Chains in Mind

by S. May

  “That’s enough,” she told him. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense his frustration and surprise. He really didn’t understand her very well yet, but he would learn. In the meantime, his disappointment - which was the denial of giving her a climax, rather than getting one himself, which he must already have known wasn't going to happen - amused her.

  “Covers,” she said, sleepily, and he tucked them round her, tenderly.

  “Turn out the light.” He could only just reach the switch, up by the head of the bed. “Now put your arm under my shoulders, and your hand under the pillow to support my head. Put your other arm under my legs,” she told him. “Hold me.”

  Naked, kneeling, and locked to the bed by his groin, James held his mistress - wrapped in the warm, comfortable, duvet - gently, like a baby, supporting her head with one hand, his other arm under her thighs.

  She snuggled down to sleep, every small movement of her body, transmitted through the mattress to his groin, making him quiver with frustration. She felt his firm, strong, body around her. She knew that he would hold her until morning, despite the growing ache in his muscles, and his tiredness, all through the long night. He lived to serve her, and was happy to be used and ignored for her comfort. She smiled to herself as she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Simon turned crimson as Christine paused in front of his small, low, desk set right outside her office. A few feet away, he could see the other two assistant consultants, sitting working outside the offices of their respective bosses, pretending not to notice. Christine put one manicured finger on his cheek, the long, red, fingernail sharp against his skin, and idly drew it down and across his throat, and up the other cheek. He looked at the floor.

  “You can come in, now, Simon,” she told him. It had become a regular thing. Most days, at about eleven, Christine would go to the ladies’ cloakroom, and when she returned she would draw the blinds and then take him into her office and set his tongue to work for her under the cover of her desk for a couple of hours, immobilised by the metal arm-tubes. Everyone knew, but no one talked about it. And where Christine led, the other two ladies followed: it was happening to the other two assistants as well, each with their own boss. After lunchtime, the guys couldn’t meet each other’s eyes, keeping their heads down, trying to bury themselves in their work.

  Christine did keep him fed, giving him something every morning - or lunchtime at the latest - and every evening. What she provided seemed random, but it wasn’t. After a while, Simon realised he was getting a balance of carbohydrates and protein and vitamins, and he was getting just about enough: he was always ravenous before feeding, ready to eat anything she offered, however degrading or disgusting, and just a little hungry afterwards, never sated.

  Today, however, she took her seat and gestured that he should remain standing in front of her desk. She took her time looking him up and down.

  “Simon, I’ve decided to take on Todd and Jake as my assistants,” she told him. They were the two other guys in the office, the only two who had not already been demoted to assistant status. For some time now, they had been sitting with desks facing each other, like a lonely little island in the open-plan area. It might even be a relief for them: they had been looking thin and haggard, with dark circles round their eyes, as they tried to earn enough to survive. At least if they joined Simon as assistants, their performance review would depend simply on Christine’s opinion: if they could please her, then they would be okay.

  “That means, of course,” she continued, “that you are surplus to requirements.” She paused, for effect, as panic spread over his features. “You’re fired.”

  He just stood there, the blood draining from his face. He didn’t know what to do. He still owed the lease on the flat, the flat that Christine now used, and he had no savings any more. The idea that he could just go bankrupt, and then start again, literally did not occur to him. His thoughts scuttered about, like mice in a trap, searching for a way out. She let him wait, letting the full weight of his situation come home to him.

  “On a different subject,” she said, “I wonder how you would feel about being my hubby?”

  He looked at her, bewildered, his eyes widening. A proposal?

  “Short for house husband,” she explained, “although I wouldn’t be planning to marry you in a legal sense: the law gives you far too many rights. No, I have in mind that you’d sign a contract assigning to me your assets, if you have any left, that is,” he shook his head. Apart from a few changes of clothes, everything else had gone, “... and any future earnings. Promise to ‘serve, honour, and obey’ me, I think the traditional phrase goes, and in return I’ll promise to keep you, for as long as we live. How does that sound?”

