Chains in Mind

by S. May

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have. Really, there was no need,” Christine said automatically. She unwrapped it. Inside there was a small gilt chain, about eight inches long, with a clip on each end. At the centre of the chain, an oversized link was the permanent attachment point for a long leather strap, with a loop handle on the other end, like a dog lead.

  “Oh, that’s lovely. Thank you so much.” Christine turned it this way and that, admiringly. “I suppose I’d better try it out.” She laughed. “Simmy, come here.”

  Simon had been waiting awkwardly since the ladies sat down, unsure if he was supposed to go and get on with the washing up. He got up and went over to Christine.

  “Right, stand still,” she said. She leaned forward to see to him.

  She clipped each end of the chain through the ring that pierced one of Simon’s nipples. It wasn’t very heavy: obviously not real gold, but the weight was enough for him to be very aware of it hanging in an elegant curve between his sensitive piercings. Christine kept hold of her end of the leash.

  “Now stand back. Let us look at you,” she ordered. The leash was about six feet long: ample for him to present himself, as the ladies made him turn and pose so that they could admire the effect from all angles.

  Without warning, Christine pulled on the leash. Instantly, Simon squealed, and jerked towards her. He stumbled, and fell to his knees by her chair. His nipples were burning with the yank that she had given them. She took up the slack, her right hand holding the leash only a few inches from the nipple chain. He could not get up or pull away. He looked at her in distress.

  “Well that seems to work alright,” she said, to the room in general. She took her end of the leash and draped it round Simon’s shoulders, so that the handle loop hung down his chest, almost like a tie below his bow tie. “Simmy, leave it on for now. It looks good.”

  Ms. Denton interrupted. “My present next,” she said. She got out a cardboard box thirty inches long and about three inches wide. “Congratulations, Christine,” she said, as she handed it over. Christine opened the box. The gift was made of light brown leather. At one end there was a handle, a bit like a cricket bat handle, wrapped in leather. A flat strip of leather, like a soft-surfaced but stiff belt two inches wide, emerged from the end of the handle, and almost immediately forked into two, so that two one-inch-wide belts ran beside each other, twenty inches long. As Christine held the handle horizontal, the leather was so stiff that the belts did not hang limply, like the cords of a lash, but nor did they stick out rigidly, like a cane: they veered downwards under their own weight in a smooth curve. She jiggled the handle experimentally, and the leather blades bounced up and down.

  “Wow,” she said. She glanced at Simon, who was looking very unhappy.

  “Control and discipline,” Ms. Denton explained. “That’s what the two presents represent: that’s what any male needs, so the woman he belongs to should have them available to her.”

  Christine nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks, Susan. That’s great. Really,” she said. There was a pause.

  “Well, I dare say you want an early night,” said Margaret. All three ladies smiled, knowingly. “Perhaps we should be going.”

  Simon got back to clearing the table and cleaning the kitchen, as the ladies took some time to get round to leaving. Eventually, he heard them reach the hall, and, as he knew was expected, went to help them on with their coats. They left as a group, still joking and laughing boisterously. Christine waited until the lift had taken them, and then shut the door. The two of them were alone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Christine smiled at her hubby.

  “Have you finished cleaning up?” she asked him.

  “Just about, Christine, there’s just the casserole dish still soaking.”

  “Leave it till the morning,” she ordered, “and go and make sure you’re clean, and get ready for bed.” She went ahead of him to the bedroom. In its cage, Simon’s member began to stiffen and swell painfully: this was, he presumed, his wedding night. So far, he had only used his tongue on Christine, but surely she would want more, now?

  When he returned, she had changed into a flimsy black negligée that came halfway down her thighs, and was sitting at the dressing table, removing the last of her make-up. She looked relaxed. The flat was very quiet, and she spoke softly.

  “Brush my hair,” she told him.

