by Ashley Hind
‘Ignorance is bliss, Anoushka, is it not?’ she smiles, mocking me for losing the blindfold. ‘The thinner the object, the keener the sting. One lick from this cane can have you either coming uncontrollably or passing out. You will despise me for using this but when I have finished with it you will be begging to come to my arms. Are you ready for it?’
No, I am not, but I’m not even shaking my head. She is circling my defenceless backside again. It’s well padded for sure but this cane will surely cut deep. It could leave a permanent reminder. She presses it across both cheeks. I hold my breath. I don’t know how long. It just stays pressed until I cannot be sure if it is still there and my nerve endings are sending false signals. I start to moan with despair. I’m asking for it. And then it comes. One short back-lift followed by a mini swoosh, and then the bite of fire is felt. My eyes scrunch shut. The breath nearly catches but then turns to a screech. I almost wet myself, and my puss is so sodden it feels like I have. I wiggle and jerk and try to absorb the pain. She was right: I hate her for this.
No more, I’m thinking, but my bum is still out there. She presses again, above the line of the first strike. I already know I will struggle to sit down at the dinner party I’m supposed to be going to tonight. Any more and I might not be able to walk to the car. The press remains, longer than before. I know I’m willing the strike again, just to stop the torment. I feel the cane lift but the impact doesn’t come. Instead she is around at my front.
‘Tongue out,’ she says. ‘Tongue out or ten more whips to your backside.’
I can’t take ten more. I can’t take two more. My tongue pushes out within the confines of my gag. The cane is pressed to the flat of it and my panic cascades.
‘One to the tongue or five to the bottom?’ she demands of me. The pain on the tongue is unimaginable. It would slice it clean off. I make a two-syllable noise that can just about be construed as the word “bottom”. It could just as easily have been “neither” but she’s not playing to that kind of choice. So I have just awarded myself five strikes that I cannot possibly bear. My mind is already contemplating the pain. It is already forming images of situations I might be in beyond this to receive such punishment. My dirty mind is already welcoming what my body dreads.
‘Five from the cane or thirty from the paddle?’
I blurt out the two syllable option immediately, so glad to remove the thoughts of cut flesh. I have bartered myself a thrashing from the paddle and it strikes me that she knew I couldn’t take the cane. She just wanted me to beg for the alternative. She sashays off to collect her beater, passing all those other instruments hanging from the wall, almost each piece causing a new flash of rude torture in my mind. Behind me again she runs a finger slowly down my dripping slit.
‘I can’t wait until I’ve made you the most subservient bitch of all,’ she says. ‘Your sweet body isn’t going to know what’s hit it!’
It knows now. The paddle slaps explode on my jiggling flesh, each cheek in turn, over and over. It is instantly overwhelming. I can’t even make a noise. The finger at my entrance slides inside, so easily. The burn engulfs me. I have visions of Inspector Stark standing behind me with a sneer on his face, feasting his eyes on my rude open arse, those sneaky pervert eyes prying into dark privacy as always. His one hand slowly strokes the long, lovely prick protruding from his sharp-creased trousers whilst the other hand tans my hide with venom. So strange: I can feel the adoration for him, just like I have for her. Then the pain breaks and the promised glow is all through me, all warm and wonderful. My whole body quakes. The paddle slaps become just sounds. My long low moan of delight tells her this and she gives up. She pinches my thighs all over, perhaps to find a new spot that can be enlivened. I feel like I’m coming but without the wrack of it. Through cloth ears I hear her speak.
‘I am going to undo one of your cuffs, Anoushka, and I give you leave to do as you wish.’
The wrist is free just as she finishes speaking and we both know what I will do. My hand is reaching back between my legs, my forearm pressed hard to the underside of the hurdle to give me good access. Her finger inside me wriggles and pumps as I rub myself. I have never masturbated in front of anyone before but she made it so easy. I climax almost immediately and it just keeps coming, just one long glorious flow that doesn’t seem to ever want to stop. The throb in my bottom just adds to the sublime feeling. A finger and a hand and her dirty insinuations - she didn’t use much more on me than that, but look what she has done to me.
