by Ashley Hind
A Date with Destiny
‘The black fetish-wear might seem a little clichéd,’ says Madam Destiny, ‘but it is instantly evocative. It might be hot and constrictive but it is also enhancing and forgiving, and there isn’t a man on this planet that it doesn’t immediately say “sex” to. It shows your confidence and your dark mind. See you in this and a slave knows instantly that they must be subservient to you. The mere sight of you will have them quaking. Wear some denim Daisy Dukes and you can look sexy, but you also look easy, a floozy. Wear the same item of clothing in latex and you look only powerful and in control. It gives you strength and makes you feel impenetrable, especially in black.’
Destiny isn’t her real name. It’s Pauline, so maybe she is better off with the pseudonym. She is attractive but she looks like she puts her make-up with a trowel. I’d put her at mid thirties. She is tall in her prerequisite heels, and more than amply-chested. Her hips don’t have the same curve as mine. Her raven hair doesn’t have the same length or shine and she doesn’t have the same porcelain paleness to her skin. However, she does have her very own dungeon, and that’s why I’m here.
‘Pay attention to all you wear,’ she says, ‘because slaves respond to perfection. Frayed and patched-up costume gets you only frayed and patched-up slaves. You are only as powerful as you are perfect. However, that doesn’t mean you should confuse the issue. Make one thing the focus. It can be either a body part or an object. My prime focus is the “Queen of Pleasure” - a beautiful, long, smooth dildo in black smoked glass that I wear at my waist. You might choose to accentuate your breasts by leaving them partially naked, or your bottom by having it in netted stockings. Those shoes you are currently wearing would drive many to complete distraction. I know men who would give anything just to see you in them, let alone kiss them. You, maggot, come here!’
The final bit isn’t addressed to me, obviously, but to the nerdy-looking male stood facing the wall. He is dressed in grey schoolboy shorts that reach halfway down his scrawny thighs. To pair them he has long grey socks and clumpily awful black shoes. He has an off-white cotton vest to cover his brawn-free torso and a ridiculous, undersized mock school cap perched atop his head. He goes to Madam Destiny with his head bowed and his hands behind his back.
‘This sorry specimen is Drummond, my husband,’ she says to me with disdain. Drummond! What the fuck kind of name is that? That’s the kind of name you give to a particularly disappointing tortoise. ‘Bring us drinks, maggot. If you don’t guess exactly what my guest here wants, I will cane your horrible backside and send you to your bedroom for the day - and you know what that means.’
What does it mean, I wonder? Those are the secrets this woman will teach me. Whatever it is, it is enough to have Drummond shuffling hastily out with his head bowed and his eyes fixed upon the floor. I’m going to see her wipe the floor with his pasty frame.
‘He is an accountant by trade,’ she informs me. ‘He works to keep me in good things and to send me on luxury holidays. All the money I earn from my clients I keep. We share his money and pay for everything out of it. I’m sure he embezzles a few of his employer’s accounts to ensure there is enough for me to want to keep him but he knows I could comfortably exist without him. He looks a little pathetic, granted, but he is surprisingly well-endowed. Do you have a husband?’
‘I had one but he betrayed me, so I got rid of him.’
‘That sounds wise. If a man cannot adore you entirely then what is the point of him?’
‘I’m not sure any man can do such a thing,’ I say. ‘It is just their instinct to put their sexual organs where they are not meant to be. No matter what the cost, what the harm, or what fleeting pleasure they get from it, they just seem to be incapable of stopping themselves.’
Drummond returns with a silver tray bearing two champagne flutes and something, if not champagne then certainly sparkly inside them. I hadn’t actually considered what I had wanted to drink but if I had it would have been this. Drummond’s arse should rightfully thus be spared a caning and I nod towards the woman to signal this. She looks a little smug that her slave did so well.
‘That is where you are wrong,’ Madam Destiny tells me. ‘My husband would never cheat on me. He knows his life would be worthless if he did, so it would never begin to enter his head. He is not even allowed to look at another woman whilst I am present. I will teach you how to make a man live only for you, to never even think of another woman but you.’