  Obediently, Simon stood behind her, and started to tease out her long dark-golden locks with the hairbrush. The leash attached to his nipples was getting in the way; he swung the free end over his shoulder so that it hung down his back. They looked at each other in the mirror as he worked. He saw the belt, Ms. Denton’s present, lying on the carpet under the dressing table. Christine must have brought it through.

  “I want to make a couple of things clear,” she told him as he brushed. “What is the purpose of the female orgasm?”

  It wasn’t a question he had ever considered, and certainly not one he was expecting now. “Uh, well, I suppose it helps to ..., uh, well, I’m not sure.”

  “Exactly: it has no purpose except pleasure. The purpose of the female orgasm is pleasure. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, Christine.”

  She paused, not rushing the discussion.

  “How about the male orgasm?”

  “Oh, well,” - he was more confident - “ejaculation is essential to fertilise the egg, and make a baby.”

  “Right again. The purpose of the male orgasm is reproduction. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, Christine.” He was still in the dark about where this was going.

  “Well, then, it should be clear to you, that during sex for pleasure, the female orgasm is central. Yes?”

  “Uh, I suppose so, Christine.”

  “And the male orgasm has a different purpose, so if it happened during sex for pleasure that would be a deviation from its natural purpose?”

  He didn’t like this at all.

  “Well, I don’t know. I suppose ...”

  “Come on: you just told me so. That’s the way it is, isn’t it?” she insisted.

  He bowed his head. “Yes, Christine.”

  “Exactly, and you know the name for an unnatural deviation: it’s a perversion. All men are perverts, leering at women’s bodies. Touching themselves. Obsessed with their sordid appetites. It’s disgusting.” She didn’t look disgusted: she looked subtle and knowing and a bit smug, as she stated her official position. She stood up, took the hairbrush from him, and set it down on the dressing table.

  “Well,” she continued, “I’m not a pervert; and while you’re with me, I won’t let you be one either.” She moved to the bedside table and got something out of the drawer. “Put this on. It fixes on the top of your chastity cage.”

  On the top side of the plastic cage Simon wore, just in front of the padlock that fastened the metal ring in place, the regular rectangular array of plastic bars was interrupted by a flat circular pattern of grillwork, an inch in diameter. Simon had not known why, or that there was any reason beyond decoration. Now, however, Christine handed him a plastic, phallus-shaped, toy. It was longer and thicker than Simon’s erect member had ever been; it made him feel unsettled, inadequate. On the base were some clips. He could see that it fitted onto the cage and locked by twisting.

  He slipped off his golden G-string and put it on. The plastic clips dug painfully into the shaft of his half-swollen penis, and he stuck a finger through the bars to settle things less uncomfortably. The plastic phallus swayed erect, much where his natural member would have been. He was still wearing the bow tie, and collar and cuffs.

  Christine just admired the effect for a few moments, as he stood there.

  “Bring your lead back to the front,” she told him. He obeyed, letting it hang down from his nipple chain to the floor.

  �
�Well,” she mused, “you are wearing your wedding present, and one of mine. I wonder if I should try out my other one.”

  “No. Please, Christine.” He tried to speak calmly and reasonably.

  “I didn’t ask you,” she said, with just enough edge to remind him of his place. She pretended to consider. “Well I suppose it would be rude of me not to use Susan’s gift. She’s sure to ask.”

  Good old Susan, Simon thought, bitterly.

  Christine came forward and grabbed his lead. She pulled him firmly to the foot of the bed, motioned him to stay there, and led the lead up, over the mattress, and tied it to a rail of the bedhead, behind the pillows. There was no slack: he had to bend forwards slightly, over the bed.

  “Spread your legs,” she ordered. She went behind him, and he felt her start doing something at his crotch. She had got a little elastic strap from somewhere, with a clip at each end, and she tied it to the rail at the foot of the bed, right below his crotch; then she clipped each end to one of his lower piercing rings. As she pulled the strap tight, he was forced to his knees, until his groin was hard against the bed rail.

