by Dae, Harlem
“Whatever you want, Mistress.”
Carlos walked off, and I got inside my car and sat there after closing the door. I’d lied to Fifi, to Carlos, and worst of all, I’d lied to Victor. It would have been so simple to explain what I’d been playing at earlier, letting my slave flog me, but it would have been tantamount to admitting a weakness. Lying had seemed the better option at the time. Weakness I didn’t ever want to entertain again in my life. I’d done enough of that already.
So why did the aftertaste of those lies still sit on my tongue, bitter and lingering, like a large acrid ball—one that wouldn’t go down no matter how many times I tried to swallow it?
* * * *
I spent the afternoon at home writing notes on what kind of premises I’d need and how much money it would take to get my new business off the ground. I had so many contacts who could help me, that finding staff and the people who supplied certain off-the-wall fixtures and fittings wouldn’t be a problem. A large warehouse split into several rooms would be worth considering for the venue. The only stumbling block would be the money. Fifi had been right when she’d said about the bank not giving me a loan. How did I walk in there and tell the manager…
Bank manager…
I jumped up from the sofa and went to my handbag, rummaging around inside for my little black work book. I had two of them—one for my private life and one for clients. When I’d first started in this business, I’d done extra bits and bobs on the side. Never any sexual contact, just a bit of whipping here and there on the quiet. It had helped get me out of the little bit of debt I’d had hanging over my head and hadn’t hurt anyone except the clients—but that’s what they’d been paying me for.
Inside the work book were several names of people who really could do without having their wives told about their extra-marital activities. Oh, I wouldn’t actually tell a wife, but to hint I would might just get me what I wanted.
I blushed at my tenacity, at how it seemed when I wanted something badly I’d go all out to get it. Just a shame I couldn’t apply that to having a proper relationship with Victor. I scanned the names, hating myself a bit for what I was about to do but knowing it was a means to an end. Little white lies didn’t count, did they?
Jabbing the numbers into my phone, I waited for the line to connect and the ringing to begin. When it did, my stomach rolled over and I tried to swallow. Those lies from earlier were still there, and the ball was going to get bigger by the end of this call.
“What do you want?” the man whispered upon answering. “I told you not to ring me anymore.”
“I don’t want anything like you’d imagine, slave,” I said, purposely making my voice harsh.
The meaner I was to this man, the quicker he’d cave. He thrived on being bossed around in the extreme.
“Look, I told you a long time ago I had to stop this tomfoolery, and now you’ve rung me and set me off again. Just seeing your name flash up on the screen, knowing you were thinking of me.” His voice had held a tremble. “God, Mistress. When are you available?”
“Now,” I said. “Shall I come to you?”
“Yes, but remember, business attire.”
I snapped my phone closed. Yes, I remembered. Business attire.
I raced into my bedroom and stripped, then riffled through my wardrobe for my red three-piece skirt suit. He’d been particularly fond of the waistcoat, for some reason. After dressing—red lacy underwear and black stockings beneath my clothes—I slipped on some black, seven-inch-high shiny stilettos with very thin heels. I scraped my hair back into a severe bun that permanently lifted my eyebrows, dabbed on some makeup. In the living room, I grabbed my bag then left my place. It didn’t take long to drive to where he was, and as I strode through the large foyer, my heels tapping on the shiny tiles, I breathed deeply.
Money. There was nothing like that scent.
I breezed up to the main desk and announced myself to a Mary-lookalike, giving the name I’d always used before.
“Yes, Mrs Pennworth-Smythe, so lovely to see you again,” Mary-Clone said.
I nodded, gave her a condescending smile, and followed her through a doorway beside her desk then down a long corridor.
“Mr Wainsborough had quite forgotten to tell me of your appointment,” she said over her shoulder. “The poor man hasn’t been himself for the past couple of years, you know. Since around about the time you were last here, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, what a terrible shame!” I said in a posh voice that didn’t belong to me.
“Here we are then,” the receptionist said. She knocked on the door. “In you go.”
