tell me where we’re going, now?’
‘To a play party at a friend’s house. It’s public yet private – a safe way to explore public surrender.’
‘I’m looking forward to it . . .’ Dan frowned. ‘Do you think anyone from Hellfire 2000 is likely to be there?’
Jo fiddled with his wig. ‘Possibly. Cold feet? I thought you’d already “come out” to them.’
‘I have . . . no . . . not cold feet. I’m proud to be your sub. It just makes me feel . . . I don’t know . . . vulnerable.’
Jo kissed him carefully, so as not to spoil their lipstick. ‘You feel vulnerable because there’s nowhere for you to hide. You’ve taken off your mask. It’s a good thing, believe me. It means anything can happen and – when it does – you’re open to it . . . experiencing everything life has to offer. Doesn’t that sound inviting?’
Dan smiled. ‘What are we waiting for?’
The party was in a tree-lined avenue in Ealing. Jo stopped the car outside a large mock-Tudor detached house. On the doorstep Jo took a slender leather dog lead out of her handbag and attached it to Dan’s collar. Icy fingers trailed up his nape and over his scalp. She tugged on the leash, pulling his face towards hers. She kissed him softly on the lips.
‘Ready?’ Jo smiled up at him.
Dan nodded. She rang the bell. After a few moments it was answered by a petite blonde woman in a body-hugging rubber suit and a Catwoman mask. The zip on her bodysuit was undone almost to her waist and Dan couldn’t help noticing her spectacular gravity-defying breasts.
‘Jo. Glad you could come.’ The two women kissed.
‘Dan, this is Sally. Sally, this is Dan Elliot.’
‘My . . . isn’t he tall?’ Sally gazed up at him. She extended her gloved hand and Dan shook it. ‘Come on in.’
As Dan sat beside Jo on the sofa he could feel the gentle tug of his lead. He looked around. It was an ordinary suburban living room, decorated in modern minimalist style in shades of chocolate and cream. It was tasteful and understated and might even have seemed bland if it wasn’t for the motley collection of occupants.
Everyone had dressed up for the occasion in rubber or leather. Some people wore only lingerie and several were nude or nearly nude. Sally was sitting in an armchair by the window with three naked collared male slaves kneeling at her feet. All of them bore the marks of recent whippings and Dan felt a slow cold shiver slide up his spine.
Jo tugged on his lead and he turned to look at her. ‘Are you looking at Sally’s boys?’
‘Yes.’ Dan looked over at the slaves and noticed that they weren’t completely naked. Each of them was wearing plastic cage like devices over their genitals. ‘I was looking at the bruises on their arses and imagining what it must feel like to have everyone know that someone else has the right to beat you.’ Dan was conscious of his cock expanding inside his restrictive underwear.
‘And how does it make them feel, do you suppose?’
‘That’s the funny thing. I think it must be a huge turn-on but at the same time it’s got to be enormously shameful – only the shame’s part of the pleasure.’
Jo had begun to smile. ‘An interesting theory. Why don’t we put it to the test?’ Without waiting for an answer she got up and began to walk over to Sally. Dan leapt to his feet and followed at the end of his taut lead. ‘Dan was admiring your boys’ stripes, Sal, and you know what subs are like . . . I think he’d like me to show you his.’
Dan’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and exhilaration.
Sally laughed. ‘They’re all exhibitionists under the skin, aren’t they? Come on, Dan. Let us have a look at Jo’s handiwork.’
‘Lift up your skirt please, Dan. Up to your waist.’
Dan could hear the challenge and tenderness in Jo’s voice. His scalp prickled. He pulled up his skirt, bunching it up around his waist, displaying himself.
The room was silent. He felt dozens of eyes on his exposed body. He knew that, even through his stockings, they would be able to see the latticework of red slashes and dark bruises on the front and back of his thighs. His crotch ached.
‘Pull down your knickers so that we can get a proper look.’ Jo let go of his lead.
He slid his French knickers down to his ankles. Though his gaff covered his crotch, he had never felt more naked. He could hardly breathe.
‘Now turn round and bend over.’
Dan instantly obeyed, bending over and resting his hands on his shins. He’d never felt so alive. He was absolutely ashamed yet at the same time his heart burst with pride and satisfaction. He was Jo’s slave. She had marked his body and everyone knew it. Endorphins exploded around his body. His legs trembled.
Jo ordered him to pull up his knickers. They went through to the buffet in the kitchen and loaded their plates with food.
‘What are those things Sally’s subs were wearing?’
‘They’re called CB2000s – they’re a kind of chastity device.’ Jo smiled. ‘You look horrified. Don’t you like the idea?’
‘I like the theory. The idea that you’re in charge of my body so completely that you can deny me access to my own cock is very appealing. And you’re already in control of whether or not I can come anyway. But actually locking it away . . . it seems a bit cruel.’