  She went back to the head of the bed, and tightened up the leash, so that he was pulled forward by the nipples until his chest was lying flat against the mattress. His four wedding rings were now securing him, holding him in position. The clips on the elastic strap at his groin, and on the ends of the nipple chain were not locked; he could have unfastened himself, but he did not dare.

  His cheek was against the counterpane. He looked sideways: Christine was picking up the special belt from the floor. She swung it experimentally, and the two leather blades flapped back and forth. She smiled.

  “Hold still,” she told him. She stood behind him and swung.

  The pain across his buttocks was shocking, unbearable. Simon moaned loudly, and jerked; but every movement pulled hard at his sensitive piercings. His arms waved around, and his legs kicked.

  “Hold still, I said,” Christine repeated, and swung again.

  He was in a panic now. He couldn’t bear this. Without any conscious decision, his hands went to his chest, to unclip himself.

  Moving fast, Christine dropped the belt and grabbed the leash.

  “Leave that!” she commanded, as if she were talking to a disobedient dog. Her tension on the leash, pulling on his nipples, won the argument. His trembling hands moved away.

  “Stay!” She went back to the bedside drawer and rummaged through it.

  “If you can’t be trusted, then I’ll just have to enforce discipline, won’t I?” she said. She knelt on the bed, one knee deliberately placed on the leash as it ran up the mattress from Simon’s chest to the bedhead, controlling the tension in it. With both hands, she grabbed his wrists and tied them behind his back with the cord that she had found. He did not resist: the pain in his nipples would be simply too great if he struggled with her. She took the free end of the cord up his back, and tied it to the back of his bow tie.

  “So, we’ll try again,” she said, with heavy patience. His hands could not now reach his nipple clips, or go lower than the small of his back. Christine picked up the belt, and took a third swing.

  It was awful. He was sobbing. He really couldn’t bear it, but there was no escape. His legs kicked spasmodically, but Christine just kept out of the way, and ignored them. After another dozen strikes or so, she seemed to have had enough.

  “Well, that seems very satisfactory,” she said cheerfully. “Of course, that was just a few strokes to try it out. If I think you need punishing, you can expect several times as many; so you may decide that it would be best to avoid my disapproval. Don’t you think so?”

  Simon’s face was wet with tears. He made a noise in his throat that meant assent. She didn’t wait for a proper answer. She left the room, and he could hear her cleaning her teeth in the bathroom.

  When she came back, she freed him without fuss. He stood, the plastic rod that sprang from his groin standing up proudly. His buttocks were still stinging agonisingly. He caught sight of himself in the dressing mirror to his left. A ridiculous figure. His backside was almost glowing: bright, bright, red, from the top of his buttocks down to, and including, the top of his thighs. Christine pulled the covers right back, and got into bed.

  “Kiss the soles of my feet,” she ordered. He complied. Every movement brought fresh waves of discomfort from his rear. As he leaned over onto his hands and knees, the phallus toy swung, and he winced and gasped as the weight of it pulled at his piercings. He had to take great care not to catch it on anything.

  “Now kiss my ankles.” Christine kept up a stream of instructions, as she made him move slowly up her calves, the backs of her knees, to the inner sides of her thighs. To Simon, the constant orders seemed that they would detract from the passion of the moment, but it wasn’t his opinion that counted. She made him kiss her navel, while stroking the backs of her knees with his hands, and then move on to the outer sides of her breasts and her armpits, while his hands shifted to caress her hips. The phallus was now touching her left thigh, but Simon ignored the little jabs of pain as it dragged backwards and forwards.

  Eventually, Christine became more heated, more urgent. She grasped the plastic phallus in her hand and pulled. Simon squealed, but she ignored him, inserting the shaft into her, as he jerked and twisted his whole body to let his groin follow her movement.

