by J. D. Chase
I’m not sure whether she’s given permission for him to stop holding off on his erection or whether he’s just reached his limit. One thing’s for certain, there’s a very large, very erect penis in front of me and I’m finding it very difficult to look away. It’s mesmerising in its length, girth and beauty. It really is magnificent. I see her looking over so I nonchalantly take a sip of my bourbon. Over the rim of my glass, I see her gaze shift to Dean. A warning bell sounds in the back of my head. I hope she has the common sense not to overstep the mark.
I see her give Dean what she probably considers a smouldering, seductive look before she rounds on the aforementioned cock and rams it down her throat. A somewhat impressive and no doubt deliberate display of deepthroating follows. I hear a strange, strangled sound coming from somewhere in Dean’s throat. Oh yeah, she’s clearly out to impress.
‘Don’t forget, feel free to take your cock in hand. You don’t want your balls to explode,’ I whisper, bored to tears now and not at all jealous of her, getting it on with that cock. There’s no point to it. She’s out to impress Dean and is showing a distinct lack of respect for the man whose dick she’s deepthroating.
I’m getting increasingly pissed off with her. She had strict instructions: an array of practices to carry out so that I could gauge Dean’s responses to them. Etiquette dictates that she should still respect her sub. So far, she seems determined to attempt to wind me up instead. I mean, what’s the point in me gauging any bloke’s response to a blowjob?
Carry on, lady. And in that moment, my brain grasps the evading memory. When Elaine had first arrived here, less than eighteen months ago, she’d contacted Thierri, the owner of Vouloir, and complained that I was breaking one of the fundamental rules of the club. I saw paying clients here and she wanted to do the same but wasn’t allowed. Most knew that my clients were receiving sexual therapy. I’d never used the club back in my days as a Dominatrix. At the time, I gave her the benefit of the doubt, just as Thierri gave her short shrift. All the same, I kept my distance. I don’t court drama. I’ve had more than my fair share over the years.
She looks over at Dean as she slowly pulls the cock out of her throat, her free hand sliding between her legs. I grit my teeth. Her attention should be on the man underneath her. She’s neglecting him and not following the brief I gave her. Either she’s a loose cannon—and not a disciplined Domme—or she’s got a point to prove.
Yeah, carry on lady. I can have you run out of here faster than you can say Femdom.
She seems to get back on track when I see her reach into her bag of tricks. She takes out several items and lays them out on the bed. She goes through the motions with a flogger, a crop and a pinwheel but her heart isn’t in it. And I’m not the only one who notices. I can see the strained expression on the sub’s face. He’s too well trained and well-mannered to say anything but he knows there’s something going on.
Time to call it a night, methinks. This display is making me feel nauseous.
I give Dean a nudge. I feel guilty because he’s watching like a hawk but I don’t like the way things are panning out. Best to wind things up before anything undesirable happens.
She sees us getting ready to leave and like a shot, she’s over and trying to take Dean by the hand. He looks petrified but at the same time, I can see that he’s tempted. I firmly but politely decline on his behalf. She grasps the bulge in his jeans and kisses him aggressively before releasing him and laughing in his face.
I have to curl my hands into fists to prevent me from slapping her. I specifically asked her not to attempt to engage with Dean. I watch her walk back to the bed, noting that the sub raised his head to watch the exchange. He does not look happy—he knew the brief too. His eyes meet mine and I make a mental note to seek him out tomorrow; unlike Elaine, I keep to the rules. But I won’t speak with him until I’ve made sure that she does not step foot inside Vouloir again.
That’s the thing with playing with fire . . . you never know when some big, bad Domme is going to push you in the flames and watch you burn.
LA VEUVE NOIRE DRAGS me out of the playroom and back to the bar. Not easy when I’ve still got a stonking hard-on. Instantly, drinks appear in front of us. She nods her acknowledgement to the barman but she doesn’t speak. I’ve never seen someone so furious and yet contain it. It radiates from her in waves. I don’t know what to say. I’ve no idea what made her so angry. I don’t think I did anything.