Jo tugged on his lead and led him through the crowd. ‘But you like it when I’m cruel . . . There’s someone over there trying to attract your attention.’ Jo pointed across the room.
Dan looked up and saw Master Nick and Madame Cyn waving at him. Dan moved to approach them but his leash held him back. He shrugged in apology and waited for Jo to lead him across the room.
‘Don’t you look lovely, Dan? I hardly recognised you.’ Cyn looked him up and down.
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‘Thanks.’ Dan couldn’t help feeling pleased by the compliment even though his cheeks were burning with embarrassment. ‘I’m rather growing to like it, actually.’
Nick laughed. ‘You’ve reminded me of something the body piercer said to me when I got my Prince Albert: “One more of us, one less of them” . . . you’re one of us now, Dan.’
After they’d eaten they went upstairs to a room Sally referred to as “the dungeon” even though it was situated in the loft. The room was painted black and dimly lit. There was a huge metal rack on one wall from which hung a frightening array of whips and other implements of torture. Dan’s heart raced.
In the middle of the room stood a whipping bench. Beside it there was a suspension rig, with a leather hammock affair and other hanging straps for legs and feet.
A naked woman was lying in the hammock, her wrists suspended above her head and her legs spread by two leather straps under her knees. She was being fisted by a shaven-headed man in motorcycle boots and a leather kilt. The front of his kilt was tented by his erection and his greased arm shone in the light. She lay there with her eyes closed as if in a trance. As they walked behind the hammock Dan realised that the man was fisting her in the arse.
Dan’s armpits prickled with sweat. The gaff held his stiffening erection in its elastic grip.
At the opposite end of the room there was a man in stockings, suspenders, high heels and nothing else tied to a St Andrew’s cross. Beside him, a woman dressed in a long leather skirt with a thigh-revealing slit up the front and corset stood holding a multi-tailed whip. She was whisking it in circles, barely brushing his skin. Nevertheless, his body was rigid with tension and excitement and he had the beginnings of an erection.
Dan imagined himself in the man’s place, his body trembling and his cock erect as he waited for the lash.
The woman had long red hair that reached almost to her waist. She wore the heavy black make-up of the Goth and bore a complicated tattoo on her upper arm and shoulder. As she raised her arm to wield the whip Dan noticed that there was a big dildo sticking out through the slit at the front of her skirt. Purple and as thick as her wrist, it pointed upwards in an exaggerated arc in parody of an erection.
‘I’m glad yours isn’t as big as that,’ he whispered to Jo.
She laughed softly. ‘I’ve got more than one, you know . . .’
The woman brought the flogger down across the man’s buttocks. His body jerked against the cross and he let out a deep appreciative groan. She brought the whip down over and over again across his buttocks. The tails landed with a sort of soft whoosh rather than the sharp crack of a whip, but the man’s response told Dan they were no less painful.
Dan could barely breathe. His trapped erection pumped with heat and blood. Confined inside his underwear, the sensation was tantalising and exciting in equal measure. Jo tugged on his lead and they moved on.
The room was filled with the sound of moaning, heavy breathing and creaking leather. A naked girl had been buckled to the whipping bench and a woman in a Morticia Addams dress and a long black wig was thrashing her with what looked like a tawse.
The onlookers were mostly silent, whispering close to each other’s ears when they wanted to speak, as if they didn’t want to break the spell. There was a man in leather chaps and an upper-body harness watching the whipping. Kneeling in front of him was a female slave clad only in a leather G-string eagerly sucking his erect cock.
Leather slapped against flesh. On the whipping bench it was a deeper thud as the tawse made contact with the girl’s naked arse. Dan could see broad scarlet stripes forming on her pale skin and he could almost feel the stinging kiss of the tawse. The girl rocked her hips and he saw her shaven pussy peeking out beneath the globes of her bottom.
The woman on the sling had begun to scream. Dan turned to look and saw that her partner was fingering her clit with his free hand. She was clearly coming, her body thrashing uselessly as the sling creaked and swung. When she finally stopped wailing the man slid out his hand and parted his kilt to reveal his erection. He grabbed her thighs and swung the hammock towards him, embedding his cock in her. Dan couldn’t see which hole he had put it in but he hoped it was her arse.
The slave on the cross was standing with his head bowed as he received his whipping. He seemed to be lost in his own world; subspace Dan knew it was called, a territory of pain, surrender and ecstasy. His buttocks were crimson with patches of dark bruising already beginning to appear.
Dan turned to speak to Jo but she put her hands on his waist and pulled his body hard against hers. She began to kiss him, her mouth hot and wet and hungry. He could feel her breasts pressing against his body. He could feel her heart beating against his.