  He didn’t know how it sounded. He didn’t understand how his life had come to this. He felt inadequate and stupid in front of her. Maybe he did need her guidance, her protection. She was a safe haven: he wouldn’t have to make his own decisions any more. He didn’t know what else to do. He had no job, no references, no prospects.

  “Yes, thank you, Christine,” he said, quietly.

  “Good boy, Simmy,” she said, with a friendly smile. He frowned. His grandmother had sometimes called him ‘Simmy’ when he was little, and he had always hated it.

  “‘Simon,’” he said, surprising himself with his temerity. It didn’t last.

  “If I want to call you ‘Simmy’, then that’s your name. That’s the deal. Unless you want to call the whole thing off?” Christine put a little steel into her tone, to pull him back into line.

  “No, Christine.”

  “So, what’s your name?”

  He bit his lip. “‘Simmy’, Christine.”

  “Good boy,” she said again. “Well, you can consider yourself engaged. We’ll go at lunchtime and see about some rings.”

  “Uh, Christine, I’m sorry, I don’t have any money to buy you an engagement ring.”

  She laughed at him, genuinely amused at his stupidity. “No, no. I’ll buy them. Don’t worry about it.”

  She sent him back to work with a flick of her hand.

  At lunchtime, Simon had expected Christine to take him to a jewellers’ on the high street, but she led him away from the crowds, down a side street, and then down a back alley. Christine was wearing a short black jacket, which was obviously from a boutique; it was buttoned tightly at the waist, with only a few inches of flare below. A matching pencil skirt hugged her figure from waist to knees. She had a gold brooch on her lapel, and matching stud earrings. She walked superbly, her feet, in glossy patent-black court shoes with three-inch heels, each stepping on the same straight line, her slight sway emphasising her elegance and sophistication.

  Simon’s suit was almost threadbare. If he could have, he would have bought a new one by now, and he had several times regretted his own extravagance in choosing - in the days when he had been making money - such a fine grade of wool that it wore out fast. As he trailed along beside her, unconsciously half a step behind, ceding control to her, he felt shabby and second-rate. The difference between them was very noticeable: no one could mistake which one of them was the boss.

  The alley had some bins in it, serving the big shops facing the high street which had back entrances here. Christine picked her way delicately round the empty cardboard boxes and the unidentified patches of wetness that oozed onto the pavement. Obviously, she knew where she was going. At last, they arrived at a scruffy little shop: a low doorway with a single display window beside it. The paint was peeling from the sign. ‘Sullivan’s Tattoos and Body Piercings’ Simon read. Christine went inside, and a tubular bell tinkled.

  The tiny space was crammed with displays of Celtic rings and seashell necklaces and birthstone brooches. Behind the counter was a woman with long, loose, black, hair, dangling ethnic earrings, and a tie-dyed purple dress. She greeted Christine:
they were expected.

  “And this is the lucky boy?” she asked. Her lined, weather-beaten, face held the suspicion of a sneer as she looked Simon over. Christine nodded.

  “Okay then. I’ll just shut the shop.” The woman moved past them to lock the door and lower the blind. “Come through to the back.”

  They all went through the beaded doorway behind the counter. The room beyond was less cluttered, and cleaner, with old lino on the floor. In the centre of the room was a PVC-covered padded bench. It looked as if it had been adapted from a weights machine bench; but there were no weights any more: at the end, a metal frame supported two slings of black nylon strapping, about four feet up, one on either side.

  “Right, boy, strip and lie down,” the woman said. Simon just looked at her, confused. What was going on?

  “You’re going to be pierced, for your rings,” Christine told him. “So, get on with it.”

  She faced him down, quashing his reluctance, his doubt and self-pity. He was in too deep, and obeying Christine had become a habit. He swallowed, getting used to the idea: lots of people got pierced.

