After Lowly’s session had finished, he had disappeared into the bathroom carrying his clothes and emerged fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and looking ready for the office again.
‘Thank you,’ he’d said with a shy smile, handing over a wedge of folded cash. ‘That was most exhilarating, Mistress. It was exactly what I needed.’
Ah, recognition and reward. One of the career perks I’d never thought about. I felt a glow of pride at his words. To my amazement, he booked in again for the same day and time the next month. My first client had also become my first regular.
Cleaning my dungeon after Lowly had left, I’d wondered what he was thinking during his session; what had really been going on in his capricious, intelligent mind as he’d surrendered himself to pleasurable pain at the hands of a brutal female stranger. Did his employees, or his superiors, suspect for a moment that he had a dark side?
I wonder what they would have done if they’d seen him bent over on the floor wearing the lacy panties, and the thought occurred to me that I wasn’t the only one who was putting myself at risk during these sessions. I might be compromising my security and laying myself open to abuse, but so were my clients.
So were they. And they probably had far more to lose.
The next morning, with the electricity supply thankfully restored, I met my second client. His name was Judge Farah. I had no idea whether this was his real name or his nickname, but it suited him, since the first impression I had when he arrived was of his hawklike features, steel grey hair and imperious bearing, which suggested that he was a man of power and authority.
He pulled up at the gate five minutes early, peering over the steering wheel of a brand new Range Rover. I say ‘peering’ because the one area in which the good Judge was somewhat lacking was height. He was so short that when he stepped into my dungeon and I stood in front of him I could look down at the bald spot in his silver-threaded dark hair and see the medallion dangling from the thick gold chain he wore around his neck.
‘How’s it going?’ he said, shaking my hand with a firm grasp. ‘How’s it going, darling? You’ve got a very nice place. Out in the middle of nowhere, isn’t it? Right out in the countryside, hmm?’ His eyebrows rose as he took in the black-painted interior. ‘Very nice,’ he repeated.
Unlike Lowly, the Judge wanted to discuss his session in detail first. He was very clear and precise about what he wanted.
‘Darling,’ he said, as I brought him his coffee, ‘I like hard penetration.’
The cup slipped from my grasp and banged down on the desk, sending a tidal wave of the brew slopping into his saucer, and he roared with laughter at my discomfiture.
‘Don’t be scared,’ he said. ‘I won’t bite you. I just love being fucked in the arse by a woman. Pegging, it’s called, sweetheart. I fucking love being pegged. Do you have a strap-on?’
He was quite disappointed to discover that I didn’t. I must say, I was rather relieved. For the life of me I couldn’t quite get my head around strapping an artificial penis to my hips and banging away at somebody’s backside. It sounds ridiculous, but I doubted whether I had the coordination to perform this task successfully. I had visions of mistiming a thrust and causing some sort of spinal injury with my dildo – or worse still, creating internal damage. I mean – how would he explain that to his medical aid?
At some stage, I knew, I’d have to man up and do the dirty – if not on the Judge, then on one of my other clients. For now, though, I told him that since the strap-ons were not yet available I’d do the best I could with what I did have. Which was a total of three long, slender candles. I needed to go vibrator shopping, and urgently.
‘You’ve got nothing else?’ he asked in disappointed tones when I indicated the candles.
‘New stock is only arriving tomorrow,’ I told him in a firm voice. ‘But I’m sure I can satisfy you with these today.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ he grumbled. He pushed his chair back and panic clenched at my insides because I thought he was going to get up and leave. He didn’t, though. Instead he reached into one of his trouser pockets and produced a small, brown, glass vial.
‘So, anyway. Do you know what this is?’ he asked me.
Oh, Jesus, my dungeon had become a destination for users of banned substances.
‘N–not exactly,’ I stammered. ‘I’m guessing it’s a drug of some kind?’