Lifting my glass gratefully, I close my eyes and savour the taste of the beer. My head’s a fucking mess—even without the mood switch of my therapist. That room . . . it was like walking into a different world. It was educating, electrifying and erection inducing. And a total mind fuck.
I saw things I liked, things I didn’t like and things I’m too ashamed to admit that I liked—even to myself. All I know is, I want more. I want to see more. And I want to feel it too. I just don’t know what yet.
Realising that La Veuve Noire is watching me, I give her a smile. She looks a little calmer now, especially when she returns my smile.
‘Penny for them,’ she says.
I blow out a long breath and she laughs.
‘Not sure where to begin?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘My head . . . I can’t explain it. Some of the things that I saw . . . it’s bowled me over. I had no idea . . . I feel all . . . argh, like I said, I can’t explain it.’
She smiles again and lays her hand on my arm. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. It’s been a long day. I’m happy to leave this here, give you some time to process what you’ve seen and to consider how you feel about it. But I want to see you tomorrow. And you must promise me that you’ll not attempt to take matters into your own hands until then.’
My shocked response throws her. Confusion is written all over her face.
I lean in and whisper, ‘I’m not allowed to have a wank? You’re kidding me. I’ve never had such a bonelike boner. If I don’t slacken the sack, I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.’
She laughs. It’s a filthy sound. ‘Of course you can wank.’
I look around in horror. I know we’re in a sex club but does she have to be so loud?
She rolls her eyes at me but she does lower her voice—about two decibels. ‘I meant don’t try out anything that you saw in there.’ She pauses when she sees my obvious distress. ‘Don’t worry—you’ll get to try things out. But we do this my way. The safe way. Do you understand?’
I nod. It’s not like I’m going to go back in the playroom by myself, or just pick up some woman in here and take her in there. There’s no way I’d risk showing myself up in public.
‘Good. Listen, I’ve got a busy day tomorrow but I’ll see you in here at . . . hmm, eight o’clock. Is that okay with you?’
Like I’ve got anything else planned. ‘Yeah, that’s fine.’
She looks pleased. ‘Before then, I don’t want you to stress it. You’ve a lot to take in and mull over. Don’t try to force it. It will all settle down in its own good time. Just try to keep an open mind. Don’t push anything out because you think it’s wrong or you don’t think you should like it. Allow thoughts to settle themselves, and we’ll take it from there tomorrow. Now, you’ve got my mobile number so if you need to talk to me, try calling me. It may go to voicemail because, like I say, I have a busy day but leave a brief message and I’ll call you back when I can. Or drop me a text.’
I nod. ‘I will. It’s just . . . fuck me, I’ve never felt so bowled over and so confused.’
She smiles. ‘I know. It feels like I pushed you in the deep end—in raging waters. I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t have vibes from you and a good feeling about this. BDSM isn’t for everyone but I think it might help your issues—hell, it will probably explain them too. But you have a lifejacket and tomorrow, your sexy lifeguard—that’s me—will guide you to safe water. By then, the waters will most likely have calmed by themselves. You’ll probably be raring to go. Because, you know h
ow intense it was to watch tonight?’
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight. ‘Yeah?’
She whispers, her words falling like honey from her lips, ‘You wait until you get to feel that intensity, to experience the pleasure in the flesh.’
I shudder. She laughs gently.
‘Yeah, baby. You so want it,’ she says, holding her glass up.
I clink mine to hers saying, ‘I’ll drink to that.’
I take a gulp, wondering what she’d say if she could see how fucking hard my cock is getting, just at the thought.
We finish our drinks and say our goodbyes. I watch her walk to a waiting cab. She’s fucking gorgeous. Sexy as fuck. I briefly wonder what it would be like to fuck her. She’s so experienced. Talented. Skilled.
One minute I want to fuck her, the next minute she’s acting like a combination of teacher and mother. It kind of keeps my lust in check. Probably a good thing. If I’m a crap fuck for an inexperienced woman, how the hell could I attempt to pleasure someone like her?