She sounds a bit sanctimonious and I’m a privately a touch riled that this woman presumes to think that she can enchant men more successfully than me. I’m not talking twerps like Drummond here. I’m talking men worthy of me. I flash the scrawny fuck of a husband a nasty look, since it’s his supposed fidelity that’s allowed her this little one-upmanship. He keeps his sorry eyes firmly at the floor, the little shit.
‘Each man has an invisible chain that can link to you, a mental bind that makes him put you first,’ she lectures me. ‘Find out what that is or find a man who will worship whatever it is about you that you want him to adore. If you want your bottom to be worshipped then make it your focus. There are enough men out there just waiting to give it their all. Put the detail, attention and money into that one chosen area. Whatever you choose - body part, apparatus, clothing item - it can be something you give them as a reward to work towards, or something they are strictly forbidden from ever knowing. It depends on your slave and how their mind works, so hold it back until you know. Never give it away too quickly or too cheaply. Make them earn it or yearn for it; that is your power.’
‘Surely all men are different and all have different stimuli that turn them on?’ I say. Perhaps she isn’t the expert she claims to be. I know enough to know that it’s every bit as much about specific mental stimulation, not just physical.
‘You can choose a different focus for different slaves if you have more than one - whatever gives you the strongest hold over them. Drummond here lives for the Queen of Pleasure. Another slave I have lives for my cunt. I bare it for him in crotchless rubber panties that squeeze it and make it look all fat and juicy. I let him smell it, blow on it. Sometimes I play with myself just above him, so the droplets of my cream fall over his face, but he will never have it all. He wants my cunt more than he wants life itself, but no part of him will ever touch it. It makes him utterly mad for me.’
Well, I can’t deny that’s exactly the kind of thing I want to hear. I want bastard men driven insane with desire for me. I want them to suffer in my company. I want them to know that the agony of not doing what they want to me is nothing to the pain of them frittering half my life away just because they think that putting their cock inside somebody else is just harmless fun with no consequences. I want all men from now on to serve me and stoke this raging furnace of filthy thoughts inside me and beg me to heap it upon them. I want them scarred by me, for all time. I want them wailing with despair when I decide I have no more use for them.
It struck me that I don’t instinctively know how to make this happen. A month ago I watched my husband fuck a tied-up girl on his last day alive and I raged at how much of an opportunity he wasted. I would have done a much better job on her. However, I don’t know that I would have done the best job on her that I could, and that got my goat. My husband’s demise left me rich, angry, empty, and burning with unquenched desire. It also left me able to do those things he had robbed me of. My pussy was ever itching and images of bound up fuck slaves made it hotter still. It seemed obvious that I should become a Goddess of Bondage. It is my destiny.
Maybe that’s why I chose Pauline here, although it helped that she was within a reasonable drive. I wanted a professional to show me the ropes, so that it was instinctive. I wasn’t sure how I wanted to use my new-found skills but I knew that I wanted to be the best at it, that I would take everyone’s breath away. I wanted to know all the triggers and tricks. I wanted to be hopeles
sly and crushingly adored, to rip out hearts with a simple sight of me. I wanted to be served in any and every way that took my fancy and never let down. I wanted them to suffer in ecstasy because that is what would give me most pleasure and make me so essential to them. I wanted to satisfy this burning fever inside me by hurting them every bit as much as I have been hurt.
‘I must prepare in the dungeon,’ says Madam Destiny. ‘The maggot will bring you down when I call.’
Off she goes. Her put-on tone is starting to grate but I understand that for many it is all about the little details. You play a role and you mustn’t stray from it. Everything has to be exact, even if you are only dealing with a little shit like her husband.
‘Drummond, you fucking pea shoot,’ I hiss at him. ‘What’s all this tripe about you never cheating on her? I bet you are wanking over some cheap whore’s tits all day long as soon as she is out of sight. I know a snivelling cocksucker like you would betray her in an instant, so why didn’t you admit as much and stop her making me out to be wrong?’
