Confessions

by Amber Stephens

  There were more men than women and I ended up with two guys, Michael and Jonathan. Neither of them was attractive but that was irrelevant. They gave me loose instructions about what they wanted me to do, and where I was to draw the line. They each had a code word. We drove back to Jonathan’s house. He was something in the City and had a big flash pad not far away.

  In the house, we split up to get ready, and then reassembled in the living room. My submissives looked at me expectantly and, I’d like to think, appreciatively. I was wearing a leather basque, fishnet stockings and thigh-high boots. I also wore a rather fetching black leather cap and carried a whip. The men had taken off their shoes and ties, but otherwise were dressed normally, in their trousers and shirts. I swallowed nervously. This was it. I was confident though, I knew what I was doing and I craved it.

  ‘In the bedroom,’ I snapped at Jonathan. He scuttled off. ‘You, on the floor,’ I snarled at Michael, who dropped to the carpet, a worried look on his face.

  ‘Crawl towards me, worm,’ I said. He did so. ‘Head down!’

  ‘Do you like my boots?’ I asked, resting the whip on the nape of his neck.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Mistress!’ I screamed, slapping his backside with the whip. He squealed. ‘Yes, Mistress,’ he said hurriedly.

  ‘Now, back to my boots. I would like you to lick them …’

  Michael took hold of my left boot and thrust his tongue out eagerly.

  ‘Wait until I say!’ I cried, kicking him hard in his shoulder. He cried out and went down on to the floor, clutching his shoulder. I waited a second to see if he would use the safety word but he just moaned. ‘Sorry, Mistress!’

  ‘Take off your trousers, and get back on the floor,’ I spat. ‘I’ll be back later.’

  I stalked off to the bedroom, to find Jonathan.

  He flinched as I came in, obviously having already worked himself up into a state anticipating my arrival.

  ‘Hands behind your back,’ I said calmly, not looking at him. I walked around him and deftly snapped a pair of handcuffs tightly around his wrists.

  ‘On your knees, you piece of shit.’ He dropped, and I wrapped a scarlet scarf around his eyes and secured it at the back of his head.

  Then I took out a large pair of heavy, steel dressmakers’ scissors and snipped them menacingly in front of his face. He groaned and began to quiver. ‘Please no,’ he said.

  ‘Shut up, Slave!’ I said. ‘I didn’t give you permission to speak. You shall have to be punished.’

  ‘Sorry, Mistress, please don’t punish me,’ he cried. He was a good actor, Jonathan, no doubt a fine upstanding member of the local amateur dramatics society when he wasn’t being dominated with a bunch of other freaks.

  As he opened his mouth to continue, I popped a red rubber ball in, shutting him up. The ball was attached to a set of straps that went around his head. I tightened them with a hard yank, making him wince and grunt in pain.

  Then I took the scissors again and cut his clothes off bit by bit until he was totally naked. I snipped the scissors in front of his stiff penis and he swayed his hips back to get away from the cold steel.

  I left him there and walked back to see how Michael was getting on.

  He was in exactly the same position I’d left him in, except with his trousers off.

  ‘You moved!’ I said.

  ‘No!’ he replied. ‘Mistress, no. I didn’t.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I replied and kicked him between the legs. He collapsed, groaning, and I thought I’d really hurt him for a moment. But this kind of thing is tame compared to what some of them want. Michael was an amateur, as was I back then. Soon he was back on his hands and knees, licking my boots as I flicked the end of the whip against his exposed backside.

  And so the evening went on, I divided my time between the men, the periods where they’d wait for me nervously being an important part of the punishment. Eventually Michael used the code word that meant I was to bring him off. I was a little disappointed; I could have done this all night.

  I lifted a booted foot and shoved him so he toppled over onto his back. Then I stepped over him so I was straddling his now naked torso. I lifted a foot and positioned my stiletto over his groin; he stared up at me, desperate, nodding.

  Then I brought my foot down and twisted the heel into his fleshy scrotum. He screamed in agony and I nearly backed off, but he never once said anything, just lay there climaxing, his face a twisted mixture of pain and pleasure. I was fascinated. I had to wipe the fluid off the sole of my boot onto his backside.

  Jonathan had heard Michael’s orgasm and wanted to be finished as well. I forced him to bend over face down on the bed and began whipping him hard. It wasn’t a full-on, proper whip like a cowboy would use, much shorter and less painful, but the one I was using produces a nasty sting and marks that last for a week if you whack it hard enough. I thrashed him until he was red-raw before he finally came. I never laid a finger on him.

  Over the next few months I worked my way steadily through that group, learning the techniques, finding out what made men tick. Not that it was just men of course, some women liked to be dominated too. It made no difference to me. I learned how to use chains, how to use various whips and straps, and how to put on a rubber cat suit without hurting myself. Suffice to say I got through a lot of talc. Some people liked more conventional sex aids, like dildos, vibrators and love beads. I had to learn how to use them safely too. I wasn’t interested in these things for myself, just in how to use them to get what I wanted out of my submissives. I did quite enjoy wearing a giant strap-on dildo, mostly to put the fear of God into my slaves rather than to actually use it on them.

