Never had I felt more wretched, but as they left me there, tied in the corner, Her last action was to spit on me before they went to the bathroom, laughing. I could do nothing, my head hung low and with Her spittle trickling slowly down my face and my cock so hard it hurt. They showered together. She made him coffee, which they drank together, now utterly indifferent to me, but at last She took pity on me and released me.
How I masturbated that night, pulling at my cock until I had come more times than I can remember, until I was sore and could no longer get erect, yet still I wanted to come again, and always over that same awful image, of his cock penetrating Her anus. And all the while as I lay there in my frenzy of masturbation they were next door, making love the night through. I never imagined an experience could be stronger, or more appropriate for me. I was wrong.
The Turk was worse. He was a big man, very masculine, so much so that so far as he was concerned I was not a man at all, which he made abundantly clear. He was laughing at me from the start, and the way he treated my wife, my Mistress, was an outrage to Her and to the Goddess herself. He made Her strip for him, dancing to music as She peeled off Her clothes until She was nude, as She showed off Her breasts and wiggled Her bottom in a manner so lewd I could scarcely believe that it was Her doing it, and yet She seemed to enjoy every moment.
With Her naked he sat down in a chair and demanded that She bring him a beer, which She did. He sat there, drinking the beer and smoking a cigarette while She fellated him, on Her knees with his great brown cock in her mouth, my Mistress, sucking cock in the nude as I watched grovelling in the corner, already wanking at my own pathetic penis.
After a while he pushed down his trousers and underpants and told Her to do something that still makes me shudder to think of it. He told Her to lick his balls and anus. He told my Mistress, my beautiful, divine Mistress, to take his scrotum in Her mouth and put Her tongue to his anal orifice. And She did it. She did it while She played with Her breasts and stroked Her sex, exciting herself even as She was made to commit that filthy act. I saw. I saw Her tongue touch his hairy, horrible anus, licking him.
He saw me looking, and how he laughed. He laughed to see my pain at how he was treating my Mistress and he laughed to see how pathetically small my penis was next to his, which was now hard, towering up over his great hairy belly as She pulled at him and lapped at his anus and balls. He asked me if I wanted to watch him fuck my wife and I was forced to admit I did.
With that he did it. He stood up and made Her kneel in the chair with Her bottom pushed out so that he, and I, could see every secret detail. He felt Her up, rubbing his cock between the cheeks of Her bottom as he groped Her breasts, then putting it to Her sex, so that I could see as he slid it deep.
How hard he fucked Her, and how he abused Her, sometimes holding Her by Her hips or Her breasts, sometimes slapping Her buttocks as he called Her a bitch and a whore. I had to speak out, to tell him that such foul words were not acceptable, but She told me to shut up, and with that his attention turned to me. He asked if I was a bitch and a whore too, and all I could answer was that if he felt it proper, then I must be. He asked if I was a man at all, to let him fuck my wife while I masturbated in the corner. I told him I was no man. At that, he said I was certainly no man, and that he would make me a bitch and a whore, his bitch and his whore. He said he was going to make me suck his cock.
I could only stare, appalled, but She was laughing, my own wife, my wonderful Mistress, laughing at the suggestion that I be made to suck another man’s penis, and when it was still wet with Her juices. I could not resist. He came to me, laughing as he held it out. He told me to open my mouth. He told my wife to watch. He put his cock in my mouth and told me to suck him.
Oh, the bitter shame of having to take another man’s erection in my mouth, but my Mistress had spoken. How She laughed at me as I sucked on his penis, and worse, She began to play with Her sex as She watched, and She told him to finish off in my mouth. I thought he’d say no. I thought he would want to have Her. I was wrong. He was far too virile to think his orgasm wasted. He made me suck him all the way, and spunked in my mouth, and made me swallow it, and as I gulped down his spunk my wife came, providing me with my whole life’s perfect moment.
– Anonymous, Watford, UK
Gagging the Press
Note: the editorial staff at … … magazine might be a bunch of dim sloanes but the legal department are very sharp and diligent indeed. I have, therefore, changed the names of everyone involved to protect myself from being sacked and sued for libel and, of course, that of the magazine!