Because she’d tell me what I was doing wrong. She wouldn’t be backwards in coming (ahem) forwards. She would guide me.
That’s if my cock didn’t fuck off up my own arse at the mere thought of getting naked with her.
I pat it as I set off to walk home. Yeah, she’d probably eat us both alive, little fella. I think we need some more practice before we attempt to satisfy someone like her.
I choose to walk home, there’s no point in splashing cash I can’t afford to waste. No work means no wages. I’m already into my overdraft. Besides, what’s the point in rushing? I have a feeling that sleep will evade me tonight. There’s just too much on my mind. I’d probably give my cock friction burns as I replay the memories . . . over and over.
She’d better be right. These thoughts had better settle because right now, excepting the man-on-man action, I’d be game to try anything I’d seen. What hot-blooded male wouldn’t? Especially one who was getting none.
WHAT A FUCKING DAY. I’ve seen six clients. Six! And now I’m back at Vouloir to meet with my pro bono client. If I hadn’t taken him into the playroom last night, I’d be seriously considering backing out of my offer to help. I can’t now; it would be irresponsible. But I’ve barely seen The Kid. So much for increasing his socialisation. I need to cut back but it’s so hard to say no. With private clients, I have the opposite problem of NHS referrals. Well, mostly anyway. For many of them, money is not an issue. They want a healthy, fulfilled sex life and often, they want to save their marriage/relationship. But sadly, there are also too many of them for me to see.
I look at my watch. I have twenty five minutes before Dean is due to show. I sink onto a barstool and order a JD then ask Gabe if Elaine is in the building. If she is, she’ll be marching out of the door within minutes, with my foot up her arse.
The insistent ringing of my phone takes that course of action out of my hands. It’s Bernie with bad news about Dan. He was discharged four hours ago—the Trust vetoed Bernie’s request for a referral to me before he left. He’s currently in A and E receiving a blood transfusion after having his wrists stitched back together. And only because somebody found him semi-conscious¸ bound his wrists with strips of clothing and called an ambulance. I’m off the stool and flying out of the door, waving my arms to hail a cab before she has a chance to call me in.
In the cab, I realise that I’m supposed to be meeting Dean in a matter of minutes. I curse like a sailor, much to the amusement of the cabbie. I try to call him but it rings out so I’ve no choice but to leave a voicemail, telling him I’ve had an emergency and that I’ll see him at ten in the morning at my home. I’m frustrated that I can’t give him the follow up he needs but it’s pointless asking him to call me; I’ll have to turn off my phone once I get to the hospital.
It’s only when I attract more attention than usual as I stride through the Accident and Emergency reception, that I realise I’m dressed for the club, not for hospital visiting.
Crap! Oh well, at least it will give The Kid a laugh when I tell him later.
I’m told to take a seat while the receptionist contacts Bernie. I could strangle her but I know she’s only doing her job.
I sit on the plastic seat and prepare to feel uncomfortable. Seriously, who designs these things? Who are they designed for? The thought that the hospital trust wouldn’t want people to be comfortable in case they’re tempted to linger crosses my mind but then reality hits. Who the fuck would want to linger in a hospital waiting room? In this particular one, druggies and creeps it would appear. I’m being eyeballed like I’m a piece of meat. Thank fuck I wore a skirt—albeit a miniscule, leather one but at least my modesty is just about covered.
Bernie comes flying through a doorway opposite and does a double take.
‘Oh God, woman. Come this way and let me see if I can find you something to wear,’ she mutters as she hugs me.
I follow her, smiling at the vision of her striding off, shaking her head. I know she’s probably cursing me under her breath. She knows about my lifestyle choices, thanks to a loud-mouthed girl on our psychology degree course who saw me in the city centre one night in full Dominatrix gear. It put me through uni without me having to take on any student debts—don’t judge me. Bernie didn’t and that’s one of the reasons we kept in touch and became firm friends. However, she knows, as do I, that the crusty old boy network that forms most of the board here, would be less than impressed. In fact, although it would never be admitted, it would almost certainly guarantee that I’d received my last NHS referral. That thought wipes the smile off my face and I kick myself for not thinking to go home and change en route to the hospital.
