Mistress Blackheart

by Francine Whittaker

  Now, leaning with her elbows on the table, Leigh lifted her drink to her lips. Lowering her eyes, her tone grew more serious as she risked the question that had haunted her for years.

  “Why did you take off like that? Your parents - everyone was worried sick. There was a nation-wide hunt for you. As far as I’m aware, you’re still officially listed as a missing person.”

  “No,” Ali reached out and covered her friend’s hand with her own, “I’m not. The hunt was called off when I made contact with the police. They, of course, insisted on putting me in touch with my relatives. We spoke briefly on the phone, and I told them of my decision to travel across Europe.” Ali thought back over her recent past and smiled. “I had no intention of falling in with everyone’s plans for me. I told them that I was never coming back.”

  “So why did you?”

  “I made enquiries. I discovered that my folks had moved away, but you hadn’t. So, here I am.” Leaning forward, Ali ran the back of her finger up Leigh’s arm. “Oh, Leigh, I’ve got so much to tell you, so much I want to teach you.”

  Leigh had never been touched so seductively by another woman, and to her dismay, she rather liked it- in an uncomfortable sort of way, of course. She felt discomfort between her thighs and tried to disguise the fact by shifting in her seat. To add to her troubles, Ali’s lips curved into a knowing smile.

  Fidgeting relentlessly now as she drained her glass, Leigh plonked it down on the table. Strange flutters in her stomach unsettled her further and she withdrew her arm from Ali’s reach.

  Ali’s voice was soft and compelling when she spoke.

  “I bet that pussy of your is twitching. Why don’t you give it what it wants?”

  “Pardon? Did I hear you right?”

  “Go on, Leigh, give it what it wants. Play with yourself.”

  “What, here? Don’t be stupid.” Leigh coloured up at the suggestion and giggled nervously. “I can’t! The landlord’s probably already got it in for us after the things you said. He’ll throw me out if he catches me.”

  Ali flicked her eyes across to the bar, where John was standing with one arm resting on the bar, his eyes fixed on the two girls.

  “No, he won’t. Go on, Leigh. You know you want to. Just slip your finger inside your vagina.”

  “People will see!” Even as she protested, Leigh’s shaky hand delved beneath the hem of her skirt and nudged between her hot thighs.

  “So what? Don’t you like to be watched?”

  Unable to answer for the erratic pulse that had taken up residence in her throat, Leigh drew in a ragged breath. Thankful that she wasn’t wearing panties, she worked her finger between the hot folds of her already moist sex. Nervously, she reached for her empty glass with her free hand, trying to steady herself by gripping the stem tightly, while the finger of her other hand slid in and out of her ever moistening pussy. Slowly, in and out, and again, in and out.

  “Faster, Leigh,” Ali instructed, her smile radiant and her eyes shining with her own lust, “faster.”

  Even as Leigh imagined the outrage of other customers, even as her face turned crimson, her dextrous finger built up speed.

  “Don’t forget your clitoris,” Ali instructed softly, “use your thumb.”

  As her finger continued its agitation of her sweet opening, Leigh’s thumb sought out her hard, throbbing bud. Spirals of exhilaration warmed her insides, setting off all kinds of tingles and twitches as her excitement increased. She knew it was wrong, but it was oh so exciting to play with herself like this, here, in public with her best friend watching.

  “There, that’s so good,” Ali whispered silkily, “you’ll be coming soon. A little more, faster, faster. Are you coming?”

  Leigh bit into her lip and closed her eyes in an effort to hold back the unstoppable cramps. The muscles of her sex clamped tightly around her finger, while every other muscle in her body tensed. She mustn’t come, not here. But oh! Let her come now!

  She threw back her head. And, under the scandalized gaze of the dwindling band of lunchtime customers, Leigh’s orgasm hit with an impact that ripped a muffled cry from her throat.

  ***

  Jurgen fell to his knees. He raised his eyes, pleadingly, as a dog does when watching his owner tuck into a juicy steak.