‘It’s poppers, sweetie. Amyl nitrite. If you’ve never tried it, you should. It gives you a hell of a rush. A hell of a rush, straight away. If you don’t have a problem with me using it, I’ll inhale it while you fuck me.’
‘Er …’ I swallowed, wishing fervently that I could have Lowly back again. Snippets of medical warnings I’d read a long time ago floated up from my memory. ‘Do you have any physical problems that might preclude its use? Any type of heart condition?’
He tucked the bottle back in his pocket and spread his arms wide. ‘Darling, I won’t lie to you. I’ve had a heart bypass and I’m on antihypertension drugs thanks to all the crap I have to deal with during my working day.’
‘If that’s the case I don’t think I …’ I began, but he cut me off, holding up a broad-fingered hand. ‘D’you know what? I don’t give a shit. It’s my heart and it’s my life. If I die, I want to die happy.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Right.’
I could just picture the story headlining our local paper.
‘Client Fatality Occurs at Resident’s Illegal Domination Dungeon.’
I should refuse to do what he asked. Medically, it was unsafe, and if he did suffer a cardiac event I’d end up in major trouble.
Although – maybe not, as long as he didn’t actually die on me. I could always call an ambulance if the worst happened. And right now, I was in no position to turn away business.
‘If a medical emergency happens, I can’t be held responsible,’ I said.
‘Look, darling, I know, ok? I know, I know, I know. If I was that worried, I wouldn’t be here, would I? You want me to sign a disclaimer or something?’
I had a feeling that any such document wouldn’t be worth the paper it was written on.
‘Just write down the contact details for your next of kin.’ Seeing his expression, I added hastily, ‘Or a good friend. Someone I can get in touch with if anything does happen. And who won’t try to sue me.’
‘Well, that rules out my ex-wives,’ he grumbled. ‘They both milked me for every goddamned cent I had.’
‘I need that number,’ I insisted.
He ummed and ahhed and argued, but in the end he scrawled a name and a cellphone number down on a piece of paper. ‘That’s Marcus Newman, my operations director. He’ll sort things out, no fuss, if it comes to that.’
‘Right, then,’ I said, after briefing him on the safe word. ‘If you need to use the bathroom, it’s over there. We’ll start as soon as you are ready.’
He left his car keys on the desk when he went into the bathroom, and for a minute I was tempted to do a runner. Climb into his car and start it up and drive. Where, I didn’t care. Anywhere would do as long as it was far away from my dungeon, and from the Judge, and from hard penetration.
Instead, I took off my trench coat and when the Judge strutted out of the bathroom stark naked and holding the bottle of poppers in his right hand, I was waiting for him by the punishment horse in my full regalia. In my right hand I held a whip and in my left I was brandishing one of the orange candles, liberally coated with KY jelly.
‘Bend over,’ I ordered. ‘You’ve earned yourself a light whipping, just to warm up that greedy little backside of yours. And then I’m going to give it to you hard and fast.’ Rather like the way I was breathing. ‘I’m going to fuck your tight little hole and punish you forcefully with this specially long candle.’ Which thanks to my current state of tension was also likely to be a specially vibrating candle. ‘And you’re going to have to take it, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’ I repeated, in a voice that sounded as if I’
d been inhaling helium.
‘Go ahead, darling,’ he groaned, prostrating himself over the horse and treating me to the sight of his hairless crack and puckered arsehole. ‘Give it to me, deep and hard.’
It is a very odd feeling inserting a lubricated candle up somebody’s bum. It wasn’t difficult to do – it slid in quite easily, and before I knew it the candle was buried a good six inches.
And the Judge loved it. He yelped and moaned and let out long, gurgling cries. He begged me for a bigger candle and to put it in deeper. He thumbed open the bottle of poppers and propped himself on his elbow and sniffed and snorted as he inhaled it. And then I really thought he was going to have a heart attack. His breath started coming in short, wheezing gasps and his left hand clutched, claw-like, at the corner of the horse. His legs quivered and then, as I froze in terror at this reaction, every muscle in his body seemed to turn to rock.