At the end of the evening they drove home in silence, both of them knowing what was going to happen the moment they were behind closed doors. Back at her flat she led Dan along the corridor and opened a door he had never noticed before. It led to a steep stone staircase. Their high heels echoed as they climbed and the air smelled strange; damp and old with a faint edge of decay.
At the top of the stairs was a locked oak door. Jo retrieved an enormous bunch of keys from a hook on the wall and unlocked the door. She lifted the latch and it opened with a melodramatic creak. Behind the door was a small stone lobby and another door. The lobby was about six feet square with a single window which was barely more than a slit. The floor and walls were crudely carved from stone blocks.
Jo fiddled with the bunch of keys. She opened the door and Dan followed her inside. The room was circular and, in the centre, stood an enormous stone plinth with a carved wooden box resting on it.
The rest of the room was completely plain, carved from rough stone blocks. High up in the wall, at least eight feet from the ground, there were small rectangular windows which let in light.
‘I had no idea this was here. It’s fantastic.’ Dan’s voice echoed.
‘Isn’t it? It’s called a muniment room. In Tudor times they kept their valuables in here.’ She went over and closed the door. ‘I tend to use it for a rather different purpose, however.’ She walked back over to Dan and lifted the lid of the wooden box. ‘This is a quirt.’ She laid a plaited leather whip on the stone plinth.
It was about eighteen inches long with two flat six-inch tails protruding from its tip. Blood rushed to his head. ‘It looks . . . serious.’ He reached out a finger and touched the handle.
‘It’s my favourite type of whip. This particular one is a twelve-plait kangaroo quirt with lead shot in the shaft to give it weight. These two tongues –’ she pointed at the tails ‘– are the business end. It’s not quite as stinging as a single-tail whip, but has less thud than a tawse or a paddle. I’m certain you’ll enjoy it.’ Jo picked up the wooden box and put it down on the floor. ‘Pull down your knickers and bend over this.’
Dan stepped up to the plinth. He pulled his French knickers down to his ankles and leaned across the stone. It was cold and rough against his skin. He laid the front of his body flat across the plinth and turned his face to the side, pressing his cheek against the stone. The musty scent of decay filled his nostrils.
The sound of his excited breathing echoed around the bare room. His cock was already half hard, trapped and uncomfortable inside his gaff. Jo lifted the back of his skirt, uncovering his naked arse.
He waited. He could hear her heels clip-clopping against the stone floor. An insistent beat of arousal thumped in his groin. He closed his eyes. He felt the soft tips of the quirt trailing over his naked arse. He shivered.
‘You look quite beautiful like that. Sort of vulnerable . . . lying there all naked and expectant . . . utterly at my mercy. Somehow it fills me with tenderness and it almost seems too cruel to beat you.’ The quirt tails teased the crack of his arse. ‘Almost . . . but not quite.’
Dan heard a short breathy sound like someone exhaling hard. It was immediately followed by a stinging moment of agony as the quirt made contact with his buttocks.
His body jerked forwards, banging the front of his legs against the plinth.
The quirt delivered a focused sting which burned for a second and instantly dissolved into delicious pleasure. Jo gave him half a dozen strokes in quick succession. Dan’s body slammed forwards against the cold hard stone over and over again. Beneath his female clothes he’d begun to sweat and his wig felt itchy and uncomfortable. He pulled it off and dropped it onto the plinth. His arse was on fire.
Jo made a little guttural grunt each time she brought the whip down. He imagined that she, too, had grown hot and uncomfortable. He pictured her chest gleaming with sweat as she raised the quirt.
Jo brought the whip down across the top of his thighs and he cried out. Somehow the flesh there was more sensitive. She laid her free hand on the small of his back, holding him down, and thrashed his thighs with the quirt.
He held onto the edge of the stone, bracing himself. He felt overloaded with sensory input, sharp stinging pain, heat and tingling pleasure. He couldn’t separate the individual components. All he knew was that his body was alive with intense wonderful sensation.
His cock was fully hard in its elastic confinement, straining against the strong material. The smell of his own sweat mingled with the musty aroma of the stone. He gripped the edge of the plinth, his back arched and his bottom raised for the quirt.
She whipped him hard. Dan knew that his pale skin would be embroidered with cruel raised red slashes. There might even be patches of purple bruises by now. He imagined Jo admiring her work as she wielded the whip, deciding that the pattern would look better if she lashed him in a particular spot.
A stroke landed across the centre of both buttocks. The sting took Dan’s breath away, and almost immediately he felt an electric jolt of incredible pleasure in the same spot. A wave of heat and exhilaration crashed over him. His cock ached.
Jo whipped him savagely with the quirt. Her arm must ache by now and the exertion had probably made her sweat. Dan imagined the front of her hair coming loose and falling over her face as she lashed his arse.
A Talent for Surrender Page 22