  “Make love to me,” she commanded, her eyes closed. Tentatively, he started thrusting. It hurt. His somewhat swollen member pressed against the plastic bars of its prison, and, painfully, against the catches that kept the plastic rod in place; and as he thrust in and out, there was almost continuous tugging at his piercing rings. He was making a little sobbing noise in his throat on each withdrawal.

  “Harder!” Christine had slipped down, so her head was against the pillows, her lovely hair surrounding her face like a halo. Simon thrust harder, and she started moving against him, adding her own element to the bending and pulling at his groin.

  “Harder!” she said again. She was making little noises of pleasure, now, and her head twisted from side to side with delight. Tears were dripping down Simon’s face from his suffering. At last, she cried out and spasmed against him, and lay back, and lay still.

  She sighed, a lazy grin on her face. Simon’s face was screwed up; he wiped away some tears. She opened her eyes and looked at him, amiably, but with no concern for his hurt.

  “Okay,” she said, after a minute, “you can withdraw now.” He winced as he did so.

  “That was good sex,” she instructed him, speaking lazily in her post-coitus glow. “Sex like that makes a good sex life; that is what sex is supposed to be. A good boy’s greatest joy is to know that he has fully served his lady’s pleasure. So thank me for it.” It was an order.

  Simon’s voice was choked. He cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, Christine,” he croaked.

  “And tell me it was wonderful for you.”

  “That was wonderful, Christine.”

  “Now pull up the covers, and turn out the light, and hold me.”

  He did as he was told. The plastic phallus, still as erect as ever, of course, pressed against her, while his own member, swollen but frustrated, lay caged and compressed. He was lying on his side, but the slightest touch of the bed covers against his burning buttocks was enough to make him wince. He had no thought of leaving. He had committed himself: he had no money, nowhere to go, no other plan. Christine fell asleep quickly, but Simon lay awake a long time, listening to her soft breathing, and knew himself to be owned.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Patricia glided through the corridors of her grand house. She liked the modernist look of it, all white rectangles and cubes, except for a few bright sections of colour here and there, like a Mondrian painting. There were no skirting boards or cornices, no frames to the plai
n doors of varnished beechwood, with their brushed-aluminium handles, nothing to disturb the simplicity of line. The architect had an international reputation, and building the huge place had cost Patricia millions. Still, it was only money, and, with males ready to be enslaved at her whim, that wasn’t a problem. Anyway, she owed it to herself, as founder of this movement, to have a home that was suitably impressive.

  Although it was mid-morning, she was still wearing a dressing gown: a satin kimono in ivory, over a matching long, thin, night dress with slits up the sides to allow her free movement. The corners flicked up as she walked. On her feet she had low-heeled mules in the same colour, with one downy little feather as a decoration on the top of each. She had had a very late breakfast and was only now going back to her bedroom to dress. As she reached it and opened the door, she looked at her watch: still plenty of time before lunch.

  The space was as much private sitting room as bedroom: perhaps ‘boudoir’ would have been a better term, but the word didn’t suit the style of the house, and she didn’t want to open herself to ridicule from the other ladies by putting on airs.

  The platform bed was large and luxurious, with sumptuous use of materials, both in the polished wood surround and in the bed linen, but it was also very plain, in keeping with the architecture. In front of it was a sitting area, with chairs of leather and chromed-steel, round a glass coffee table.

  The most notable ornament was a ball-cage: a perfect sphere of thin metal bars about five feet in diameter. It hung from the ceiling on a strong chain, the bottom about four feet off the floor. Both the chain and the bars were stylishly chromed, mirror-bright. Inside the cage a naked man was slumped on his side, facing her. Patricia looked him over, very pleased with what she saw. He looked wretched, his sunken eyes in his unshaven face following her movements with total attention. The curved bowl of the cage made him take up almost a foetal position, his legs folded and cramped. It didn’t look relaxed: his weight was pressing his ribs and his arm against the lower bars; but he had long ago given up trying to find a comfortable position: there wasn’t one.