  He did as he was told, his hands unconsciously shielding his groin, very aware of his nakedness in front of the two women. There was nowhere to put his clothes, so he left them in a tidy little pile on the floor, in a corner. His face was a picture of dismay and bewilderment, almost child-like. He lay down hesitantly on the bench until he was prone, his hands clasped over his crotch.

  As soon as he was still, the two women working together grabbed his left ankle and raised it and secured it in the left sling, pulling the strap tight. He did not resist. Then they did the same on the right. He was on his back on the bench, with his legs raised high and separated, leaving his groin presented at a convenient working height. With an effort, he might have been able to reach the straps to free himself, but it would be very awkward.

  In any case, next they took his wrists, their four hands dealing with just one of his before moving on to the other, and pulled them down to secure them in manacles that Simon had not noticed, welded to the legs of the bench beneath his head. Now he was helpless, exposed. He shivered, not with cold, but with nerves.

  The woman brought a stool over, and set to work. She shaved a small area on either side of the base of his penis, and swabbed with antiseptic. The anticipation of pain served to prevent any arousal on Simon’s part; his member was shrivelled and flaccid, and the woman handled him matter-of-factly, casually. He was breathing faster and deeper. Lots of people get pierced, he reminded himself.

  “Now, let me see,” the woman said. She walked over and peered at a big stack of tiny plastic drawers, set against the wall. She ran her hand down the labels.

  “Smith ... Smith ... Christine Smith. Ah, here we are.” She got out a little white paper packet and handed it to Christine.

  Christine took it from her and shook out two rings into her hand. She inspected them very carefully; then she smiled with approval, and showed them to Simon, holding them in front of his face, as he lay secured on the bench. They were gold or gold-plated, with a tiny gap in it so that it could be inserted. Finely engraved on each, she pointed out, was her name: Christine Smith.

  “I don’t want you to forget who you belong to, sweetie,” she said, looking down at him with a happy smile. She must have been planning this for weeks at least, Simon realised. Everything was arranged.

  The antiseptic on his skin had dried. The woman took up a metal device looking a bit like a big stapler, and inserted the first ring into the mechanism. She took a pinch of the loose skin right at the base of his penis, on one side, where his scrotum began, and brought the piercing device to bear with her other hand.

  She drove the piercing pin right through, and Simon yelled in pain. As she released the punch, it automatically threaded the ring through the hole.

  “Oh, don’t be such a wimp,” she told him, and did the other side. Tears glistened in his eyes.

  There was a little blood. She mopped it up with some cotton gauze, and squirted some quick-drying foam stuff round the entry and exit holes; it stung, but it seemed to stop the bleeding, like a plaster. Next, she took a little tube of epoxy glue and carefully glued the rings shut, using a specialised little pair of pliers to close them, and to apply pressure while the glue set. Simon was, frankly, whimpering.

  “Would you like to take a look?” The woman asked Christine, stepping back. Christine inspected carefully, and declared herself very pleased. The join was invisible, and, she was assured, the glue was at least as strong as the metal itself. Simon shrank within himself as Christine looked closely around his genitals.

  “Halfway there, darling,” Christine comforted him.

  Halfway? He had thought they were finished. But no, two more rings were produced, just like the first two, and the woman moved up to his chest. She put them through his nipples, making the piercing horizontally, so that the rings hung down flat against his skin. He wailed again. He was wet with sweat, and panting raggedly, as she secured and glued them in place, like the first pair.

  “All over now, baby,” she said, with heavy sarcasm, when she had finished. She unfastened his wrists and pulled the ankle straps free: Simon’s legs fell and he sat up. He shivered, his skin was blotchy and clammy with stress. He tried to pull himself together.

  “Make sure you keep ‘em clean. Here’s a leaflet on aftercare.” The woman pushed a photocopied piece of paper into his hands. Automatically, he took it from her. He got dressed slowly, with his back to the women, turning in on himself, trying to comfort himself for his hurt. He was very aware of the four rings fixed through him, claiming him in Christine’s name: his wedding rings, declaring him to be hers.

