Domination Inc.

by Drusilla Leather

  There was another woman in the room, Cindy realised, as her eyes became accustomed to the dim lighting. She was a little above average height, with long tousled dark hair and an olive complexion.

  ‘I’d like you to meet my art editor, Consuela,’ Sheena said.

  If Cindy’s outfit was on the daring side, Consuela’s was positively indecent. She wore a sheer bodystocking of fine mesh, and a leather corset belt that was fastened in front with four large buckles. Crosses of black gaffer tape covered Consuela’s nipples, but she wore no panties, and the thick, jet-black bush of hair that covered her mound was clearly visible through the bodystocking.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you,’ Consuela said, with a heavy Spanish accent. She held out a hand for Cindy to shake, but when Cindy went to exchange the pleasantry she found herself being thrown through the air, to land in a heap on the playroom floor.

  ‘I must stop her from doing that,’ Sheena told Cindy. ‘She’s not only a talented designer and a very beautiful woman, but she’s an expert in judo as well.’

  ‘Thanks for warning me,’ Cindy said, rubbing her backside.

  ‘So we tie her up now?’ Consuela asked, a wicked smile on her face.

  ‘You’re very eager tonight,’ Sheena chided her. ‘Don’t we have time for a few social niceties? After all, we’ve got a birthday to celebrate, and I do like to unwrap my presents before I play with them...’

  Sheena helped Cindy to her feet, and pressed her lips to the bottle-blonde’s in a deep, lingering kiss. Her mouth was soft, so different in feel from a man’s, and Cindy tasted cigarettes and red wine as she returned the kiss. Consuela, despite her apparent impatience to see Cindy tied up and thrashed, could not resist joining in the embrace, her hands roaming over Cindy’s gentle curves and the fuller contours of Sheena’s body, before moving down to unfasten the waspie Cindy was wearing, and to roll the stockings down her legs.

  It was Sheena’s finger, however, that finally snaked down under the edge of Cindy’s rubber G-string, seeking the soft warmth of her vagina.

  ‘You’re incredibly wet,’ Sheena murmured. ‘You must really want this, Cindy.’

  She removed her probing finger and put it to her lips, wanting to taste Cindy’s juices. An expression of surprise crossed her face as she licked it clean. Instantly, she pulled away from the three-way clinch.

  ‘You’ve been with a man!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘W-well—’ Cindy stammered. ‘I told you, the cab hadn’t been paid for, so I had to give the driver something to cover the fare.’

  ‘So you used your body,’ Sheena sneered. ‘It’s not the most imaginative solution, is it, Cindy? You knew tonight was all about the pleasures that only a woman can bestow on another, and yet you choose to – to defile yourself with a man’s spunk.’

  ‘I’d hardly say I’d been defiled,’ Cindy replied, her quim muscles clutching involuntarily as she thought how the blond taxi driver had thrust so pleasurably into her. More than ever, she was sure that Sheena Thorn had intended this to happen. Even though the immediate traces of their lovemaking had been wiped away by the cabbie, the remnants of his spunk were bound to leak from her. It was all the excuse Sheena needed to administer a good beating.

  ‘What you have to say isn’t important any more,’ Sheena told her. ‘Consuela, help me, will you?’

  The Spanish girl required no second bidding. She aided Sheena in dragging a struggling Cindy over to the St Andrew’s cross and pressing her firmly against it, her front flush against the smooth dark wood, while Sheena strapped Cindy’s wrists and ankles to the frame. The whole movement was effected within seconds, leaving Cindy securely bound and helpless. As a final touch, Consuela unclipped the fastening of Cindy’s bra top, leaving the little garment to dangle uselessly from Cindy’s shoulders.

  With the back of her body completely naked, apart from the thin rubber strip of the G-string, she knew she presented a tempting target. She had no idea what Sheena intended to use to punish her, until the woman came to stand before her. The cross had been designed to leave the victim’s face visible, and Cindy was also aware that a semi-circle had been cut out from the bottom of the X, squarely at crotch level. Her mind was still reeling with the implications of that refinement as she realised what implement Sheena was brandishing. It was a cat o’nine tails, the thin leather thongs about a foot long and shiny from use.

