by Wendy Leigh
“Although I was elated, Miranda, you’ll understand that I was also still slightly wary . . .”
Damn right! Wary is your middle name!
“. . . So I did my best to disguise my rising excitement.
“ ‘A new girl, Murray?’ I said, as coolly as I could.
“When I asked for further information, he shook his head.
“ ‘Not one of mine. Not a professional. The real thing. And made for you. Just what you’ve always wanted.’
“Much as I attempted to mask my excitement, Murray was no fool. He had no doubt whatsoever about what his news meant to me. But although he was greedy and saw mile-high dollar signs each time he looked at me, he wasn’t about to lead me up the garden path in every aspect.
“So he put his cards on the table and confessed, ‘Thing is, Mr. Blake, she isn’t mine. And you can probably only have her just the once. But the man who owns her says that any man who has her, even for an hour, will be in bliss.’
“The girl of my dreams, but for only one session only?
“I’m not a vain man, Miranda, but I was younger then, and sure of my appeal to a woman who wanted what I had to offer. Particularly if she wanted to have it as much as I wanted to give it. One session with me, and—owned by some mysterious man or not—I can guarantee that she’ll be mine for life, is what I thought at the time, God forgive me.
“But of course I didn’t say that to Murray.
“ ‘Even a little of what I want ought to be worth having,’ I said, in as casual a voice as I could muster. Then, just to make sure I wouldn’t end up disappointed, I asked, ‘And he is definitely going to send her to you, Murray?’
“ ‘Next Thursday night at ten. She’ll be here, ready and waiting,’ he said confidently.
“ ‘But what about him, the man who owns her?’ I said.
“Murray rolled his eyes.
“ ‘He won’t be here. He wants to send her to me all on her own, just to make the experience of working in a brothel more frightening for her, more humiliating,’ he said.
“ ‘And who is her Master?’ I asked. It was the question I wanted to ask him from the very start but hadn’t, expecting him to volunteer the information.
“He does not.
“ ‘You won’t be disappointed,’ he said, adding, ‘She’ll be exactly what you want, Mr. Blake, I promise you.’
“ ‘And she is?’
“ ‘Pamela, Mr. Blake. Her name is Pamela,’ he said.
“Thursday, the day on which I was due to meet my dream submissive, dawned, but to my irritation I discovered that I had a prior engagement, one that I had arranged with the sole purpose of hiding my true sexual preferences behind the polite, urbane, sophisticated, respectable public facade of Robert Hartwell.
“To that end, on this particular night, I was due to attend the Princess Grace Ball at the Plaza with the Social Register beauty Lucinda Lodge, the heiress whom my mother, long since recovered from my father’s death and now desperate for me to start a family, yearned for me to marry.
“I, of course, had no intention of marrying Lucinda Lodge. How could I, born as I was, consumed by the fever to dominate a woman sexually, forever engraved on my psyche?
“As a result, although I was courteous and attentive to Miss Lodge throughout the evening, the clock was ticking, and I knew my dream submissive would soon be waiting for me, so long before the orchestra played the last dance, I made my apologies to Lucinda and left.
“The traffic on the West Side Highway was thin, and the taxi ferried me to my destination at top speed.
“As we grew closer and closer to Le Château, and I pictured my perfect submissive waiting for me in the dungeon, the blood in my veins started to pound almost uncontrollably.
“When I rang the doorbell of the turn-of-the-century building in which Le Château was housed, I pictured Pamela alone in the dungeon, probably petrified by what her cruel Master had decreed she must suffer and what humiliation was ahead of her now that he had reduced her to the lowly status of a hooker, if only for one night.
“Bought and paid for, in advance.
“Which is why, when Murray opened the door, he was grinning from ear to ear.
“Ten thousand dollars wasn’t a bad payday for him, even though he had to split the money in the usual way: forty percent to him and sixty percent to the girl.
“ ‘She’s already in the dungeon,’ he said, beaming.
“Now, in those days, Miranda, I was not nearly as jaded in my appetites as I am now, and definitely not so demanding or severe.
“So when Murray said, ‘She’s a nice girl, Pamela is. Go easy on her, Mr. Blake,’ he had nothing to worry about.
“Once Murray and I completed our transaction, I walked toward the dungeon, a raging hard-on throbbing insistently between my legs.
“The dungeon, on my instructions, was set up as a schoolroom, complete with desk, blackboard, and more.
“And kneeling in front of the blackboard was Pamela. Pamela, wearing a pale pink laced-up corset, pink fishnet stockings, and pink high-heeled shoes, just as I had requested. Her makeup was subtle, and her long, red hair was in braids.
“So now you know, Miranda, why you—with your red hair—had such an instant effect on me that very first day. Of course, reading your erotic novel had already aroused me immeasurably. But then you know that.
“So this was my first impression of Pamela, the image that would haunt me for years to come.
“A beautiful young girl, all in pink, who was innately submissive, Murray had promised me, and lived to please men, yearned to be punished if she failed one iota, and was grateful for her punishment and enjoyed every minute of it.