‘No, Mistress - I would never cheat on her!’ he implores, eyes still not on me. I almost slap him.
‘What the hell makes you think you are any different to any man? None of you can help yourself, especially a scrawny turd like you. I know you would jump at the chance.’
‘I have never, could never, betray her!’ he wails.
‘Well that’s because you’ve never had anyone like me tempt you. Do you honestly think she is worth more than me?’
‘She is worth more than anyone!’ he kind of squeals, but his voice is cracking.
‘And your life would be worthless if you cheated on her?’ I spit. ‘Well think how worthless your life would be if you missed out on someone like me.’
He looks like he is quivering at the thought. He jumps when he gets the call from his wife downstairs, and this perhaps snaps his mind out of visions of other, sexier Mistresses dominating him.
‘I could never betray her,’ he reaffirms, trying to sound decisive.
‘Yeah? Well maybe we are going to see about that.’
He hurries along to show me down to the dungeon. I shoo away his offer of a helping hand as I teeter down the wooden slatted staircase to the basement, even though an unaided descent could easily lead to a swift, stuntman-like fall and a broken face at the bottom. There is a sudden sense of foreboding, going subterranean with a strange perv urging me down to where his self-confessed sadist of a wife awaits me in their dungeon, but I guess that’s the whole point. It’s the psychology thing, already working. Anyway, I remind myself that I am a killer. Since there is zero chance of there being more than one murderer in this particular bit of quiet suburbia, I know I must be safe. It’s nice to know I have rendered myself statistically immune to killers simply by butchering someone who didn’t deserve me.
The stairs open out to the room. It was never going to be one of those castle dungeon sets you see in pictures and specialist fetish films but they have spent money and done a good job. It is a touch chilly and smells very slightly of damp, but I suppose I will let them live. Lighting has been chosen well, to allow good visibility and highlight specific areas against the dark walls. The equipment is enough to get one’s belly fluttering. There are racks and tables to secure the slave, plus all manner of items of kinky torture on open display, some to make the blood bubble around your veins. There is a smell of rubber and PVC, and of gorgeous, wrenching climaxes. Madam Destiny stands there in her rubber catsuit with hands on hips and a narrow, black plastic prick poking out from her waist. On the table beside her sits a wonderful smoked glass dildo standing proudly upright: the Queen of Pleasure, no doubt. I hear Drummond suck in his breath at the sight of it, and I think I might have done the same.
‘Maggot,’ she says, barely even looking at her husband, ‘go upstairs and sit on your hands until I call for you.’
This is a surprise and perhaps a bit of a disappointment since I’d expected to enjoy seeing some of those nastier weapons of torture in use on him. However, I’m here to learn and so I note the words she uses; the task she sets him to keep him from snatching a tension-relieving wank in his absence. He could always disobey, of course, but what is the point of that? The thrill comes in doing what one is told, whatever the frustration, pain or humiliation of it. Just like that she has caused him all three. She has robbed him of seeing us in action, stopped him from emptying his aching balls, and essentially told me that he is a persistent and sneaky wanker, all in that one sentence. She’s good!
She talks me through the various items hanging ready at her disposal, using pieces of apparatus to demonstrate hardness of stroke.
‘Each individual has different tolerances which can often be increased, so start light and add the weight by degrees,’ she says. I must remember this when I’m full of raging desire and snarling lust. She talks of the psychology, of how just being in this room will open up a whole plethora of dirty thoughts and erotic potential. I couldn’t agree more. Today, she tells me, is about learning to appreciate one’s position of power before having to actually wield any. She gives me details of specific techniques and nuances that can be used with certain pieces of apparatus.
‘This, for instance,’ she says, pointing out an item that has cuffs for the neck and wrists joined by a metal bar that will run down the victim’s back. ‘Do you see the genius of it?’