I waited for her to retreat down the corridor before I opened the door and stepped inside. Mr Wainsborough wasn’t in plain view, but that was okay, I knew exactly where he’d be. I strode to his desk and found him naked on his hands and knees, a squash ball wedged in his mouth. He looked at me with watery blue eyes, his white-grey hair flopping over his sweat-riddled forehead. I opened my jacket to reveal the waistcoat. He whimpered. I hoisted my skirt up, bunching it at my waist to reveal my knickers. He snorted out breaths through his nose.
I went to stand behind him, lifted one leg and planted my shoe on his back, making sure to dig the pin-sharp heel in hard, just the way he liked it.
“Before we begin,” I said, “I want to talk about my fee.”
He nodded rapidly and reached for his notebook and pencil that he’d placed on the floor before my arrival. Old habits died hard, it seemed.
He scrawled: Anything, anything you want.
“I’m glad you wrote that,” I said, “because I don’t want a payment in the usual manner. This time I want a business loan. I intend to pay you back.”
I dug my heel in harder, and he fumbled beneath himself to grab hold of his cock.
“I hope your wife is well,” I whispered. Then louder, harder, “Write your answer to my request instead of fiddling with yourself, slave!”
He wrote: Yes, yes! Loan, yes.
“It’s quite a sum,” I said.
He nodded, dropped the pencil, and busied his hand between his legs.
“Good boy.”
I smiled, knowing I wouldn’t have to do anything but keep applying more and more pressure with my heel. He’d finish himself off in no time, and once he’d dressed and seated himself behind his desk like the good banker he was, I’d walk out of there with a nice chunk of change in my account and a brilliant future ahead of me.
Chapter Thirty
After Ollie left the office I still couldn’t settle. Talking to him about Zara had done nothing to take the rough edge off my mood, partly because I’d only given him a very sketchy version of our relationship but mainly because the image of her—stooped, topless and masturbating while a flogger rained down on her back—was still a vivid picture in my mind’s eye. I suspected it always would be. Some things were never forgotten. Perhaps they weren’t meant to be.
I had a proposal to finish, a set of drawings from a junior draughtsman to approve, but I couldn’t concentrate, so as the sun dipped its belly behind the jagged, silhouette cut-outs of buildings on the horizon and London lit up with Christmas decorations and car headlights, I pulled on my coat and shut up my office.
Mary stared at me as I walked towards her, a mixture of surprise and annoyance on her face. She really was starting to bug me.
“I have a headache,” I said, not that I needed to explain anything. “I’m going to call it a day. Can you clear me an hour in my diary tomorrow so I can finish up what I haven’t got to?”
“Yes, of course.” She frowned and shook her head. “Worse time of year for headaches, it’s the lack of sunlight, you know. You should try this aromatherapy oil my niece makes up for me.” From her desk drawer she produced a tiny green bottle with a lid that looked like it housed a dropper. “Apply a few drops to your temples and rub it in. Lie back and relax, and before you know it you’ll feel much better. A bit of peace and quiet is all you need.”
>
“I’m sure I’ll be okay and I wouldn’t want to take yours.”
“No, please. I’m seeing Catherine tomorrow, I’ll ask her to make me some more.” She leaned over the desk and pressed the small, cool bottle into my hand. “This is Catherine, my niece.”
She turned a silvery photo frame towards me. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the girl really was incredibly pretty. Soft blonde waves of hair that fell just short of her shoulders, a sweet smile, almost shy, and large blue eyes with doe-like lashes.
“She looks lovely,” I said, and I meant it. Catherine had a wholesome quality to her appearance. Unlike Zara with her sultry gaze, wickedly talented, bright red lips, and long, witchy hair. Bloody hell, there I went, comparing everyone to Zara. She really had cast a spell on me and it had gone right to my bones.
“I’ll take it then,” I said, holding up the bottle. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
Mary smiled, the skin around her eyes compacting with wrinkles. “Of course I don’t mind and I’ll tell Catherine, she’ll be thrilled to know she was able to help the Mr Victor Partridge.”