  “I notice, Simmy,” Christine said, as she took him back to the office, back to work, “that your belly and your front generally is pretty flabby. Do a hundred sit-ups every morning from now on. Understand?”

  “Yes, Christine,” he said dutifully. He was going to be hers. The rings said so. What she wanted was what he had to do. Nothing else was important. Like a drowning animal in the last stages, he had ceased to struggle.

  Chapter 16

  Christine was making him work out a month’s notice. She had given Liz Stewart the same notice on Simon’s place in Liz’s bedsit. It was all arranged: when he left Sallis and Company, he would have nowhere to go but to rely on Christine. After two weeks, she asked him how his piercings were healing.

  “Uh, okay, I suppose.”

  “Good. Tell me, Simmy, do you masturbate?”

  Yet again she had managed to discompose him. It wasn’t easy in a dormitory with three other men, and his rings still hurt, but even so. He reddened.

  “Well, uh, I, uh ...”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” she said. “That’s not acceptable in my fiancé. If you’re thinking about me, then it’s insolent and it’s disgusting, and if you’re thinking about someone else then it’s insulting and disloyal, and disgusting.”

  She opened her desk drawer and took out an object. It was made of a grillwork of white plastic bars, shaped into a cylinder; but the cylinder curved back on itself. At the base of the cylinder were two lugholes, one on each side.

  “Put this on,” she told him, and pushed it across the desk towards him.

  Simon picked it up with distaste. It was clear how it fitted. The curved cylinder was a cage for his penis. His face screwed up in dismay. He opened his mouth to protest.

  “Now!” Christine put some bite in her tone. He quailed at the idea of angering her. He dropped his trousers, and his underwear, and fed himself into the restraint. If he had been erect it would have been impossible, but there was enough room to insert his shrunken member in the cylinder and round the bend. The plastic lugholes came next to his piercing rings.

  “Good,” said Christine. “Now, fasten it in plac
e with this.” It was a metal clip, a split ring, large enough to fit comfortably round the base of his penis. There was a closed loop in each end, and these lay on top of each other when the ring was not being pulled open. It was obvious how she wanted it to fit. He threaded it through his piercing rings and the plastic lugholes on each side, bringing the ends of the clip together on top.

  He stood there, with his trousers and underwear round his ankles, his genitals on display, looking miserable. Christine fished again into the drawer of her desk, and came up with a tiny padlock. She handed it to him.

  “Lock it in place,” she told him. Simon put the hasp through the loops, and snapped the lock shut with a surprisingly loud click.

  “Of course, you could cut it off,” she said, “and if you were careful, you might not even damage yourself, but the point is, you can’t do it without me knowing. And if you do, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t. Clear?”

  “Yes, Christine,” he said. At the moment, it wasn’t uncomfortable in itself, but any tug on the plastic cage transmitted itself, painfully, directly to his piercing rings. He pulled up his clothing very gingerly. He felt empty of emotion. He would have to sit down to pee, he was thinking; the end of his penis was pointing backwards. At least the plastic grill was coarse enough to get his little finger in. He could wash himself.

  “Well now.” Christine looked at her watch. “There’s a good hour until lunch.” She hitched her chair back. “Come and get under the desk.”

  Obediently, Simon moved to obey, to serve her. He didn’t know what else to do. Soon he was on his knees, with his arms firmly held up behind him in the familiar metal tubes, and his mouth full of her pubic hair. She was wearing sheer, white, stockings today, and the embroidered tops round her thighs were pressed against his cheeks. His bent member swelled against its restraint: the narrowness of the cage squeezed it, and the bend prevented it from coming erect. This was only a little uncomfortable, however. The bigger problem was that the swelling was pushing the plastic cage away, and this pulled hard against his piercing rings. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and his arousal subsided somewhat. The reduction in pain then allowed his excitement to resume, so that an unhappy balance was struck between a tolerable level of pain, and a partial swelling.