  ‘I did think about gagging you,’ Sheena said, ‘but I want to hear you beg for mercy.’

  She disappeared out of Cindy’s line of sight. The next thing Cindy knew was the impact as the cat cut into her flesh, points of fire scattering across the surface of her buttocks. She shrieked, knowing her cry would be inaudible to anyone outside the room. Above them, dance music continued to play at high volume, muted to a rhythmic thud by the thickness of the playroom’s ceiling.

  The cat fell again and again, Sheena wielding it expertly. After half a dozen strokes Cindy felt as though her whole bottom was ablaze and she was, as Sheena had predicted, begging for her punishment to stop. Her pleas were futile, however: the next stroke fell hard across the tops of Cindy’s widely-spread thighs, and she jerked in her bonds, her eyes smarting with tears.

  ‘Consuela, I think you may need to take Cindy’s mind off things,’ Sheena suggested.

  ‘Claro.’ With that word signalling her assent, Consuela dropped to her knees before the St Andrew’s cross. Now the reason for the cutaway section of wood became clear; it gave the Spanish girl unrestricted access to Cindy’s shaven sex. She pushed the gusset of Cindy’s G-string to one side and pressed her lips to Cindy’s labia. Her tongue snaked out, laving the length of Cindy’s juicy furrow. Cindy moaned as Consuela began to lick her in earnest, the point of her tongue flicking at Cindy’s clitoris.

  Distracted by the pleasurable sensations Consuela’s oral ministrations were creating between her legs, Cindy had forgotten that Sheena was still holding the cat o’nine tails. She was suddenly, shockingly reminded of that fact as it fell hard against her back, striping the soft skin. Consuela kept licking, even as Cindy bucked and howled.

  ‘Nearly there, Cindy, nearly there,’ Sheena crooned, and as Consuela’s busy tongue attacked Cindy’s clitoris, the underlying meaning in her words became evident. An orgasm was building, unstoppable, low down in Cindy’s body, and when the cat landed again, scoring Cindy’s back for a second time, the messages her brain was receiving from her nerve-endings fused in a mixture of pain and exquisite pleasure, and when Cindy cried out this time, it announced to the others in the room that she had reached her climax.

  As her quim pulsed and contracted, Consuela’s tongue was moving away. Something was replacing it; something hard and warm. As it slid into Cindy’s sopping channel she realised it was the handle of the cat o’nine tails. Cindy hung in her bonds, grateful that she was securely held in place, as Sheena used the implement as a makeshift phallus, thrusting it in and out of Cindy’s body.

  The pumping motion pushed Cindy rapidly towards a second orgasm. Her inner muscles clasped the leather handle of the whip as greedily as they had embraced the cab driver’s cock earlier in the evening. She wondered what the man would say if he could see her now, being brought to a climax in this fashion. She wanted him to be here, watching, stroking his thick shaft with his fist. He would time his orgasm so that he came at the same time as she did, his creamy seed splattering over the weals on her back and buttocks, violating her body and yet worshipping it. She could almost taste the thick salty fluid as he wiped it from her skin and pressed it to her lips, ordering her to lick her fingers clean...

  But this was Sheena’s night, she reminded herself, and no men were allowed to enter her Sapphic sanctum. As if to press this point home, she had pulled the cat from Cindy’s shuddering body, and instead of seminal fluid, it was her own juices Cindy was ordered to lick from the handle of the whip.

  Once the smooth leather had
been cleaned to Sheena’s satisfaction, Cindy was released from the cross and helped to stand upright. Sheena took Cindy in an embrace, fastening her bra top for her.

  ‘Thank you; you were everything the agency promised,’ she said, kissing Cindy tenderly on the lips. ‘I think you deserve a drink after that. Come on, let’s go upstairs. I want to introduce you to a few people.’

