The Red Collection

by Portia Da Costa

  Somewhere in the back of my drifting mind, I hear the receptionist saying, ‘There’s a bit of a do on … somebody’s birthday … but you’re welcome to join in.’

  ‘Come on, let’s play with our toy, shall we?’ she says brightly, her expert fingers administering just the delicious, detailed and delightful handling to Robert’s equipment that I’m currently denied.

  ‘You play with him, my dear,’ says Robert, clearly appreciating her attentions. His even teeth look very white in his broad face as he smiles a dreamy smile. Giving her one last kiss, he retreats to the large chintz chair, from which he has a perfect view of my dangling, exhibited body.

  As he spreads his long, solid legs and gets comfortable, he unzips his flies to reveal a truly enormous tool. Strapped up the way I am, I feel as if I’m more huge than I’ve ever been in my life, but next to that rosy, gleaming colossus, my own cock seems almost rudimentary.

  He gives me that age-old macho smile of ‘mine’s the biggest’ and promptly begins to stroke it to make it bigger.

  My own cock feels like lead.

  Mozart plays on.

  ‘So, Jason,’ breathes Maria, suddenly in my face again, all glorious breasts, long sinuous legs and miraculous, confident femininity. I remember sleeping with her more than once, and enjoying that fabulous body. But right now I’d be in heaven if she’d just let me kiss her shoes.

  ‘So, Jason,’ she repeats, tilting her golden head, almost Medusa-like as she prowls around me, ‘I guess you’re wondering how we find ourselves together again like this?’

  I nod. Even though I don’t care what’s brought me to this place and this strange condition.

  ‘Pure chance, in the beginning. I would never have expected you to turn up here,’ she admits, taking one of my nipples between her prettily manicured fingers. She pinches me – hard – and, as I writhe, I watch the blood turn my teat to exactly the same colour as her nail polish. ‘But after that … design, my dear. Design. And desire.’ She tweaks both nipples now and twists them this way and that, dragging them away from the wall of my chest and making me gobble and bubble behind my gag in a suppressed howl of anguish. I toss my head from side to side, and my cock tries to leap in its bonds, to no avail.

  She smiles, both beauty and cruelty personified.

  ‘The people who work here at the Waverley are our friends –’ she nods towards her lover, who’s still cheerfully masturbating ‘– and they know my history. You were recognised when you checked in, despite your “new look” and that’s why you were invited to Robert’s party.’

  As she speaks her man’s name, she releases me, and reaches down to cup her crotch as if just the word ‘Robert’ induces an arpeggio of pleasure.

  Maybe it does? As she massages herself, her lips part and she gasps. She must be as excited as I am in her own way.

  ‘I’m not angry with you, Jason. I never was.’ She’s circling again, moving behind me now. I try to swing round but she gives me a light slap on the bottom, which doesn’t hurt, but still makes my shackled cock lurch and jump. ‘It didn’t matter about you not calling me. I’d already made my mind up to leave London and come home –’ she favours Robert – who’s now shifting himself around voluptuously in the plump, padded chair – with an angelic smile ‘– where the heart is … although I didn’t realise that at the time.’

  I should feel disappointed. Broken. Like nothing. But somehow, I’m almost happy. There’s a sense of benediction in my diminishment. A correctness that thrills me and induces a high that’s far more potent than any stupid thing I’ve ever ingested or smoked. I realise now that I’ve always felt bad about the way I treated Maria. It’s bugged me and troubled me and screwed me up. But at last, here in this room, swinging in bondage, I have my chance to put things right with her.

  I feel as if I’m floating. Borne aloft by adrenaline, a sense of my new-found identity, and the delicate bubbling music that plays around us. As Maria’s hands travel skilfully over me, touching, pinching, probing, I almost weep from the intensity of the torment.

  And from the scrutiny of her ever-watching lover …

  Maria works on me. Like the Mistress she most assuredly is …

  I hang like a cur in chains as she puts clamps on my nipples, weights on my balls and plagues my ever-reddening arse with fierce pinches and a fusillade of slaps.

  Eventually, when she can see that I’m half off my head, she kisses me tenderly, then abandons me in favour of her beloved Robert.

