Chloe's Contract

by David James

  ‘You have to clean up now,’ she said.

  The taller girl bent down to him and he gently sucked the specks of spunk from her hair.

  ‘And the rest,’ the smaller girl said.

  It was strange how much pleasure he got from drinking his own spunk when it was on the hand of a female who had given him pain, while he found it so difficult to do it if he had brought himself off.

  Her fingers moved back to his cock and the smaller girl sat above him with his head between her thighs and her legs drawn up across his chest. He felt the top of his head nestling into the hollow of her crotch and the warmth and the juice of her cunt seeping into his hair. The taller girl sat on his legs and began to work on his cock, pulling the skin roughly back from his knob, stretching him and forcing the flesh beyond anything he had ever previously experienced. He wanted to scream for her to stop, but he could not and did not really want her to - the pain was, incredibly, bringing his cock back to life. It was swelling and already beginning to weep a little pre-cum as his pleasure in his agony grew.

  She twisted and pulled and whispered, ‘Three thousand baht?’

  He nodded - he would have gladly paid three hundred thousand had he had it.

  The exquisite and almost unbearable pain continued as she pulled, caressed and roughly dragged the skin of his shaft backwards and forwards over his knob end, and expertly milked him of every last drop of spunk, once again forcing him to lick her fingers clean. He collapsed, totally exhausted as they put on their wraps and with a smile, took three thousand baht notes from his wallet on their way out.

  Soon afterwards he and Anne, amicably, decided to part. The children were at college and there was really nothing that was keeping them together. Her career had blossomed and she was a partner in a small but rapidly growing accountancy practice. Although they were polite, discussed things sensibly and did not have furious rows, they were distant and uninvolved, neither knowing what the other really wanted. He had suspected that Anne might be having an affair for some time but if it were true he was not involved enough with her to care.

  Anne had always taken care of the finances and he was surprised to find they were much more comfortable than he had imagined.

  ‘There’s enough for each of us to have our own flat,’ she told him. ‘I have sorted out where I want to go and I think you might find this convenient.’ She passed him an estate agent’s leaflet of a new apartment near the town centre. The price took his breath away.

  ‘I can’t afford this.’

  ‘You can,’ she replied, ‘and there will be enough over to furnish and give you some spending money. You are earning enough for anything else you want because I can pay cash for it if you like it.’

  ‘I like it.’ He felt that an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he assumed that she felt very much the same.

  Anne moved out immediately. ‘Here’s my phone number. Call me if there are any complications. My office will handle all the settlement paperwork and the purchase.’

  He moved into the new apartment five weeks later, was divorced within six months, and was happy.

  He was able to collect the corsets, suspender belts, stockings and other fetish clothes that thrilled him and he had longed for without worrying whether he would be found out, and he could indulge in dressing up, torturing himself and masturbating to his heart’s content. And although he frequented pubs, bars and clubs, he was not sure enough of what he really wanted to get involved with any individuals, organisations or groups that had any aspirations to matchmaking. He went out with one or two of the women that worked for him. They were looking for husbands, or at least something permanent, but he did not want another relationship like his first marriage and he certainly met no one who had the strength of character or forcefulness that he knew he needed.

  A year later he telephoned the 07 number and made the appointment that would change his life.

  Chapter Four

  The vaguely familiar face he had seen entering the block of flats where Mistress Amanda had her penthouse apartment worried him for a few days, but he soon forgot it, immersed as he was in his work and fantasies about his Mistress. He knew he was required to contact her again in exactly one week, and although it was a direct instruction he dared not disobey, he desperately wanted to telephone her several times each day. It was not fear of punishment that prevented him making the call. He now knew that he would welcome any penalty however painful, but the few hours he had spent with her had triggered not just a deep desire but an inner need to do exactly as she wanted.

  He tried to get back to his ‘normal’ life - at least the normal life he had led since his marriage had been dissolved. Being able to dress up in style in private was a totally new experience, and even after a year he had not tired of putting on tights and a silk top with high-heeled shoes and settling in front of the television with his hand inside the elasticised top of the tights, caressing his cock. Occasionally he would bring out the corselet and wear stockings so that he was free to tie and twist his cock before he smothered himself luxuriously in baby oil and slowly brought himself off. He had experimented with clamps on his balls and cock, but it was his nipples that gave him the greatest pleasure and he discovered an immense variety of ways in which he could emulate the changing tensions and pressure of an external force. The long, slow and agonising stretch of his nipples, the serrated clips biting into the flesh as he lay back on his bed with taught elastic bands stretching the clips up to the bedposts was one way of applying the gradually increasing and excruciating pain he craved. Another was to attach the elastic bands to opposite sides of a leather collar, snugly fitted around his neck. As his back arched and his head moved in response to the ripples of pain, his nipples were tugged unmercifully in unexpected directions and with unexpected wrenches.