‘Strip!’
It wasn’t a request, it was an order and the woman who gave it did not look as if she was used to being disobeyed. She was tall with long black curly hair pulled into a ponytail. Beautiful, certainly, but with a hint of cruelty in her dark, almost almond-shaped eyes, and full lips made more striking by a dark crimson shade of lipstick.
‘I said, strip!’ she repeated, this time almost hissing the last word and picking up the riding crop that I had been trying to ignore from where it lay on the coffee table. She wore black leather gloves that reached above her elbows, a black leather top and short skirt too. Her flesh by contrast was almost icily pale.
My first response to her order to strip was quite involuntary; I felt my face go bright red. The tip of the crop quivered under my nose as if in suppressed fury. Swallowing hard and deciding that the situation called for abject cowardice, I began to unbutton my blouse.
‘Quickly, you little bitch!’ the woman ordered as my anxious fingers fumbled the buttons. At last I got them undone and with my cheeks flaming even hotter I took my top off. The skirt had a side zip and did not take a moment to undo. It hit the floor, forming a puddle around my feet.
‘Bra and panties too!’ she said, full lips curling in distaste. ‘Take them off, at once!’
She punctuated her order by slapping the end of the crop into the palm of her hand with a noise that made my belly tighten. The crop was at least four feet long, very slender and sheathed in black leather. At its end was another six inches or so of stiff-looking, knotted crimson cord.
I had thought that my face was as red as it could get but as I unhooked my bra and felt my breasts swing free I could feel even more blood rushing to my cheeks. The panties were the last thing and the hardest. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband but then I looked up and found myself impaled on her ferocious gaze. I doubt I would have been able to peel them down at all if she had not curled the wicked-looking black crop between her hands before swishing it through the air, the tip inches from my face.
‘Now!’
Almost paralysed with humiliation, I somehow managed to peel my panties down until they joined my skirt around my ankles. The tip of the crop tapped against my quim.
‘Brazilian, that’s something I suppose,’ she said in a slightly less harsh tone. ‘Though I prefer slaves to be totally shaved! Now, get on your knees, like the bitch you are!’
I said a silent prayer of thanks that I had decided to go through with the bikini wax, painful though it had been, and got down on my knees.
I found myself looking at her legs. Long and shapely and sheathed in sheer black nylon, they seemed to go on forever. My eyes were drawn up to her thighs where I could just see the dark welts of her stocking tops beneath her short leather skirt.
‘Are you looking at my cunt, you little slut?’ she demanded in an outraged tone.
‘No, ah, I … I mean …’ I babbled until a slap across the face shut me up. It wasn’t really hard but the shock of it took my breath away.
‘Get on all fours while I get the things ready,’ she ordered. ‘From now on you will speak only when you are spoken to, and when you answer me you will address me as mistress. Understand?’
‘Yes, um … mistress,’ I managed somehow, watching furtively as she took what looked like a set of manacles from a drawer. Stainless steel and gleaming and connected by heavy chains. There was
something bigger, also made of steel, which I realised with a shock was a sort of collar. I quickly looked down at the carpet.
Why didn’t I keep my big mouth shut? I thought.
‘Well … ? Anyone?’ Miranda had drummed her elegantly manicured nails on the teak conference table. Dave, the deputy editor, and Trish, the features editor, looked around accusingly. The rest of us just looked at the table or our pitiful notes as if this might somehow produce an idea.
‘Something, now,’ Miranda went on in her sloany accent. ‘Something sexy.’
‘What about SM?’ put in Victoria, the beauty editor, with a distant smile.
Dave and Trish both groaned.
‘Didn’t we do that last month?’ Dave had asked.
‘No, we haven’t done it for three issues, actually,’ said Trish gloomily, ‘but it is still all a bit 90s.’