‘Aaaaaargh!’ he groaned. ‘Aaaaaargh! Don’t stop now, you bitch. Give it to me hard!’
A red mist descended on me as I picked up another candle – and then bunched all three of them together. I did my best to erase from my memory the details of what followed. Thankfully, a few minutes later, his ear-splitting cry declared the session over.
A quarter of an hour after that, the Judge was leaving, replete and relaxed and joking with me as he climbed into his oversized vehicle and started it up.
I was still trembling slightly when I disposed of the discarded poppers vial, which I saw was packed with cotton wool. I cleaned up the area where he’d dropped it, trying my best not to breathe while I did this. I used tissues to pick up the three candles I’d used on him before throwing them away. Then I washed my hands in hot water twice with the gloves on and twice again with them off, squeezed the gloves out and put them in the sun to dry. Finally, I stood by the window looking out at the newly mowed lawn, gave a big theatrical shiver and said, ‘Aaaaargh.’
Just as the Judge had done, though for different reasons.
At least it was over now. I’d done it. Hard penetration held no mystery for me now. I could only hope that my next client, Simon, didn’t want the same service, because I was temporarily all out of stock in the anal toys department.
Chapter 11
Two hours after the Judge had left, Simon arrived. In a Jaguar, no less. A classically shaped Jaguar XJ in a dark metallic green, I saw, as I peeked from behind the window blind. I could see Goodness literally devouring that car with his eyes as he waved it into the shade of the carport. Simon climbed out and closed the door with a solid, expensive-sounding thunk.
I waited nervously behind the desk, wondering what the man who’d been my very first caller would look like in the flesh, and what he would want from me. Remembering the session I’d recently finished, I couldn’t help expecting the worst. After all, the Judge had sounded both normal and pleasant when he’d phoned in and look what we’d ended up doing.
Simon tapped on the half-open door to the folly. The first slave ever to knock before entering.
‘Come in,’ I said, standing up as he walked inside.
Simon was around my age, I supposed, and my very first feeling was one of disappointment. He wasn’t unusual looking at all. He wasn’t short and bombastic like the Judge, or shy and withdrawn like Lowly had been. He was rather good-looking, in fact. Taller than me, with dark blue eyes and tousled brown hair that looked like it was a couple of weeks overdue for a cut. He was the most informally dressed of my clients so far, wearing jeans and a blue Polo shirt, but despite his casual clothing, his coolly self-assured demeanour left me certain that this was, indeed, a man accustomed to being in charge.
‘Simon Nel.’ He held out his hand and I shook it. ‘I must say, I’m glad to see you. On my way, I kept wondering what I’d do if I arrived here and the place actually turned out to be a samoosa factory.’
‘Well, then I guess you’d be leaving with some snacks,’ I said. We both laughed, and I found the tension I’d felt on first seeing him had eased.
‘Tea? Coffee? Water?’ I asked him, but he shook his head, so I got straight down to business.
‘What do you want to do in your session today?’ I asked.
He thought about my question for a little while.
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ he said eventually. ‘You see, I’ve never been to a dominatrix before. This is my first time.’
First time? I took that comment with a large pinch of salt, since I remembered reading somewhere that whorehouse customers loved to lie about their previous experiences in exactly this way. If I was right, then Simon Nel was a serial virgin.
‘Your first time?’ I asked.
‘Well, yes, it is. So I have no idea what to expect. I enjoy servicing and worshipping. I find humiliation arousing, and I’m very broadminded. If you find it kinky, the chances are good that I’ll find it exciting. I think I’ve got a high pain threshold and I like – although, is like the right word? Probably not – I need to have somebody test my limits to the extreme in that regard. Creatively, and without showing mercy.’
Pain … how much pain were we talking about here? What kind of pain? In what parts of the body did he want to feel this creative agony? And how had he managed to find anyone to test his limits if he’d never had domination before?