  Ali stood before him, a formidable woman in a black Basque. Wearing nothing else save her spike-heeled shoes and an exquisite choker of beaded jet, as always, her make-up was as bold as her nature. The shape of her black eyebrows was emphasised at the nose end with pencil, making them appear thicker and giving her a sterner expression. Lined in kohl, her dark eyes, like glittering nuggets of coal, were further emphasised by eye shadow. Not soft, smoky browns or cool blues and mauves, no, Ali preferred more vibrant tones like the deep turquoise she wore today. And her glossed lips were scarlet.

  Quivering with anticipation, Jurgen held up his hand as if in prayer, linking his strong fingers. Lifting her leg to rest her foot on Jurgen’s broad, bare shoulder, without a word, Ali bound his wrists together. She used her preferred cord, similar to that of curtain tie backs. Tying it tightly, she watched him grimace as it bit into his flesh.

  Chapter Three

  Ali’s cruelty continued over the next few days. Now, the cold, stainless steel metal bars, each with a four inch girth, dug into Jurgen’s back. Alone in the darkness, he was spread-eagled against them, his legs stretched wide and his ankles tied by biting cord to the bottom bar. His wrists were also tied, stretched wide and attached above his head. And to make matters worse, his thighs and back had been cruelly marked with angry looking criss-cross weals from Ali’s thin cane. Bruising already stained his abdomen, testifying to the viciousness of Ali’s small fists.

  The pain was agonizing, every breath bringing new waves of rawness, as if someone had kicked him repeatedly from the inside.

  Ali, or ‘Mistress Blackheart’ as she called herself, had left the apartment several hours ago without as much as a goodbye, nor even a mention of when he could expect her home. Not that he’d any right to expect such pleasantries, since she was the mistress and he merely the slave. He hung his head despondently.

  The bitch had done this room out as what she called ‘the playroom’ with all kinds of apparatus, including the wall bars to which he was now secured. Reaching from floor to ceiling with about six inches between them, they took up the entire expanse of one stark, white wall.

  Even the floorboards were glaringly white.

  A flood of humiliation swept over him as Jurgen wondered just what kind of madness kept him from fighting back. Where was the pride, the willpower that had driven him to lift weights during his youth, enabling him to throw off the ‘weakling’ tag of his early years to become a perfect specimen of manhood.

  With a chest as hard as a brick wall and pectorals as big as houses, dignity should be his watchword, not humiliation. As a former holder of the Master of the Globe title, his strength was many times superior to Ali’s; he could easily overpower her, even with one hand tied behind his back and his legs fettered.

  So how was it he was tethered here, like a bull in a stall? If only he could repress the whorls of fevered lust that created the need within him - the need to be utterly dominated by beautiful women.

  His head jerked up as the door crashed open. He screwed up his eyes against the harsh light that flooded the white room, bounced off the stainless steel wall bars and wall racks and threw the black frames of the other apparatus into stark contrast.

  The door banged shut again with a dreadful finality. When his eyes finally adjusted to the light he saw Ali standing just inside the door, her right hand resting on the swell of her hip and a cigar in her left hand.

  “Look at you! Call yourself a man? I’ve seen better specimens than you in bottles.”

  His eyes raked the length of her exquisite, small
boned body. What a sight she was! Again wearing the choker, instead of shoes she wore black leather, thigh-hugging boots, with spiked heels of at least four inches. The Basque was different, too, made of black leather with peepholes that allowed her stiff, dark brown nipples to poke through. She wasn’t wearing panties and he gulped at the sight of the thatch of wiry hair between her thighs and her fleshy, elongated labia, invitingly open and warm.

  “You disgust me!” She opened her legs, a little at first, then wider, then wider still. “I’m the hardest bitch you’ll ever kneel before and you will obey me, even if I have to bind that pathetic little worm between your legs to your balls. What do you say, Jurgen?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “But you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you, slave?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  She took a drag on her cigar. Her nipples stood out like bullets from her upward tilting breasts, and there was a tell-tale trickle making its lazy way down the inside of her thigh.