“Oh, okay.” I pocketed the oil.
I sensed there was more—Mary’s bottom lip was twitching, the way it did when she wanted to speak but wasn’t sure if it would be out of turn, or perhaps the term for it was meddling.
“I’m always telling her about you,” Mary said. “She’s an interior designer, you see. I often think that you two together would be a match made in Heaven.” She laughed. “Professionally, of course. You design the glorious space and she fills it with prettiness. You do the big, strong details, she’ll create the smaller, more delicate ones.”
I glanced at the picture again. I wondered if Catherine was submissive or dominant in the bedroom. Her hair looked like it was made for bunching in a man’s fist and yanking. Those lips would be divine parting in surprise as a cock, my cock slid through them, hard and fast and to the back of her throat. I wondered what she’d look like messed up. Mascara streaked down her face from tears of ecstasy, pale pink lipstick smudged and her white blouse ripped and ragged, torn in the heat of passion. I wondered if she’d ever been ordered to masturbate while wearing a dog collar and if so, what kind of man had made a woman like her do such a thing.
Mary was still talking, something about early pre-Christmas drinks at hers next weekend. Would I like to go? Catch up with her brother Alfred, whose house I’d done some work on at a massively discounted rate the previous year? “Catherine will be there too,” she finished. “You could let her know how the oil works. Maybe she’d tailor one specifically for you, for your needs.”
My needs. Now there was something. Was Mary talking about my headache, my erratic heart rate, or my need to dominate a woman like Catherine, a woman like Zara? “Sounds lovely,” I said, buttoning up my coat ready for the onslaught of sleet that was tapping wetly at the windows. “Put it in my diary.”
“Really? I mean yes, that’s perfect. Of course.” Mary smiled again, the first genuine smile I’d seen her produce since Zara had walked into my office and given me a blowjob under the desk.
“I’m already looking forward to it,” I said and wandered to the lift. “Goodnight.”
Waiting for it to arrive, I wondered how keen Mary would be for me to mingle with her friends and family if she knew that later I was planning on beating a woman until her skin sung with pain. Or if she’d put me in the same room with her pretty niece if she knew that my legs ached to feel the weight of a female torso bent double over them and longed for the press of squirming breasts. I could almost feel the heat from scarlet buttocks on my palm and smell the scent of arousal. Not something a respectable businessman should be thinking about in the office.
But I couldn’t help it. Zara’s scent and flavour still sat in my nose and on my tongue from earlier. Another one of those memories that wasn’t meant to go away and would continue to haunt me for months, probably years.
I hadn’t been in a shop like this before—one that stated OVER-TWENTY-ONES ONLY and had blacked-out windows. However, I reckoned this was turning out to be a week of firsts so I opened the door and stepped inside.
“Evening,” said a man with a gruff voice.
A bearded bloke sat half hidden by a counter, flicking through a newspaper. Behind him stood a wall lined with DVDs; AVAILABLE TO BUY OR RENT read a handwritten sign.
“Good evening,” I replied, glancing around. The lighting was subdued, just the cabinets and shelves of goods illuminated by spots.
“Can I ‘elp you with anything?” He scratched at his beard and dropped his gaze down my fine woollen coat, no doubt wondering what a posh man like me was doing in this neck of the woods.
“Paddles,” I said. “I want a spanking paddle.”
His expression didn’t change. “Over there. Several to chose from including one you can have your name carved into, mirror-backwards of course, so you can read the damn thing when you’ve imprinted.”
“Okay, thanks.” Now there was a thought. I stepped towards a shelf holding various implements, whips, floggers and paddles. No, I was getting ahead of myself. I’d only come in here because it felt right to have my own paddle, not borrow my sub’s. The one she’d hit me with had been for her use—I wanted one that was just for me to wield.
Mmm, maybe the engraving was the way to go then, so it could only be used by me. Anyone who was hit with it would have my initials blanching their skin—VP—yes, I liked that thought. I particularly liked the mental image of Zara’s arse cheeks with VP splattered over them so much the letters blurred and criss-crossed each other.