“I held out my hand to help her up from the floor.
“Which was when she must have noticed that she was still wearing the gold signet ring on the little finger of her left hand.
“Breaking the mood of our session before it even began, she removed the ring and, in a small voice, asked to be excused for a moment.
“I nodded my assent.
“Handling the ring as carefully as if it were a precious Egyptian artifact, she placed it on the carved dungeon mantelpiece.
“Then our session began in earnest.
“The nature of it will not be a surprise to you, Miranda.
“When the usual headmaster/naughty-pupil scenario reached its natural crescendo, I pinioned Pamela over my knee, held her fast, and spanked her bottom resoundingly.
“And then I caned her. Before each stroke, she raised her bottom up to meet the rod, absorbing the punishment, welcoming it.
“Professional submissives, like the majority of women who sell their favors to men desperate to sample them, are good at faking pleasure, I knew only too well.
“But Pamela wasn’t a professional.
“And as a gambling man, that night I would have bet my entire fortune that her cries were genuine expressions of her ecstasy.
“Afterward, again across my knee, blistered as she was, and sore, when I fingered her she came immediately.
“As to what she did next, she had no equal—apart from you, my darling Miranda.
“She fell to her knees before me and took me in her mouth. Not half of me, not three-quarters, but all of me.
“Stunned by her capacity to take every inch, I pulled away from her and asked her how she had become so highly proficient in the oral arts.
“Instead of replying in the babyish schoolgirl voice she had been using up till then, she answered me spiritedly.
“ ‘An Arab prince taught me. From then on, he always called me “the Sword Swallower,” ’ she said.
“Then she employed her talents on me again.
“The level of my arousal was now volcanic, and when I finally erupted in her mouth she drank in each drop, then cleaned me
diligently afterward.
“I helped her to her feet.
“Then handed her a thousand-dollar tip.
“She backed away from me.
“ ‘No, sir, I did this at the behest of my Master, not for money,’ she said.
“I knew that the man who owned her (for the time being, that was) intended for her to be paid for the session, in order to humiliate her. But I wanted to tip her for a completely different reason. I wanted to thank her. After which I wanted to talk to her and arrange to see her again, somewhere else, not there.
“So I pushed the money on her.
“To my shock she flung it to the floor, burst into floods of tears, and ran out of the dungeon without another word.
“As you know only too well, Miranda, I don’t take kindly to a woman defying me.
“And Pamela’s refusal to take the money I was offering her incensed me beyond belief.
“In a fury, without even a glance toward the den where she was probably sobbing in Murray’s arms, I stormed out of Le Château and into the street, where I hailed a cab, still incandescent with rage.
“By the time I came to my senses and returned to Le Château, it was too late.
“Pamela was gone.”
Chapter Eleven
I toss and turn all night, wracked by thoughts of Pamela. Does Robert still know her? Does he still love her? And does my level of submission live up to hers?
In the end, I give myself a stiff talking-to, banish Pamela from my thoughts, and catch a few hours’ sleep.
I wake up feeling nervous and excited.
Where will Robert take me today?
What will we do together?
And afterward, how will I cope with my third test?
I take a bath, do my hair, and get dressed.
I’m just in the midst of finishing my makeup when there is a knock on the door.
One of the valets with a note, from Robert. As I open the envelope, I catch myself hoping that his note will include another invitation to an elegant social event, a luxury hotel, a casino.
But no, to my disappointment, just the words:
Breakfast at 10.
Dungeon 3 at 11.
Don’t be late.
R.
With it, another box from Bergdorf’s. Inside, a gold lamé satin corset, gold fishnet stockings, a gold Dior gown, and gold lamé Dior stilettos.
I am happy that I’m still so strongly on Robert’s mind that he takes the time to pick out sexy lingerie for me, but I can’t help feeling a fraction disappointed that there is no casino for me today, no lunch at a luxury restaurant. No million-dollar auction.
Nothing.
Just like in Monopoly, I must go straight to jail and not collect two hundred dollars . . .
At breakfast I force down a piece of toast with jelly and a cup of black coffee, but the thought of eating anything else makes me want to throw up.
Ten forty-five and time to make my way to Dungeon 3 to endure whatever fiendish trials Robert has in store for me.
The dungeon door is unlocked.
I slip inside, only to be confronted by the image of myself in the mirrored wall opposite me. In fact, every single wall in the dungeon is mirrored, as are the ceiling, and even the floor.
The only piece of furniture in the dungeon is a massive iron four-poster bed on a platform.
I look around for Robert but don’t see him.
Then I hear his booming, gravelly voice.
“Remove your dress, Miranda,” he says from somewhere or other, but I’m not sure where. I have a sudden vision of the Wizard of Oz emerging from behind the screen and revealing himself. But then I remind myself that the Wizard was a tiny, ineffectual man and his power was just an illusion.
Whereas Robert is a tall, handsome, dashing man whose power is immeasurable.
I quickly follow his orders, take off my dress, and, when I don’t see a closet, place it on the floor in the corner of the dungeon.