The bar at my back is removed long before I am clear-headed enough to move. The skirt has been pulled back up over my torn tights. I have no strength to launch an assault against her so all I can do is follow her up out of the dungeon and try to pretend I took it all in my stride.
‘So, the pain can bring euphoria,’ she is saying to me, matter-of-factly, as she leads me on barely working legs to her front door, ‘and when teamed with lots of visual imagery and anticipation it can give climaxes like no other. That ensures worship. It is a goal a slave will do anything to reach. You can make it last all day, should you wish, and should you temper the pace. Or you can threaten it and never give it. Either way you can have your slave doing anything. You can be as dirty as either of you dares. I could have taken your bum today, you do know that? So, next time you come here, I’m going to have you go down on your knees to lick mine, for showing such mercy. OK?’
Yeah, right - like I’m ever coming back here again! I hobble out to my car, like I’m still in a dream. My pussy is crying out for more but I feel guilt and shame in equal measure and my backside is sore beyond words. I’m not quite sure who but somebody is most definitely going to have to pay for this.
Crouching Husband, Hidden Bertrand
That bloody bitch Pauline has left a red stripe on my arse - and I’m not talking the beer variety. I can still feel the smoulder of it. To help reduce the discomfort I have to keep lifting my cheeks in turn from the padded seat Pippa has recently had reupholstered in leather because one of the previous soft covers had a bouillabaisse stain on it. Sixteen chairs re-covered because one was marginally soiled. Still, that’s Pippa all over: a perfectionist when it comes to the subject of entertaining. She is the hostess with the mostest.
She is probably my best friend. She is too straight-laced for me really, but I imagine that keeps me in check. Heidi is more into my pet loves of fashion and shopping, and she has a habit of making my cunt itch, although she seemingly detests all things lesbian so any attempts at seduction would undoubtedly end in a humiliating fail. I’m not sure I want to take Pippa to bed, but I have considered it. She doesn’t have Heidi’s acerbic wit but she can be hilarious when tipsy. Being so fond of parties and liquid lunches, this can be a regular event. Plus she seems to know everything important. People must queue up to tell her, and she passes it all on to me. It’s good to know the ins and outs of everyone connected to our very loose, very changeable circle of friends. You never know when such snippets might need to be used.
Pippa’s party-throwing ways can seem like an obsession but then again she does own the most beautiful, mind-bogglingly extendable rosewood veneered dining table in the West. She has been like it from the time I first knew her, when she was always hosting dinner parties for her husband’s new clients and their wives or partners. This gives a more personal touch than merely taking them out to eat, thus helping to seal any prospective deal. Impressions are everything and everything has to be right, with the result that she is now a bit OCD with the detail. There is no such thing as a simple supper at Pippa’s. She has decor to go with themes. All the place settings have to be exact - even to the point where cutlery all has to be precisely the same distance from the table edge. It’s a touch anal if you ask me, but nowadays whenever I think the words “anal” and “Pippa” in the same sentence, all I can imagine is cajoling her into my bedroom and into some handcuffs and seeing how she copes with the strap-o
n dildo I recently purchased - just like the one Madam Destiny used on me.
Of course, Pippa doesn’t do much of the actual work herself. She has caterers in to do the food, along with wine experts to sort the correct drink to go with the menu. She has designers to help with the decor and the dressing, and she hires a team of waitresses to do the laying of tables and the serving. She consults and points and has the magic happen. At the function itself she is eyes everywhere, ensuring no glass is empty and no one has even a second where things are not just right. Or she is a blur of stressed-out fannying, slipping furtively like some hosting ninja between the chattering guests, always on at the waiters and bar staff to ensure they remain impeccably attentive. You hardly ever see her. She throws some of the most fabulous bashes and yet you might not even realise she is there.