It made me nervous that he was labouring under the misapprehension that I was a fully experienced dominatrix when, probably more so than him, I was still a rank amateur.
‘I see. We’ll get started, then. Are you familiar with the use of safe words?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Our safe word is Amber. Please use it if you are at your limit and you want your punishment to end.’
‘I’ll use it if you take me far enough,’ he said, and looked at me again with a hint of challenge in his indigo eyes.
Summoning all the authority I could muster, I lifted my chin and spoke in commanding tones. ‘I want you to go into the bathroom and strip naked, slave. Seeing it’s your first time, the mistress would like to conduct a thorough examination of her property. This may include probing certain orifices. Following this, we’ll do some training with you.’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘You can bring a towel out with you and go and wait by the punishment horse until I’m ready.’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
When he came out of the bathroom and padded barefoot to the centre of the room, I didn’t look directly at him. Instead, I let him wait for five long minutes while I did other things. I paged slowly and deliberately through an old copy of Cosmopolitan. Then I took a compact mirror out of my bag and reapplied my lipstick, brushing the gloss over my lips as if I had all the time in the world and nothing else to do. As if the idea of bothering to train my slave was right at the bottom of a lengthy list of more important and interesting tasks.
Then, with an impatient sigh, I glanced over at him.
‘Fetch me a whip,’ I called.
‘Certainly, Mistress. Which one would you like?’
‘The short whip with the wide, leather flap. And the one with the fine links. You can lay them both on top of the punishment horse and then stand, facing me, next to those two chains. I’m busy now and don’t have the time to discipline you immediately. But when I do, you need to understand it is going to be harsh, so get yourself prepared.’
I turned away and began filing my nails. If he wanted humiliation, he was going to get it, and I thought waiting naked, while being ignored in favour of some womanly preening, would go some way towards achieving the desired result.
When I’d finished my nails, I got up and walked over to him. I picked up the short whip and slapped the flap against the palm of my hand a few times.
‘Let me look at you,’ I said. ‘Hmmm.’
While the mistress part of me could offer only scorn and contempt for what I saw, the non-mistress part had to admit he was the fittest-looking of my clients so far. Broad shoulders, lean, defined legs, pale buttocks with hollows in the side
and not a love handle in sight.
I placed my right hand on the smooth curve of his right buttock and gave it a gentle squeeze.
‘Rather scrawny,’ I said dismissively.
And then I realised what I’d done.
My third session, and already I’d broken one of my most important rules. What had I been thinking? I must have been more rattled than I’d thought after my session with the Judge. I hadn’t put on my gloves after filing my nails, and now I had touched a slave with my bare hands – and in a rather intimate place, as well.
I snatched my hand away but found that the feel of his backside stayed with me. Silken smooth, firmly muscled, slightly warm to the touch.
‘Right, slave,’ I said, hastily grabbing my gloves from the window sill before pulling them on and picking up the lengths of black bandage. ‘After I’ve tied your wrists and ankles to these chains, your session will start with some punishment. We need to clean your slate before we progress any further.’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘Do you know what you’ve done to deserve this correction?’ I asked as I bent to attach the fourth bandage firmly to his left ankle.
‘No, Mistress.’
‘Liar!’ I shouted and brought the whip down with a satisfying crack across his bum. I didn’t even have to fake the anger in my tone, because I was still furious with myself for touching him. ‘Of course you know. And you’re going to confess.’
‘What should I confess?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘You’re going to confess your filthy desires, of course. Those unclean thoughts that have been festering in your mind and distracting you from your task of total obedience to me.’
I slapped him again, the flap of the crop leaving a perfect imprint that bloomed red before its edges began fading.
‘Oh, Mistress, telling you my unclean thoughts will be difficult,’ he groaned.
‘Why, slave?’
‘Because there are so many of them.’
A slave with a sense of humour? I hesitated for only a moment before bringing the whip down again, this time harder, to punish him for his impertinence.
Folly Page 7