  Two hours later Cindy was standing in the foyer, bidding Sheena goodnight. Half a dozen business cards had been stuffed into her little handbag, all bar one from women who, impressed by Sheena’s enthusiastic account of Cindy’s performance in the playroom, were eager to engage her professional services for themselves. The last card was Sheena’s. ‘You’ve got just what it takes to be in a Sappho photo-set,’ Sheena had told her. ‘I can just see you now, in nothing but high heels and a blindfold, sprawled on black satin sheets...’

  I’m sure you can, Cindy had thought, but what are you going to want me to do for the photographs?

  Sheena gave Cindy one last peck on the cheek. ‘Your taxi should be here any second. I’m sorry about the mix-up on the way here, but I’m sure I told them to put the fare on my account. Let me give you some money; I wouldn’t want you to have the same problem going home.’

  Cindy glanced across the foyer, and spotted a familiar blond figure standing by the door, his eyes widening at the sight of so much scantily-clad female flesh. She shook her head, remembering the feel of his thick cock, and guessing how he would react when he saw the stripes that marked her punished backside. ‘It’s okay, Sheena. If you don’t mind, I’d like to come to my own arrangement…’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘He wants me to do what while he watches?’ Warren asked incredulously.

  Laurel slipped on her wire-framed glasses and looked at the notes she had taken in the course of her conversation with Alan Wesley. ‘It seems Mr Wesley and his wife have got this fantasy where he comes home from work unexpectedly and catches his wife in bed with some young stud. The wife and her lover make the guy strip off, tie him to a chair, laugh at the size of his cock, and then she lets this bloke do all the things to her that she’s never let her husband do while the husband is forced to watch them at it.’

  ‘But I thought we were only catering for submissive women,’ Warren said. ‘This guy sounds like the biggest wimp on the planet, if you ask me.’

  ‘Well, they’ve planned it as a fortieth birthday treat for the wife, Carol, and they’d be paying us for an overnight stay, so I don’t really want to turn them down. Anyway, I don’t see why we shouldn’t cater for the odd couple now and again, if there’s a demand. And I’ve never known you to have any qualms about performing in front of an audience before.’ Her hazel eyes flashed with mischief behind the lenses of her glasses. ‘Or is it that you’re worried you’re not going to match up to Mr Wesley’s idea of a stud?’

  She rested her chin on her cupped hand, and slipped her little finger between her pink-painted lips as she did so. Warren realised her gesture was purely intentional in its symbolism, and fought not to rise to the bait, even as his cock twitched treacherously in his boxer shorts. The only thing he wanted to see sliding into Laurel Angell’s mouth was his rigid erection, and he was sure she knew it as well as he did. And you didn’t need to have a nine-inch monster lurking in your underwear to convince a woman you were the best lover she’d ever experienced, not if you were an expert in using what you actually had. If Laurel’s wet little pussy or tight, unplundered arse were ever available to him, she’d learn that lesson remarkably quickly. One day he’d have her over that desk and give her backside the skelping she deserved for being such a blatant tease, boss or no boss…

  He realised Laurel was staring at him, an amused expression on her face. He stared back, giving every impression of having been completely unruffled by her actions.

  ‘There’ll be no complaints on that score, don’t you worry,’ he told her. ‘No point in just giving a woman a little something for her birthday, now is there?’

  Warren was still grinning with self-satisfaction as Laurel reached for the phone to confirm the booking.

  The Wesleys lived in an anonymous-looking tree-lined avenue in Ruislip. Strictly commuter country, Warren thought, walking down past identical houses where television sets flickered behind net curtains and front gardens were dotted with ornamental gnomes and miniature stone wishing wells. Just the sort of neighbourhood where dull suburban couples spiced up their lives with polite wife-swapping sessions at the weekends, passing their partners around like canapés at a cocktail party.

  When Laurel had filled Warren in on Alan Wesley’s background, it had not surprised him to learn that the man worked for a firm of accountants in the City; a dreary job for a dreary-sounding individual. The picture of middle-class respectability had been completed with the information that Wesley was high up in the local Round Table, and played golf off a low handicap on Sundays. No wonder his idea of sexual excitement involved ridicule and humiliation.