She gets her chance at other events though, and our circle do like to party. If it’s not the races it’s a gallery opening or a boat trip, or whatever. Any excuse to buy a new frock and chug the champers - and Pippa likes her bubbles every bit as much as me. I’m not even sure why she continues being the hostess. It’s just her “thing”; something to focus on and keep her busy, since she doesn’t have as many hobbies as I do. She has her ponies, obviously, since her husband Patrick is into his polo in a big way. I too like a ride, but I’m conscious of not wanting to smell quite as horsey as Pippa does, so I tend to temper my time in the saddle to hunting excursions. I have my golf now that my husband is dead, since I’d never play with him when he was alive because he was so snidely superior and picked holes in my game. Plus I have my shooting and my archery and my Punchercise classes. Most of all I have my research into the world of the dominatrix, not to mention my preoccupation with masturbation and dark images. If time permits I also have my bonsai and my gardening. In fact I’ve currently got handyman Bertrand excavating part of the back lawn. I want to create a Japanese water garden. His digger better not fuck up any of the herb beds though, or I will string him up by the baggy whatsits.
It seems that part of Pippa’s hosting duties tonight include setting me up with eligible bachelors despite the fact that she knows I have zero intent on falling for any high-flying members of the banking sector ever again. He is quite dishy though, from afar. He looks more debonair than flash git. His name is Lionel, pronounced the continental way, because he is Swiss - like so many of the gentlemen I seem to get introduced to, not least whenever we stayed at our apartment in Zurich.
‘I am reliably informed by my husband that dishy Lionel is single,’ said Pippa conspiratorially during pre-dinner cocktails, before flitting off to oversee elsewhere. He is less tall than I would have liked. He caught my eye across the room and raised a glass to me by way of hello, then proceeded to regard me like prey, in his darkly handsome manner. He likes my boots, I can see that. It isn’t surprising. Everyone here has been struggling not to gawp at me in them. They are mid-thigh in shining flesh-hugging black latex, with a high heel but a flat sole, so I won’t have to tower above him. I am in a very short, tight, cleavage-giving LBD, and only latex would properly match the boots. The dress code is Fun Formal, since there are other new clients like Lionel to impress, so it cannot be too outrageous. I’ve decided to bring out the fetish-wear at every available opportunity, and I don’t care what anyone thinks. Black Widow: that’s me.
Lionel has been put opposite me at dinner. His eyes have been on mine from the start. Short men always look more handsome sitting down, don’t you think? I address him in French, not just to show off but to exclude anyone less fluent around me from joining in. It is a good barrier to unwanted conversation. We go through the tiresome formalities of my recent bereavement and, since on the subject of spouses, I ask him if he has ever considered marriage. It transpires that, far from being an eligible bachelor, he already has a wife.
‘Pippa told me that Patrick told her that you were single,’ I say. ‘Now why, I wonder, would he do that?’
He gives me a little smile. He is more wolfish up close, and clearly rather sure of himself. I shift in my seat as my bottom gives me another reminder of the pain I was earlier dealt there.
‘Maybe she misconstrued. I am perhaps single only some of the time.’
The cagey cuckoo-clock fucker.
‘And what does that mean?’ I enquire. He gives me another little smile.
‘At home I have a wife whom I love and cherish above all. But I am away from home a lot, and I still have my needs when away from home.’
I see. He is a just another take-it-for-granted cheat.
‘It sounds like your wife does not do as well from this marriage as you.’
I get a shrug.
‘She has her needs too, no doubt. Maybe she has lovers to see to these whilst I am away. I do not seek to know. It is the life we lead. Even the successful do not necessarily get to control every aspect.’
Does that mean he is prepared to cede control when necessary? I can see Samson a few seats down trying to earwig in on our conversation, but the language eludes him. It is pissing him off, that’s for sure. He looks jealous and put out. I wonder if he will rise and slap that huge cock of his onto the table just to win back my attention. Maybe the Swiss will haul out an equally sizeable weapon and they will fight for me, duelling with cocks for the prize of my sizzling cunt. Lionel remains seated, genitals unexposed. I inform him that I am not particularly partial to bankers.