Then one of the mirrored walls slides apart, and there is Robert, dressed in black leather pants and a black silk shirt that accentuates his muscular torso.
His masculinity, his swagger, almost takes my breath away and I can’t believe that I even know him, let alone that I’m here with him, and at his invitation.
He clicks his fingers for me to kneel, and I do.
“Today’s test will be far more rigorous than the tests you have undergone before, Miranda,” he says in his authoritative voice, and for a second he morphs into a stern Supreme Court judge, handing down a harsh sentence.
“Today, I plan to test the extent and quality of your obedience. And I warn you that if you fail to obey me to my satisfaction, this will be your last and final test.”
I look up at him, my eyes big with a combination of fear and admiration. Fear of his power, and admiration for the man, his strength, his aura, his godlike manner and appearance.
“There are many ways in which a submissive’s obedience can be tested, Miranda, some simple, some challenging,” he says.
He doesn’t have to tell me which his way is going to be, because it’s obvious to me.
He pauses for a moment, looks me up and down like a slave owner surveying a possible piece of property at an auction, and I start to throb with excitement. His piercing gaze intensifies, and I flush.
“Today, Miranda, I intend to exercise my power as a dominant to use your weaknesses against you,” he says.
What weaknesses? My insecurity? My jealousy of Lady Georgiana? My addiction to chocolate?
“Your impatience, Miranda, your hatred of being made to wait,” he says, and I know at once that I’m in for big trouble. At the same time, I admire his dedication to testing me to the max.
He takes a step toward me, then, in a swift movement, cuffs my hands behind my back so that I am trussed like a chicken, my big breasts more pronounced than ever.
Then he points to the mirrored wall of the dungeon.
“Face the wall. Legs spread, breasts against the mirror,” he says; then he presses a quarter up against the mirrored wall.
“Hold it in place with your forehead, and keep it there,” he says.
I do what he asks and shiver at the coldness of the quarter on my heated brow, and at the vulnerability of my ass and thighs pressed out toward him, and the strain of having to keep the quarter against the wall.
“Let the quarter drop, or move even an inch while you are holding it there, and you’ll suffer serious consequences,” he says, then lounges on the bed and flicks through one of his infernal newspapers as if I didn’t exist.
I concentrate with every cell in my body on not letting the quarter drop from the wall, and on not moving even a fraction, for fear of bringing the full force of Robert’s wrath down on me like a ton of bricks.
Meanwhile, the effort of pressing the quarter against the wall with my forehead, and not moving in the process, is causing me to break out in a cold sweat.
Apart from which, the tension of staying in position is making me wriggle despite myself.
How long does he expect me to stay in this ridiculous position, how long? Minutes go by . . . it feels like hours.
The sheer tedium is starting to make me so furious that, before I can stop myself, I stamp my foot in frustration.
And the quarter immediately falls to the floor with a clatter.
“Not very obedient, are you, Miranda?” Robert says with a sigh.
Then he gets up, comes over to me, picks up the quarter, and puts it in place again.
“You’ve earned yourself an extra ten strokes and another ten minutes,” he says, and I am seriously scared that I won’t be able to cope.
But what choice do I have?
And how to survive without moving?
How to survive without letting the qua
rter fall again and earning another ten strokes?
And more to the point—ten strokes of what?
My face is pressed against the mirror, my mind is reeling, and my eyes cross with the effort of focusing hard enough to keep the coin in place.
“Enjoying this test of your obedience, Miranda?” Robert says suddenly, and the unexpected sound of his voice makes me start. The quarter falls to the floor again.
“Twenty strokes, and another twenty minutes,” he says.
Twenty more minutes? With my mouth pressed against the mirror, my arms behind my back, my breasts pressed hard against the wall, my legs aching, my mind is in turmoil with the effort of concentrating on obeying him.
Obey my Master.
Or fail, and be labeled a fraud and sent away from him forever.
Fifteen minutes later and I am soaked in sweat, dizzy with the effort of what he has demanded of me; then, all of a sudden, he moves close to me.
And abject as I am, terrified as I feel, the heat of his body still arouses me sexually.
He unbuckles my cuffs.
“Drink some water, Miranda. Your ordeal has hardly begun,” he says, handing me a glass.
I gulp down some of it, but the grim expression on his face throws me off-balance.
“Your performance has been decidedly lackluster,” he announces, then goes on: “Your disobedience in dropping the quarter twice, and in wriggling your bottom through most of the test, has earned you . . . let me see . . .”
Damn you, Robert, for putting on a show, for pretending to calculate my punishment when we both know exactly what I’m due.
“Ten strokes for the first infraction. Twenty for the second. And another ten just for wriggling so disobediently,” he goes on.
But I wasn’t disobedient, I wasn’t! I did my best, I want to scream.
But I know that I mustn’t. Talking without permission will only bring me more punishment, and may even lead to my failing this third test.
Three tests, the third not even midway done, and four and five still to come. How shall I ever endure it?
“Over to the desk, Miranda,” he commands.