  Still facing me, and making me look at her despite my pathetic state, she sits in his lap, hitching up her skirt, pulling aside her knickers, and lowering herself slowly and with great deliberation onto his cock. Her big blue eyes nearly start out of her head as she seems to sink and sink and sink onto that massive edifice, then they close as she leans back and his hands slide around her body to caress her. I moan again, behind my gag, at the sight of his long, flexing forefinger working industriously where I’m no longer deemed worthy to touch. Amongst the sweet, silky curls of Maria’s pussy.

  It doesn’t take long. After just a few moments, her spine stiffens, her legs kick, and she arches back against the substantial, supporting form of her lover, then cries, ‘Bobby! Oh, my Bobby!’ as she contorts and climaxes.

  My eyes swim again, but not with sorrow. I’m excluded, but at the same time included. They won’t let me come, yet I’m still part of their pleasure …

  And even more so, a short while later, when a glowing, dishevelled Maria rises like a debauched empress from Robert’s lap, and reveals him to be still erect. While she releases me from my bonds – both greater and more intimate – it slowly dawns on me what my next function is to be.

  I’m elevated from inert toy to active participant as I crawl on hands and knees towards the big man in the fussy, chintzy chair, crouch before him, and open my mouth as he sinks his hands into my hair and directs my face towards his crotch.

  He guides my head. He makes me take him deep and I almost gag. But there’s a special sweetness in the taste of her upon him, and an even greater joy as gentle fingers reach beneath me and play a delicate, loving tune upon my own cock.

  Somewhere in the background, a lilting, precisely bowed violin is playing too. A stately yet cheerful air, composed by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the well-known fetishist and brilliant musical prodigy.

  With a happy, muffled, gulping groan, I both come and am copiously come into.

  Public Domain

  BREATHING DEEPLY, I pause before the door to the Entertainment Chamber. Efficient as ever, Cicero steps forwards to open it for me. Not for the first time, I admire the sight of his deliciously taut buttocks, and the way they roll and tense enticingly beneath the skintight leather of his trousers as he moves. My fingers itch to reach out and give his firm flesh a squeeze, or even a pinch, but I distract myself by flicking out my fan.

  Propelled by his strong arm, the door swings smoothly open, and as he steps back to let me pass, I swear he winks at me. A second later, his face is a picture of innocence.

  Oh, but my Cicero is a prime specimen!

  My tall dark companion is the perfect body servant. He has the face of an angel, he keeps himself in supreme condition and he knows what I want before I know it myself. Hiding a smile, I congratulate myself for having selected him. It helps, of course, when one’s mother is the Matriarch of all the Islands, and one always gets first pick of the annual crop up from the farms.

  My heavy-figured satin skirts swish around my thighs and bottom as I sweep into the room, and I imagine Cicero, behind me, dreaming of what’s beneath them. He’s as familiar with my nether regions as he is with his own, even if it’s not really his place to lust after them without my permission. His daily duties include washing every part of me, anointing my body with oils and perfumes and then dressing me from the skin outwards. And as he’s a man, my sex must be ever in his thoughts even if tradition decrees it’s not supposed to be …

  The Entertainment Room appears s
mall and intimate, the walls hung with rich tapestries, the lighting warm, the air perfumed with aphrodisiac spices. On the ceiling there’s a painted fresco of muscular males toiling naked in a field, their sweating flesh so realistic that one can almost feel the heat of it. Several of my fellow mistresses are already here, lounging on their couches, their body servants just inches away and, as ever, I wonder just who it was who originally decreed that entertainments like this are to be part of public domain. I’ve asked my mother more than once, and she says she doesn’t know either. But it’s tradition, and the Matriarchy is big on tradition.

  Cicero helps me on to my velvet-upholstered couch, and then decorously arranges my many-layered skirts across my knees and ankles. I say decorously, but in the process he manages to touch me several times, his fingers hot but gentle on my bare skin. With each contact a surge of delicious power arrows upwards and sets a light between my thighs.

  Carefully schooling my rising excitement, I affect the same mask of boredom and ennui as the other mistresses. And that’s another thing. When did it become the fashion, then the custom, to find coupling with a strong and well-set-up male tedious? I know it’s a tradition, but to me it seems a delightful one. Is there something wrong with me that I still look forward to a tumble?