‘Maybe we are not all cut from the same cloth, Madame,’ he informs me, switching to English. They are all liars, I know that.
After food I find myself cornered by the triumvirate of Lionel, Samson and Patrick, swarming around to give my outfit some close-up gawping. They are all swollen with macho pretension and self-adoration. Each wants to be the one to make the delicious widow swoon. I feel potent at having drawn them all to me but I am surrounded. My puss tingles but my backside won’t let me forget what finding yourself under the control of others can mean.
‘Now those really are sexy boots,’ says a leering Samson, tossing his blond locks like a mane as if to show who has precedence here.
‘They are indeed, Madame,’ says Lionel of Switzerland, with more wolfish glances downwards. He looks a bit hot under the collar.
‘If Pippa ever wore a pair like that,’ offers Patrick, as lecherous-looking as I have ever seen him, ‘I’d struggle to get to work in the morning.’
‘If Heidi ever wore a pair of boots like that,’ Samson intercedes quickly, ‘I’d struggle to ever get out of bed at all!’
‘I’m glad to hear that all that separates your wives from your undivided adoration is a pair of boots,’ I say, refusing to be drawn by this flattery. I nonchalantly sip my cocktail without favouring any of them with eye contact for too long.
‘Of course, it is not just the boots but who is in them,’ smarms Lionel.
‘Yes, absolutely - that’s what I meant.’
‘And no one wears them better!’
This kind of verbal jostling could go on all night. I should seize the initiative, really, but I’m still unsure what best to do. My puss is pestering me for attention and if it gets left unfilled again it is going to be very fucking annoyed with me. I can’t have that. But here are three blatant cheats all out to use my body. I have been used once already today and my ego is in dire need of reasserting itself. Is one of these arrogant bastards prepared to forget their macho pride and put themselves on a plate for me? Only one is supposed to have the kind of cock that should pique my interest - since I could have any man I liked, according to Madam Pauline Destiny. As it happens, external forces narrow the field. Patrick gets called away and has to drag himself off to engage one of his other client guests.
‘Well, I shall have to love you and leave you for now,’ he says to me, looking like the two of us have habitually flirted over the years, which we haven’t, ‘but those really are fucking sexy boots.’
&nbs
p; That’s not all. I think for one bewildering moment that he is going to kiss me, but he is merely leaning in to talk into my ear, so that the other two don’t get to hear his passing shot.
‘They are making me hard,’ he whispers. Then off he goes: the big-shouldered, polo-playing Patrick, husband of my best friend, back into the fray, with just one backward knowing look in my direction as if a deal between us has just been struck. My puss actually gives a sudden twinge, the little Jezebel! He has never been this forward with me before. It’s amazing how the simple death of one’s husband can make all men think you are suddenly ripe for the picking. The other two monitor his exit looking a tad aghast, wondering what the hell he said to me and if it has trumped their efforts. I’m not feeling like a goddess of domination.
‘Well, as entertaining as this is,’ I say, ‘I think I need to go do some sexy-lady-in-sexy-boots things elsewhere.’
They both immediately panic. It’s like they think I’m off to find Patrick for some secret assignation planned through his whispered comment. As if! Although, if I think about it, this is a very big house and his wife is always so busy flitting around that we could probably be secretly fucking for more than an hour and she would never know. That’s another pussy-tingler.
‘Maybe I’m not ready to let you and those boots go just yet,’ says the ever-confident Samson with another toss of the mane. That makes me bridle and that’s my “in”. The surge of indignant power fills me. It’s time to show who is boss.
‘I don’t really give a shit what you think, Sammy, old boy.’ I say. ‘The only people I want following me and my boots around are people prepared to kiss them for me.’
That felt good - the fucking arrogant, big-cocked, cheating worm.
‘Yeah, well, I don’t really do grovelling,’ he says, with a mane toss. His Big-Man attitude is too innate to stop this reply. Immediately he blinks fast, realising that I’m not impressed. He has just dropped the prize and he senses it.