  He also had time to learn the art of building and controlling his inner spasms before he climaxed, and hold back the ejaculation so he could prolong the pleasure. He found that he was able to exercise control by concentrating on the fact that his pleasure would end if he allowed himself to release the jets of spunk that he longed to feel arcing into the air and spreading hot and sticky onto his belly and chest. As he began to reach a climax he would stop the stimulation and spend time finding more imaginative and complicated ways in which he could extend his pain. They were techniques that would stand him in good stead.

  At work he was more relaxed with his staff and content in his day-to-day activity. The result was promotion and increased responsibilities, overseeing the whole of an increasingly successful women’s-wear department.

  But it was not enough; the feeling of being unfulfilled persisted. He knew that, underneath, he was not a person who was dominant; he wanted to be dominated, he wanted to serve someone who would appreciate his service. His instinct was to serve for servings own sake and for the sake of the woman he served. He wanted a woman who really wanted and would appreciate that service; a woman who would demand his service. For all these reasons he was reluctant to, as he saw it then, ‘employ’ a professional Mistress, but he was to learn that a ‘professional’ would prove to be the route to that experience he craved.

  In the meantime he discovered on the Internet a club in North London that advertised as being a centre for submissive/dominants. There was, apparently, no shortage of submissive, single male candidates, but he persuaded the administrators that he was genuine and was allowed a visitors pass. That first evening, with his heart in his throat, he stumbled down the dark stairs to the bar. He was early and the large cellar looked surprisingly normal in the dim light, but he soon spotted several transsexuals in full regalia. Almost everyone was younger than he was and wore their fetish as a badge of honour, flaunting their sexuality in a way that he longed to but could neither appreciate nor understand. It thrilled him, but finally he realised his problem was his difficulty in identifying with any particular fetish or theme. He
knew that leather, latex, rubber, shoes, underwear and the rest were all fixations which could turn people on, but he was focused on pain - the rest was trapping.

  They were a friendly crowd, totally relaxed and on that first night he almost climaxed as a young, well-built and handsome man hung from the ceiling, his feet only just touching the floor, was thrashed with a coarse cat o’ nine tails while he writhed in agony. The Dominatrix dispatching the punishment clearly enjoyed the experience. She swung her bare arm with vigour, her leather-encased breasts heaving with the effort of bringing the lash harshly down time and time again across his back. And there was no doubt that the young man was thrilled in his agony. His screams were locked in his throat as he writhed beneath the whip and his eyes watered as deep weals were raised across his back. He was virtually naked except for a pair of skimpy rubber panties that shaped his buttocks and undulated as his testicles swelled and his cock hardened. His tormentor stopped occasionally between lashes to move to his front to lightly stroke the twisted bulge coiled and writhing between his legs. But the break from the torment was short and she soon returned to lift the lash and swat it down across his back.

  She was magnificent in her high-heeled black leather boots, tightly laced Basque and crotch-hugging black tanga, and he wanted to shout that he was ready to undergo a similar torment to prove his love and loyalty to her.

  When her victim’s back was reddened and striped by the lash, she peeled the leather cups encasing her breasts down allowing them to spring free, the nipples swollen and hard. She moved up close to his back and razed her nipples harshly across the deep weals. He arched in agony as the already raging pain was fired by the coarse caress of her thick nipples. He wanted to strip and offer himself to her but he was not yet ready to bare either his soul or his back in public - although this was soon to be a revelation he actively sought and desired.

  The Mistress reached around her captive from behind and eased her leather-clad thumbs into the tight rubber panties and rolled them down so that they formed a tight stricture around his thighs, holding them tight together and acting as a support for his buttocks, which swelled out above them. He moaned with a mixture of desire and fear as she stepped back and began to thrash the swollen cheeks. The rhythmic hiss and crack of the lash throbbed in his brain as he imagined himself hung, helpless and at her mercy.

  He was sitting on a padded bench and he pressed himself against the coarse plaster of the cellar wall, writhing his hips - partly to ease the discomfort of his straining cock and partly as a direct response to the scene before him. He wanted desperately to either take part or be forced into taking part. He slipped his hand inside his trouser pocket and began to caress his cock. The cotton fabric rubbed roughly at the tender skin of his knob and he instantly began to feel the familiar, deep-seated tremors rise through his loins. He looked around, cautiously wondering whether he could come into his Y-fronts without anyone noticing, and saw that he was not alone. Both men and women were being turned on by the performance and were carefully stroking and pleasuring themselves or their partners. Two couples, black clad and leather booted, were kissing deeply with their hands embedded in the crotch of the other. The scent of sex and pain was in the air and all those present were engrossed in their personal pleasure, whether with a partner or in a world of their own. He took his hand out of his pocket, filled his palm with saliva and slipped it underneath the waistband of his trousers and pants and began to caress his cock. Not being able to move his hand freely enough he loosened his belt and undid the top button of this trousers. With his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the fantastic scene of flagellation in front of him he could feel his spunk rising as he hammered and twisted his spittle-oiled cock.