‘Yes, but, but …’ Victoria said with more animation than I had ever seen before, in my short time at the mag. ‘What about lesbian SM? That is really happening just now; in Chelsea anyway! Some girls are even paying for it. And others are getting into it for the lifestyle … Um, so I heard in the Ivy the other night.’
Christ, I remember thinking; she is wetting her pants about this. I think she wants to do the article herself. That would be a first!
‘Oh really?’ Miranda said, perking up. ‘Are there men you can pay to spank …?’
‘I think Victoria means dominatrixes,’ Dave put in gently. Then, seeing the puzzled look on Miranda’s face, ‘Women. It wouldn’t really be lesbian SM if they were doing it with men.’
There was a brief pause whilst we all tried not to snigger too obviously. I didn’t manage very well.
‘Deborah,’ Miranda had said in a distinctly acid tone. ‘Why don’t you do it? Find one of these dominatrixes for women and write the article.’
I had felt, briefly, elated. Since joining the magazine I had been running other people’s errands and the only writing I had got into print had been making up short bits of ridiculous nonsense for a column called Weird Wide World when Google failed to provide.
‘Sure, I can do that,’ I had said, trying to sound casual. ‘Do you want me to interview a few or just do one in depth?’
‘Oh no.’ Miranda had smiled icily. ‘I wasn’t thinking interview exactly. I was thinking more investigative. What was it that you said at your interview? You would do anything to write for Chichi? Well, darling, here is your chance! Why don’t you go and try the service and then write about it?’
I must remember not to snigger at the editor, I told myself grimly on the way home.
Miranda, or more accurately Doug the legal guy, had decided that paying might be dodgy, but Victoria clearly had a very healthy interest in the subject because she had come up with a woman who was apparently a ‘lifestyle domme’, which seemed to me to mean that she dominated women for the fun of it. What’s more she was quite happy to demonstrate her techniques to, not to mention on, me as long as we used a pseudonym for the piece. I have to say this seemed a bit strange to me as I doubted if Mistress Zenobia was her real name anyway.
Mind you, as she walked slowly around to my now completely naked rear, the chains and things in one hand and the crop in her other, I was more concerned about what her ‘techniques’ might involve than what she chose to call herself. Of course, the plan was simply for me to try enough to get the gist of her services; a bit of being bossed about and some mild bondage. That was the idea. I am a big girl and I can manage that, I told myself firmly.
‘Ah …’ I gasped as the startlingly cold metal of the steel collar closed around my neck, equally cold chains dangling down and brushing my back. There was a click as she secured the collar with a solid-feeling padlock. Then she took the chain and the brutal collar pressed against my throat as she hauled me back onto my feet.
‘Put your hands behind you!’
As I did so she grabbed my left hand and pulled it up a little before a steel manacle was clamped around my wrist. The procedure was repeated with my right arm and now I really was helpless. The chains securing my wrists to the collar were heavy but short enough that I was forced to keep my hands up just above the small of my back.
‘Oh!’ I gasped as her leather-gloved hand grasped my bottom.
‘Silence! You have a fine bottom, slave. Plump and juicy and just ready for the whip!’
I know it sounds a bit corny in the cold light of day, but believe me at the time, with that evil-looking crop in her hand and maniacal gleam in her eye, it sounded little short of terrifying.
‘Turn around!’ she ordered, releasing my bottom
cheek.
Slowly, I turned to face her. Above the little black leather skirt she had a sort of strapless leather basque on which pushed up her full breasts so that there was a dramatic cleavage. She was taller than me anyway and her steeple heels gave her another five inches or so – which meant I found myself only just above the canyon of her bosom. Not that I was the only one whose attention was drawn to tits.
‘You appear to be excited, little slave.’
A leather-gloved hand went to my left breast and pinched the nipple which, it was true, did seem to be already stiffly erect. I winced as she pinched and twisted hard enough to hurt, gasping with relief when she let go of it.
My relief did not last long. A leather-clad arm traced a path down the under curve of my breast, then down my ribs and belly until …
‘Ooh, please …’ I gasped.
‘Silence, you little slut!’ she hissed.