  “You’ve let me down again- you didn’t prepare my evening meal. It’s not bloody good enough! If you don’t buck up your ideas, I’ll replace you. Do you understand, wimp?”

  Jurgen drew in a long breath. Anger rose at the back of his head and settled over his knitted brows, just as surely as heat rose in his balls. How the hell was he supposed to prepare a meal when the bitch didn’t allow him out to buy groceries? He could hardly cook when he was tied in here for hours on end!

  “Well? I’m waiting. Do you want me to replace you?”

  “No, Mistress.”

  “Then don’t cock up again. From now on, you’ll order everything from the supermarket, online!”

  Just seeing him so helpless made her pulses throb excitedly. To have any man under her control was thrilling, but to have a man as impressively built as Jurgen made the blood dance in her veins and heat flare in her loins. Crazy with the power that flowed through her, her hand slipped from her hip to her sex. She toyed with her pulsating clitoris as she took another drag on her cigar, in an effort to stop her hand from shaking.

  “I’d have gone fucking hungry if it hadn’t been for some businessman I met at the Royal Barge Hotel, who had the good grace to ask me to join him at his table after we’d fucked.”

  Her eyes raked his tethered body with a look that suggested Jurgen was less than half the man of her mysterious dinner companion, and the derisory tone with which she delivered her speech triggered the feral urges that clutched at her insides. She wanted him- but more than that, she wanted to make him suffer, merely for suffering’s sake. It gave her a tremendous thrill to know that she really was a black hearted bitch.

  “I went back to his room afterwards for a quickie.” She narrowed her eyes and almost smiled. “What else could I do, since he was so generous with the Dom Perignon? God! He was so well hung!” She paused to give Jurgen’s magnificent, stirring cock a hungry look, then added sneeringly, “not like that basket of withered fruit that you’re so proud of.”

  Helpless in his bonds, he watched as the bitch rubbed her clitoris. He wanted her so much, he was going crazy; his balls were on fire. He struggled to wrench himself free. His blood pumped wildly, making his cock twitch into semi-hardness. The heart that beat in his massive chest took up a frantic thumping, sending echoes to his pulses that joined in the mad rhythm. He couldn’t stop the low growl that escaped from his throat.

  “So,” she eyed his stiffening phallus with a scornful glance, “you still want me.” She took a long drag on her cigar, then blew out the acrid smoke through sneering lips and watched it curl towards the ceiling.

  The beating of her own heart quickened as she strutted towards him. Her blood swept like lava through her veins as her excitement mounted. She loved the thrill of power that made her insides quake, and knew she’d have to find relief somehow. But she wasn’t about to give Jurgen what he wanted just yet. No, let him wait! After all, she was never without a vibrator close at hand. And that pretty little blonde was due to arrive soon...

  Coming to a halt in front of him, she gyrated her hips lewdly as her finger slipped inside the warmth of her moist vagina. Again she took a drag from her cigar, stared unblinkingly into his eyes, and then blew the smoke directly in his face.

  A sanguine smile lit up her face and her eyes sparkled like the jet of her choker as he began to cough.

  “Poor Jurgen. He really doesn’t like cigars,” she said flicking the ash on his right shoulder, “does he?” She wet her lips with her tongue. The heady mix of sexual agitation and cold superiority threatened to engulf her; she must relieve herself soon, or submit to the hungry cock that reared upward from his groin.

  No way! She was Mistress here - she’d decide when and where they’d fuck.

  Slowly, she withdrew her honey-wreathed fingers and wiped them dismissively on his left shoulder at the same time as she stubbed out the cigar on his right. There was the slightest hint of burning flesh in the air as his body tensed.

  Her thin smile was cruel. The veins in her swanlike neck grew more prominent as she threw back her head, laughing joyously at the contorted look on Jurgen’s face as he tried to bite back a bitter retort.

  “No,” she scoffed, straightening up, “you wouldn’t dare answer me back, you snivelling piece of shit.”