  A woman moved along the bench towards him, her eyes fixed on the bulge and movement between his legs. She was dark, rather plain but with large, pendulous and braless breasts underneath a skimpy top, and with a short leather skirt that just covered the tops of her stockings. She slid along the banquette and he caught a white flash of naked flesh between the top of her stockings and her silk French knickers. As she got close to him she twisted the knickers aside and parted her thighs revealing thick black coils of springy hair that spread from the intimate crease between her legs up almost to her belly button. He was transfixed, his attention distracted from the stripes still being raised on the bottom of the victim strung up in the middle of the cellar. He had never imagined such a riveting thickness of hair so densely springing from between any woman’s thighs. And he was transfixed by the pink slit that gleamed wetly at the centre of the thatch. She leaned towards him and said, huskily, ‘I know what you need.’

  She reached out and grabbed a handful of his hair and forced him to turn away from the spectacle that was vying for his attention. ‘Enjoy,’ she smiled, and pulled his head down painfully between her legs. He was devastated. He wanted to be crushed between her legs but the position was all wrong. His legs were trapped under the table in front of him and he was twisted awkwardly at the hips so, much as he wanted to bury himself in the fantastic and luxuriant thatch, already slick and soaked with thick secretions that had seeped from the depth of her, he could only just lick the outer surfaces of her labia. She shuffled her bottom further along the banquette, but this only increased the twist at his neck - a twist that became more uncomfortable as she tightened her grip and forced his mouth to her slit. The taste was musty and sour as her juice began to coat his tongue. He desperately wanted to pleasure her, but he just could not get himself in the right position, so she gave up, let him go and slid away into the darkness.

  The ‘show’ was continuing, and now a chubby, rosy cheeked man in a wig of golden curls and a pretty baby frock that would have been all the rage at children’s parties the 1950s, was bending over, showing layers of frilly knickers and being beating with the back of a large hairbrush. It was clear that the beating was not painful, and after a few strokes the Mistress pulled the knickers down and began to beat the ‘little girl’ in earnest. He/she sobbed and real tears ran freely down her cheeks and splashed onto the stone flags. Across the room he could see the woman that had wanted him to pleasure her with her thighs wrapped around the head of another submissive, who had been fortunate enough to be in exactly the right position. He was kneeling on the floor, trapped and gripped by her thighs with his mouth buried deep between her legs, and his head moving frantically as he seemingly attempted to suck her inside out and into his mouth. He gripped his cock in rage. His balls were bursting and he knew he was ready and needed to come.

  A slim blond man noticed him and sat beside him. ‘Don’t worry, just do it,’ he murmured, and calmly took out his cock and began to stroke and stretch it. ‘Just get him out and do it,’ he said as his cock hardened. ‘Really, nobody minds and someone will probably join in with you.’

  It was true; as he unzipped his trousers and slipped his hand inside and under the waistband of his Y-fronts, two men approached and sat down opposite him. They were both in the ‘politically correct’ uniform of the discontented teenager with torn jeans, loose T-shirts and closely shaved heads, but when they spoke their voices were beautifully modulated. He felt his face redden with embarrassment. He wanted female encouragement, preferably painful encouragement, and the active participation of other men was still beyond his experience and understanding.

  It was not to be so for long, but he fled, hurrying across the bar area and clambering up the dark stairway. He was tempted to return, but dialled the 07 number instead.

  Chapter Five

  The week passed slowly and he was rigid with tension as he dialled her number. The slightly Mediterranean voice whispered huskily in his ear.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Chloe.’ He had not realised that he would be expected to have a female name and when she had suggested it at their first meeting he had wanted Sarah, but she would not hear of it.

  ‘Everyone wants to be Sarah,’ she had said. You will be Chloe.’ So
he had already begun to think of himself as Chloe. It was surprisingly easy. He was not sure why but he felt entirely comfortable with the name.

  ‘Be here at three o’clock,’ she said. ‘You may need to be with me for some time.’ He could hardly wait, but during the morning he began to wonder precisely what ‘some time’ meant.

  He arrived with his bag of clothes at exactly three o’clock. He rang the bell, and a few moments later the door was opened by a young woman wearing only a black silk top that just reached to her waist, and a pair of what must have been five-inch patent black leather spiked heeled shoes. She beckoned him in and turned away from him, swinging her beautiful rounded bottom, striped with three horizontal weals, from side to side as she walked ahead of him along the corridor. She showed him into a small changing room.

  ‘I’m Sophie,’ she smiled. ‘Mistress said that you get undressed here and I help prepare you before you present yourself to her,’ she said with a dimpled smile. ‘Just press that bell push and I will come and make the final preparations.’

  ‘Preparations?’ he asked.

  ‘Just relax; you’ll enjoy them and what follows.’

  He struggled in his breast pocket for his wallet, and she anticipated his action. ‘No tribute, today,’ she smiled.

  He had taken off his clothes and she returned just as he was taking out the new silk underwear that he’d travelled to London to buy two days before. She was clearly not wearing a bra underneath the top, and he could see the hard points of her nipples outlined in the shimmering fabric. She took him by the hand. He could not take his eyes off the cleft between her thighs. The clean-shaven mound emphasised the narrow crack that slit the flesh tantalisingly between her thighs. She was quite confident and with a light, shy smile that encouraged him to trust her.