If my blushes had subsided, they came back with a vengeance. The finger slipped in easily. I was dripping wet and had been since she first ordered me to strip.
Despite her warning to keep quiet, and my fear of the riding crop, it was impossible to suppress a fair few squeaks and moans as her leather-encased finger probed and penetrated. My loudest sigh, though, I have to confess, was when she languidly withdrew the digit.
If it was possible to die of pure embarrassment, I would have expired right then. She held her finger up, inches from my face.
‘Look at that, you horny little tart!’ she said, and for once her stern face melted as she chuckled evilly. ‘Look what you have done to my glove!’
It was an order, so I had to. The black leather around the finger glistened with the fluids of my arousal.
‘You dirty little whore,’ she said, her voice now husky with excitement. ‘Suck it off!’
I am not sure exactly what happened to me then. When the heavy steel collar closed with a click about my neck something seemed to melt inside me. I am not saying that I would have dared to refuse her, with my hands secured behind my back, my body naked and the crop still in her other hand, but it wasn’t simply fear that made me bend my head forwards and take the finger in my mouth, sucking hungrily, almost desperately. Nor was it entirely fear that made my thighs tremble and my belly flutter. It was as if I had to obey her, almost as if some unsuspected part of me needed to be humiliated like this.
‘Are you going to put this in your article?’ she asked with a sneer.
‘What …?’ I said, stunned into a recollection of what I was doing there.
The slap was harder than before and almost knocked me over.
‘Silence! It was a rhetorical question!’ she said contemptuously. ‘ “I was naked and chained and licking my own juices from Mistress Zenobia’s finger”, ’ she continued facetiously. ‘ “Only I am such a dirty, perverted little whore that this turned me on so much that the cunt juice started trickling down my thighs …” ’
As journalism went it wasn’t exactly Chichi house style, but to my abject embarrassment there was truth in what she so mockingly said. I could feel it. I was not so much wet as dripping. Oh God, I thought, oh no, it is true. I really am loving this at least on some level. That was the most humiliating part of all.
Lady Zenobia gave me no time to dwell on this discovery.
‘I think I will give you a spanking now, just t
o warm you up for the whip …’ she said in a more thoughtful tone.
‘The – the whip?’ I blurted, as she had not said anything about whipping me during the pre-scene interview. Then I was squealing as she grabbed and twisted my left nipple, very hard.
‘Are you going to hold your tongue, or shall I have to gag you, bitch?’ she demanded furiously.
‘Aow, ooh, yes, mistress …’
‘Very well!’
I had meant, ‘yes, mistress, I am going to hold my tongue,’ but it seemed that she interpreted my answer to mean, ‘yes, mistress, you will have to gag me.’ In any event she took a thing from the same drawer my collar and chains had come from. It was a sort of black leather strap with a rubber ball in the centre. I took one look at the object and closed my mouth in a quite involuntary response.
‘Open!’
Her eyes were inches from mine; cold, grey-green, determined and utterly pitiless. Reluctantly I opened my mouth and the rubber ball was thrust between my teeth. She was buckling the strap behind my head when I remembered something.
The address that Victoria had given me turned out, to my surprise, to be in the East End. I had not imagined that she knew anyone beyond Kensington and Chelsea and perhaps Westminster. But this was in the run-down bit of London that the Docklands Light Railway flies over in between the City and Canary Wharf. I was even more surprised when I got down to street level from the elevated Docklands Light Railway platform. It seemed to be all 1930s council blocks of flats, and most of the people in the street were Bengali.
I was less surprised when I got to the block itself. Set back from the main road, it was clearly not a council place at all but an older building redeveloped with Docklands-type yuppies in mind. For a start it was completely surrounded by a security fence and I had to buzz Zenobia to get her to let me in. The grounds were not extensive but, inside, the fence was hidden by a border of expensive and exotic-looking shrubs. Lady Zenobia’s flat turned out to be up a lot of stairs. If the outside of the building was utilitarian, inside it was plush and felt expensive.
Nexus Confessions: Volume Three Page 12