  Without warning, she dealt his iron cock a stinging blow, so viciously that she sent it arcing down to thump the top of his groin before springing upright again. She loved the way it seemed to swell even more.

  “You want to fuck me, don’t you?”

  His words came out as a strangled, “yes, Mistress.”

  “I didn’t hear you”, she snarled, then delivered a resounding slap to his face, which brought her immediate gratification in the form of an instant red glow across his tanned cheek. He was close to coming, and she’d have to time it well if she were to leave the room before that happened. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I want to fuck you, Mistress Blackheart.”

  “Tough! It’s getting late, and I’m expecting a visitor, a sweet little nymphet by the name of Cindy. You’ll have to make do with listening at the keyhole.” She laughed, then said as if it were an afterthought, “oh, but you can’t! You’re a little tied up at the moment. It will be an hour or so before I get time to release you.”

  She sashayed back across the room, swaying her hips provocatively. She could hear him straining at his bonds, hear his grunts and groans as he tried to hold back the inevitable.

  Turning briefly, she said, “incidentally, I brought you back a doggie bag from the hotel - you’ll find half a bread roll and a small piece of Brie. Since you’re unable to eat it just yet, I’ll leave it in the kitchen and you can have it for breakfast while you’re preparing mine.”

  There was a wild, animal cry from deep in his throat as he tugged frenziedly at his bonds as she reached the door. The sound of thick liquid hitting the floor brought a cold smile to her lips as she flicked off the light.

  ***

  Leigh couldn’t sleep. She lay beside her sleeping lover, churning the events of the last few days over in her mind while twirling her hardened nipples between finger and thumb. Inevitably, her mind drifted to her meeting with Ali, and her friend’s outrageous behaviour. What in Heaven’s name had possessed her to speak to John Micklem like that?

  Leigh had been in that particular pub several times before, and had never considered the landlord to be a wimp- she allowed herself a secret smile- nor had her own mother.

  Why hadn’t he stood up to Ali? Except Leigh hadn’t exactly stood up to Ali herself. Always bossy and a bit impertinent, the other day Ali had been nothing less than an arrogant, domineering bitch! Oh, the fun had still been there, but spread so thinly that it was barely there at all, other than as a disguise for something more sinister.

  With her thigh resting against the warm
th of Errol’s, Leigh sighed heavily. Even twirling her cherry-like nipples hadn’t relieved the sexual tension that had been building up inside her all day, gnawing at her insides like a hungry animal. It had started this morning, when Owen had again summoned her to his consulting room. As before, she’d enjoyed teasing him, but his performance hadn’t lived up to expectations. She was sick of his continued threats! And he’d hit her again.

  Deciding it was time to assuage her wantonness, she squirmed around in the bed to adjust her position. Then, sticking her bottom in the air, she dived beneath the bedclothes. Blindly crawling down toward the foot of the bed, barely able to breathe, she found Errol’s foot and flicked out her tongue. As it darted between his toes, the tip of her warm, lascivious tongue brought sleepy grunts of approval to his lips as he woke up slowly.

  Errol Proudfoot was the youngest of the three doctors in the practice, and mouth-wateringly handsome to boot! He was also the only one unmarried and she thought she probably loved him, though somehow his very eligibility dulled her excitement. Anyway, he wanted to keep their relationship quiet for the time being, because he was concerned that the other two doctors would think his behaviour with the young receptionist unprofessional. How little they knew!

  Adjusting her position once more, she took the whole of his big toe into the warm cavern of her mouth, sucking it as diligently as if it were his magnificent organ.

  “Oh, Baby,” the way he whispered the word made it sound long, drawn out and extremely sexy, “you know how to please me.”

  Yes, she knew how to please him, to give him what he wanted. It was only her own needs that confused her. She knew she was an incorrigible flirt, a trait she’d picked up from Ali back in their teens, but these days she found the teasing more exciting than the sex itself. Surely it couldn’t be right to always feel so let down after sex? It wasn’t that she didn’t orgasm - she did, often. It was just, well, her toes never curled and there were never any fireworks in her head.