  But just look at them …

  Mistress Layla and her Liam.

  Mistress Tanya and her Timon.

  Mistress Rosa and her Ryan.

  They all look weary and as if they were being seriously inconvenienced. Anyone would think this was a council meeting about the trading figures for meat or metals or wheat, and yet for me the sexual tension makes my loins tingle. As I attempt to settle myself more comfortably, Cicero readjusts my skirts. Other mistresses continue to file in and take their places, and all the while he’s caressing my skin with slow light touches.

  The last of our number to arrive is Mistress Jenna and her body servant James and, leaning towards him, I sigh for Cicero’s ears only. He makes a show of fussing with my hem and gives my calf a delicate squeeze of reassurance.

  Hopefully their performance today will be better than usual. I don’t hold out much hope, but perhaps we’ll all be pleasantly surprised by some original thinking.

  Jenna is beautiful, tall and blonde and willowy, imperiously dramatic in a royal-blue gown – but of all of us she has the least enthusiasm for these proceedings. Her James has an excellent body and very fine genitalia, but I always feel that his mistress never really shows him off to his best advantage. Their performances lack ‘spark’ and originality somehow, even though the sight of any kind of sexual congress always stirs me.

  ‘Good evening, Cerise, how are you?’ Jenna’s voice is brittle as she catches my eye. Have I revealed my low opinion of her in my expression? Or perhaps she detects my wish that either she, or someone else, would show some daring?

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, my friend,’ I reply, giving her a bright smile, ‘and looking forward to your pleasure. James is looking in particularly fine fettle today.’

  ‘Which he is, as ever.’ Her tone is curt and defensive and she gives me a narrow look, her eyes flicking enviously to Cicero at my side. My man is the acknowledged prize amongst the body servants in our assembly. ‘Your Cicero is looking well too. Has he put on a little weight?’

  Aha, trying to belittle my beloved stallion!

  ‘Why, yes indeed he has. He’s been following a new exercise routine, a most rigorous one. Designed to increase muscle mass and stamina.’

  She makes a harrumphing noise. Score a point to me.

  ‘Attend me,’ she snaps to James, who hurries forwards.

  He removes his clothes, which naturally aren’t many. First he kicks off his boots, and then he unbuckles his trousers. A second later, he’s stepping out of them, nude, but for his collar of servitude.

  His penis rears up eagerly, ready to perform, and I eye it critically, ever the connoisseur.

  He’s big, but not as big as my Cicero. Not one of the body servants around this circle possesses either his length or his girth. But that doesn’t prevent me appreciating the charms of other males. Especially when that male takes his meat in his fist and begins to work it to a sturdier, stiffer erection with considerable enthusiasm. Perhaps we’re going to see something special after all?

  ‘Hurry up! Don’t take all day!’ instructs Jenna, leaning back on her couch, making no effort to hide the fact that she wants this to be over quickly. What a spoilsport! Me, I’d much rather see an extended performance. Something that’s wild and energetic and sweaty. Something that’s intricate, luscious and unusual. For a moment, I take my eyes from the couple before me and glance at the real man who’s standing so close to me that his leather-clad thigh is actually pressed tight against my bare ankle where my gown has slid aside. He’s dutifully staring at his polished boot toes as decorum decrees, but as if he’s sensed my scrutiny, he turns, ever so slightly, and catches my eye.

  There’s the faintest superior smile upon his sculpted lips.

  You devil! I think.

  The rules of our society say that it’s not his place to judge a mistress or even her servant, but Cicero is ever the uncommon one, and not just in the physical perfection of his body. Only he and I know how much he breaks the mould.

  His erection brought to full stand, James reaches reverently for his lady’s gown and folds it neatly out of the way. Beneath it, her loins are clad in an elaborate undergarment of ruched lace and silk and Jenna tuts and sighs, rolling her eyes in exasperation as her man removes it. His movements are deft enough, but she finds fault all the same. When her underwear is removed and set aside, she appears, to my eyes, completely unaroused – despite the presence of a fully erect male member barely inches away from her niche.