“How much for the engraving?” I asked, feeling the weight of a neat round paddle. It was a bit bigger than a tennis-table bat, the handle bound in soft red leather.
“Tenner for two initials, twenty for a full first name, thirty for a crest.”
A crest? “Mmm, just the initials would be great.”
“I can do it now, not exactly busy.”
“Great, this one?”
“Yep, that’s the one.”
“V P, please.”
I handed it over; he nodded and headed into the back of the shop. The sound of a machine whirring to life filtered towards me.
I stepped to the next shelf; lube of every variety and promising an assortment of tempting sensations. Beyond the gels and oils were sexy costumes, including a black rubber gimp mask that didn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I did quite like a nurse outfit, though, not sure why it appealed to me over and above the school-girl and the French maid but it definitely did.
My dick stirred at the idea of Zara in it. The skirt so short I could see the curve of her bum, the little hat on her sleek hair, and the thought of that thermometer going up my arse, her fiddling, playing, doing those things to my insides that she was so damn good at.
I swallowed, a little tightly, and moved along. An enormous range of vibrators—glass, silicone, rabbits, bullets—greeted me. A long black one caught my attention; it looked a bit like Carlos’ cock. I supressed a shudder. I didn’t like the fact that I knew what another man’s erect dick was like, or how he sounded when he came. That was one memory I could do without.
But I did keep looking at the black cock. It had little ears on it, growing from where testicles should be. I picked up the box, read the details; precisely designed to hit all the pleasure spots with a range of clever vibrations and rotations. Rotations?
After pulling out my phone, I sent a message to Zara.
My place @ 9. Don’t be late. Don’t wear knickers.
A reply came within five seconds.
Yes, Sir.
I smiled, a smug sensation warming my guts. How wonderful it was to have a beautiful woman like Zara wearing my collar and at my beck and call. Oh, yes, this Dom thing was fitting me very well today, almost as well as my Savile Row suit. I could get used to it.
“Here you go.”
I slotted my phone away. Bearded Guy was holding out the paddle. VP
had been etched into the centre, nothing fancy, just blunt letters. Now when the flat surface hit, that bit of flesh would be unharmed, leaving a white outline of my initials highlighted by redness. I liked it very much. It was a great idea, and like all great ideas, perfectly simple.
“Thanks, and I’ll take this too.” I handed him the box containing the long black vibrator.
“Lube?” He started ringing up the two items.
“Er, yes. This one.” Liquid Silk the bottle label read, suitable for toys and intimate massage. That would be perfect, because one thing was for sure, things would be getting really intimate very soon for Zara.
I glanced around the apartment. The fire was lit as were tealight candles on the mantel, the table and on the kitchen island. It was dark but not excessively so—I didn’t want that, I wanted to be able to see skin, expressions, details.
Adjusting the waist on my grey sweats—that was all I wore—I lifted a dining chair to the middle of the room and placed it on the rug in front of the fire—not too close to the gas flames, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from them. I had a small table in the spare room so I retrieved it and set it next to the chair. It was round and stood on three legs. Atop it I placed the lube, my VP paddle and the long black vibrator, which I’d cleaned and inserted batteries into.
Again I tugged at my trousers. My dick was semi-hard just with me thinking about spanking Zara and using a vibrator on her at the same time. When I’d caught her with Carlos that morning she’d been masturbating and coping with pain, so I figured the vibrator would save her the wrist ache. Plus, I wasn’t sure how well I’d be able to concentrate on finger-fucking during my first go at spanking. Add in holding her down if she got wriggly and it was too much, for tonight at least.
I’d just knocked back a glass of water when the doorbell went. It was nine to the second according to my kitchen clock.
I padded barefoot across the wooden floor, flicked the lock then opened the door an inch. Not waiting for Zara to come in, or even check it was her, I retreated to the darkened living room and sat on the chair, knowing I’d be silhouetted against the backdrop of the London skyline.