  Warren pushed open the front gate of the Wesleys’ semi and walked up the path to the white, double-glazed front door, conscious that in his battered leather jacket he probably looked more like a potential burglar than a houseguest. Carol Wesley opened the door on his knock, as though she’d been watching for his arrival, and ushered him quickly inside. She was a mousy-haired woman, visibly approaching middle age; Warren suspected that twenty years ago she would have been a stunner, but time and the monotony of being a housewife had given her a careworn look which made her seem older than her years. Her hair was piled on top of her head, ringlets framing her face, and she wore a plain black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps that emphasised a surprisingly good figure with small, high breasts and long, slim legs. She giggled, and Warren wondered whether she had fortified her resolve to go through this scenario with the aid of a little alcohol; his suspicion was confirmed when he followed her through to the lounge and spotted an almost empty glass of red wine standing on a fussy lace coaster on the coffee table.

  He kissed her on the cheek, and handed her the bottle of champagne he had brought as a present. ‘Happy birthday, Carol. You’re looking great tonight,’ he said, slipping into the rôle of attentive lover.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, blushing slightly at the compliment. ‘Should I put this in the fridge?’ she asked, gesturing to the champagne. She sounded slightly nervous, and eager to please.

  ‘Sure,’ Warren replied easily, ‘we can drink it after...’

  Carol chattered on as she walked down the hall. ‘Look at the time. Typical of Alan, can’t even leave the office early on my birthday.’

  ‘Gives us more time to spend together, though.’ Warren dropped his jacket over the arm of the sofa and wandered into the kitchen. As Carol was busy finding a space in the overloaded refrigerator for the bottle, he came up behind her and began to nuzzle her neck. She smelt of a floral, slightly powdery perfume, and wriggled half-heartedly in his grasp.

  ‘Not here, Alan might be back at any minute.’

  ‘Ah, come on, Carol, wouldn’t you like him to see you like this? In the arms of the man who makes you feel the way he’s forgotten how to? Or would you prefer him to see you like this?’

  As he spoke, Warren pushed the straps of the dress down over her shoulders. As he had guessed, she wore no bra beneath it, and he turned her to face the big picture window over the sink, so they could see their own reflections against the glass, the small brown aureoles of Carol’s breasts already stiffening with excitement. Warren cupped the soft mounds and began to squeeze them roughly, summoning a moan from between Carol’s lips. His cock had already begun to stir, and the feel of her firm breasts in his hands made it twitch with excitement and lengthen further.

  ‘Look at yourself, Carol,’ he murmured, pinching harder at her nipples. ‘Really look at yourself. You’ve been with Alan so long all you see is the little drudge he’s turned you into, but
deep down inside is the sexy slip of a thing he married. Sex is a chore with him, now, isn’t it? A couple of minutes of humping and heaving on a Sunday morning, and him not caring whether you come or not.’ He caught her hair, pulling it loose from the clips that held it, so it spilled down onto her bare shoulders. ‘When was the last time your husband had you like this, half-naked in the kitchen and panting like a bitch on heat?’

  He was rucking up the hem of her dress as Carol hung limp in his arms, lulled by the hypnotic tone of his voice and the images he was planting in her head. She made no protest as he took hold of her hand and guided it beneath the bunched-up fabric, to rest on her peach-coloured French panties. Her best underwear, saved for a special occasion, he suspected.

  ‘Go on, Carol, touch yourself,’ he urged. ‘I want to watch you play with your pussy.’

  Hesitantly at first, Carol began to comply, running her fingers lightly over the silky material. As she continued to stroke her mound Warren bit her throat, bruising her skin.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Carol whispered, startled back to awareness by the sudden pain.

  ‘As soon as I saw the creamy skin on that neck of yours I wanted to mark it,’ he replied. ‘It’ll let that wimp of a husband know you’ve been with a real man.’ Warren lowered his voice. ‘I’m going to mark those lovely tits of yours, too.’

  He noticed that Carol’s fingers moved lower as he spoke, cupping her fleshy labia where they were cradled in the gusset of the French panties.

  ‘Do you want that, Carol?’ he asked. ‘Do you want me to bite your tits? Do you want me to do it while your husband watches?’