  Indolently, Jenna nods, and James moves obediently to help her into position – adjusting her hips, parting her thighs and then slipping his hand between them.

  He rubs. He fondles. He fiddles. And yet still she seems disinterested.

  ‘Use the lotion,’ she instructs, sighing again and taking a long swig from the glass of wine at her side.

  I glance again at Cicero, and there’s still that little smirk playing around his generous red lips. He never has to use the lotion on me.

  ‘May I pour you some wine, mistress?’ he asks softly, as a distractionary tactic. It wouldn’t do for my fellow mistresses to get wind of his secret insubordination.

  Or would it?

  A tantalising idea forms in my mind. Something so outrageous that it whips through my imagination like a forest fire, so vivid that I fancy Cicero himself might be able to see it. As he pours a measure of ruby wine into my goblet and hands it to me, his great head cocks on one side a little, and his brown eyes twinkle. Out of sight of the other mistresses, an expression of pure devilment and wonder flashes across his handsome features.

  Do we dare, he seems to say, and in answer I nod. The wine suddenly tastes twice as sweet as I sip and scheme.

  Meanwhile back at Jenna and James, the blond man is coating his fingers with the rich scented herb-laden lotion, preparing to anoint her diffident flesh with it. Huffing and puffing, she hitches her bottom along the couch, every action exhibiting impatience and boredom.

  Oh, poor Jenna, I think suddenly, feeling pity.

  To give James credit, he applies himself with unstinting diligence. Gently massaging, circling, flicking. Jenna’s lips tighten as if she’s actually resisting the sensations he’s seeking to induce, but I can barely keep my pelvis still, imagining I’m being fondled in her place.

  I lounge back further on my couch, tweaking and fluffing at my skirts as a cover for the fact that I’m pressing my calf against Cicero’s magnificent leather-clad haunches. Through narrowed eyes, I study his hands, clasped loosely behind his back, and imagine those fabulous fingers playing my sex.

  He’s a virtuoso with those divine digits of his, instinctively seeking out the most responsive and fugitive of sensitivity zones. Pressure
. Speed. Angle. He employs subtle variations of all, divinely orchestrated. Even while James perseveres with his unresponsive mistress, my own sex quickens and trembles, just at the thought of the same caress at Cicero’s hand.

  I glance around at the other mistresses. A little interest is beginning to stir in some of them, I can tell. Which makes me wonder whether I’m quite so different after all? Who knows what goes in the secret privacy of all their residences?

  Perhaps Jenna is the only one of us who finds coupling a bore?

  And even she is beginning to stir now, thanks to the industrious James. Her narrow hips are shifting now, hitching to and fro on her couch.

  ‘Mount me, you fool!’ she cries suddenly. ‘I’m ready now!’

  So am I, I murmur in silence, aiming my words at the back of Cicero’s strong, dark head.

  James obeys. And we all gasp when he takes her firmly by the hips and pulls her into position. Precious little deference now, and only the most cursory mumbled words to ask permission. He almost shoves her on to his penis, and thrusts in hard.

  Well done, lad! I want to shout. Well done!

  Jenna’s eyes fly wide open, staring, but for once she doesn’t protest.

  As James thrusts, and his pale buttocks clench and tense, all eyes around the circle are on those flexing muscles. I bite my lips as Cicero secretly takes advantage. His warm hand is higher on my leg now, under cover of my many layers of flounced and silken skirts. The tips of his fingers are fire against my skin.

  As James labours on, and Jenna slowly and almost painfully rises to meet him, my own sex gathers and moistens, excitement fizzing. I press myself against the slow, hot pressure of Cicero’s fingertips, surreptitiously adjusting my position to coax him further.

  If only it was our turn. If only we could flee the Chamber, be alone … and be ourselves.

  Eventually a high, clear and strangely abandoned cry signals Jenna’s crisis and, despite my excitement, I feel a sense of relief for James. He has despatched his duties, and is now free to relax and take his own pleasure. Jenna kicks him away from her, and he retreats, his moist and reddened member swinging before him. He snatches a cloth from the adjoining console, retreats behind the couch and ejaculates into it.