She takes me to a staff locker room. There’s no way that any of her spare clothing will fit me—she’s like three sizes smaller than me. She finds a thick woollen jacket hanging on the back of the door and hands it to me. I pull a face—it’s not my style at all.
‘I can’t wear that! It’s . . . it’s . . . I can’t think of any adjectives that are severe enough to describe it.’
She raises her eyebrow. ‘Do you want to see Dan or not?’
‘Fucking ball sack of devil’s fucking come,’ I mutter, vowing to report that one back to The Kid—he’d be impressed. Bernie isn’t but I wrap the grotesque object around me and fasten the belt. Without looking in the mirror, I know I look like a sack of shit.
‘You look fine,’ she says, not even bothering to try to keep a straight face.
‘You’re going straight to hell, do you know that?’
‘Going to hell in a hand basket, my grandmother used to say. I never understood that,’ she mutters as she checks whether any of the lockers have been left unlocked.
‘Keep laughing at me and you might just find out,’ I mutter.
Covering my bottom half proves more difficult. I’m sure I can get away with my long, patent leather boots and my leather skirt but, when I suggest it, she gives me a look that any old school matron would be proud of.
We’re saved when her phone rings. She grins and dashes off, shouting, ‘Wait there and don’t touch anything,’ as she vanishes around the door.
Some sort of an explanation would have been nice but I stand there until I hear footsteps. I hope it’s Bernie coming back, but just in case, I’m taking no chances. I’ve seen some of the doctors around here—there’s no way I’m letting one of those hotties see me wearing this crime of fashion. I strip it off and throw it on the tiny sofa. The footsteps pass by. I’m kind of disappointed. There’s one doctor in particular who—
The door bursts open and Bernie throws an armful of blue at me. Scrubs.
‘Um . . . what? You want me to wear these passion killers? Are you going to try to pass me off as a surgeon now?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘No, you idiot. Dan’s in recovery and I’ve managed to persuade Tina to let you in for a few minutes once he’s coming around. And that could be any second so quick, put these on. It’s less than ideal bu
t it will arouse less suspicion than you walking around the theatre block dressed like that.’
I know I’m beaten. The beauty of these shapeless objects of clothing is that I can pull them on quickly over my own clothes. The trousers are too long but they help to hide my six inch heels.
I pirouette and she applauds.
‘Please tell me I don’t have to wear a surgical mask,’ I almost beg.
She shakes her head. ‘No, you look ridiculous enough as it is. You do need to tie your hair back though. And you’ll need to scrub up. We’re deadly serious about infection control here.’
‘But my hands haven’t been—’
She gives me that no nonsense look again. ‘I really don’t want to know where your hands have been.’ Then she makes a vomiting gesture until I smack her around her head.
She sighs. ‘Rules is rules. Poor Dan has open wounds. So will everyone else passing through there. I’m going to scrub up too.’
Ten minutes later and Bernie is attempting to sneak me into the theatre block. Not easy since she’s not supposed to be in there either—but at least she works for the Trust. Me, I’d walk straight in there, bold as brass in the belief that if you look like you belong, people assume you probably do. So you’re less likely to be challenged. Bernie has us creeping along like Charlie’s Angels. If Charlie only had two Angels and one looked like she was about to shit herself and the other looked like she was trying not to piss herself laughing.
Eventually, my patience expires. I’m afraid that we’re pussy footing around for too long and we’ll miss our chance. I do my bold-as-brass thing and, thanks to a little luck, we get inside. A porter comes out of the security patrolled door just as I reach it and, although he looks unsure, he doesn’t challenge me. Probably because I’m dressed in scrubs so in his mind I belong there but also because I give him a beaming smile, just to make sure. He blushes. These scrubs sure aren’t going to make it to London Fashion Week but, when you’ve a full face of expertly applied make up—like I’m wearing—you can still rock them like a pro.