I study it and look like I might do but don’t actually offer an answer.
‘Yes, you can only really tell when it is being worn,’ she continues. ‘Allow me.’
So she lifts it off the wall and talks me through how to put it on with precisely the right tension to the cuffs, and then I am wearing it - my first ever bodily contact with a bona fide piece of bondage equipment! I get a little hotter from doing so, a little panicked too, which morphs into an extra prickle of excitement.
‘You see now?’ she asks.
I kind-of do, but don’t. I vaguely attempt to wriggle loose to see if that will give me a clue as to what she is referring to but it’s not doing anything I hadn’t expected of it. I’m cuffed; big deal. It says that on the tin.
‘Not really,’ I say, not wanting to look like I just agree with everything she says.
‘Well, the real genius of it is that I have just got you into it without any effort at all, without you really wanting to be in it. And so now I control you.’
My gut lurches a little because she has a point. I can’t move my hands, and because my neck is held she can easily lead me by the little metal loop hanging from the cuff there. She is slowly bringing me forward. I can’t stand my ground. She takes me toward a metal frame, like a square dining table but with the centre piece removed. My thighs dig into the front edge so I can go no further, but still she pulls at the loop in the neck cuff and so I have to go forward, bending myself over the table. There is a metal clip set into the frame now just below my chin and with a swift movement of her fingers there the hoop at my neck is secured to it. I am prone and unable to move. I had been a little dubious about her actual powers of dominance before but suddenly I am completely at her mercy.
My instinct is to warn her, to make her think of the consequences once I am released, but what is the point of that? How do I know what fate she has in mind for me and what state I will be in when or if I am freed? My cheeks flush at my meekness and stupidity in allowing her to get me like this so easily. The nerves start to unload. It is like electricity within me, right inside my sex. It strikes me that some of those nasty things I had pictured being done to Drummond might well be coming my way.
‘Don’t be embarrassed that I tricked you so easily,’ she says. ‘Much of this equipment has a kind of pull on all of us that we can’t escape - like the need to peer over cliff edges or touch something we have been specifically told not to touch because it will burn us. Most of us can’t help ourselves. We have to fly in the
face of danger to understand it. I know how to use that. I also know that however worried you are right now, however much you can’t bear the thought of what I might do, however much stronger you thought you were than me, you will still have a buzz going through you right now. It might seem like fear but that is very close to excitement. Utter fright and humiliation can be turned to ecstasy very easily. I know that even in your panic, your pussy is wet right now.’
I feel my muscles clenching as if to hide this truth from her but she is right. Quite why my precarious position is having such an effect on me is baffling but unquestionable. Vulnerability is something I despise and have always sought to eradicate from my life. You do this by always being in charge, and I am far from that right now. I have a sudden vision of Detective Inspector Stark stood behind me, a hint of a cruel grin at the sides of his mouth, his exposed stiffened prick reaching out from the crotch of his sharp suit and pulsing with the thrilling potential of what he could do with me. The tingle goes through where I am most vulnerable.
‘I want to close your eyes now, Anoushka.’
She still has that mock purring tone to her voice like she is the Queen of Seduction but I do as she says nonetheless.
‘I want you to imagine some of the apparatus that I showed you. Yes, I know, you have just thought of one of the ones you are most nervous about but that’s human nature again. Give someone a cane and tell them that using it on them will hurt and what do they do? They smack themselves on the palm with it, always too hard. We can’t help ourselves. We are compelled by pain because it might be the thing that kills us and all our instincts say we must know it to give ourselves a chance against it. Plus our systems work off nervous responses. If some stimuli becomes too much for us our brain switches the response so that it can continue to detect it. Extreme cold can feel like warmth and vice versa. Too much sweetness is sensed as bitterness. Excess of pain becomes a sea of pleasure. I want you to imagine what some of my toys would feel like if I used them upon you. Imagine the strike and the sear, the heat of the pinch. Picture the shiver. Can you feel the tingle across your skin?’