  While all this was going on. I must stress that I had a normal job, a normal life and a normal boyfriend. He didn’t know about the BDSM club. I didn’t want to weird him out and he wouldn’t have understood. The two parts of my life were totally separate.

  I loved it. I wanted more. And when one of the women in the group asked me if I wanted to come and check out her dungeon, I jumped at the chance.

  The dungeon was a whole new ball game. It was in the city and catered for paying customers who wanted things done properly, and who were willing to pay considerably for what they wanted. The clients were generally public-school educated businessmen, doing well for themselves and looking for a bit of kinky relief before going home to the wife in Woking.

  The woman’s name was Vanessa; she was part-owner of the place. She showed me around first. There were rooms full of chains, for hanging clients up. There were tables that looked like something from the Spanish Inquisition; there were orgy rooms and private cells. We stood in the props room, looking at rack after rack of bondage gear and rubber wear.

  ‘I hear you’re pretty good,’ Vanessa said to me.

  ‘I’m only just starting,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re a natural, is what I hear. There aren’t too many beautiful, intelligent women ready to do this kind of thing.’

  Was she after something, I wondered. ‘Do you want me to dominate you?’ I asked, eyebrow cocked.

  She laughed. ‘Maybe sometime, but actually I’m asking you if you want a job. The money’s good,’ she added.

  I was surprised. I’d honestly never considered I could make a living at this. But instantly I knew that this was what I wanted – no, what I needed – to do.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The answer’s yes.’

  Quitting my job was a breeze, less easy was telling the boyfriend. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t understand, so I decided to end it. I didn’t want any complications; all I could think about was getting into that dungeon and making some scumbag of a City trader crawl on the floor like a dog.

  A week later that’s exactly where I was, though the trader was a minor politician and the guy hanging by his arms from the chains above me was a well-known film director.

  I made the politician get up on the table and strapped him down. He was wearing leather underpants
and I jammed the handle of my riding crop inside them and left it there while I turned the wheel that tightened the straps. He grunted against the gag and I heard his joints pop sharply. Tight enough.

  I consulted the mental checklist of instructions he’d given me. Ah, that was it. I unbuckled the leather pants and whipped them off, exposing his swollen cock. I patted it with my crop, eliciting another groan.

  ‘Ha!’ I said. ‘That wouldn’t satisfy a gerbil.’

  Then I began thrashing his genitals with the crop. He stiffened first, then began thrusting himself upwards, he was about to come. I stopped, leaving him suspended, yearning desperately for the release.

  I turned to the film director; he was watching me, fear in his eyes. His cock and balls were imprisoned in a zippered rubber thong, far too small for a man of his size.

  I stared up at him contemptuously. ‘Look at you,’ I sneered. ‘Look at you. If only your mummy could see you now.’ He closed his eyes in shame, but I wasn’t finished. ‘Here he is, the great movie maker, hanging from the ceiling with his cock in a squash ball.’

  I took out the special prop we’d had to prepare earlier that week. A super-size Oscar award.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ I snapped. He did so. They widened in alarm as he saw the size of the Oscar. I snapped my fingers and two burly dungeon guards came over and grabbed a leg each. They flipped him around and spread his legs; one of them unclipped the thong and took it off, leaving the man exposed and vulnerable to attack from the rear.

  ‘Now this is going to hurt,’ I said softly as I approached and positioned the Oscar’s head against his puckered hole. He mewled in fear.

  Vanessa told me later that the scream, as I’d inserted the luckless statue into the director’s backside, could be heard three levels up, outside on the street.

  I stayed working at the dungeon for three years. Vanessa had been right, the money was good, and I soon gathered a collection of regulars who tipped me well. I got a bit of a reputation. One man liked me to call him Dorothy and hurl rotten fruit at him. He paid me extra if I’d smear him in putrid banana flesh while he jerked himself off.

  Some men wanted to make love to me, and offered crazy amounts, but I never allowed that. I didn’t need their money, and a dominatrix who acts like a prostitute loses her reputation pretty sharp. The guys who begged me to fuck them always came back even when I’d refused them.

  It was around this time that I started to find myself enjoying my job in a different way. I started to become aroused by the beatings I was dealing out. It started out gradually, but as time went on I began to find myself growing wet and turned on when I inflicted pain. One time, after a particularly brutal beating of some pathetic wretch, I found myself so worked up I retreated into a private room and tried to collect myself. I sat on the cot in there and felt something under me. It was a large dildo. I shrugged, well, why not? I slid down my tights and lay back on the bed. I felt between my legs and my fingers came back soaked with juices. I ran the dildo down between my breasts, across my exposed stomach and down to my pussy lips. It was a fat toy but it slipped in without too much pressure. I began pumping it into myself, rhythmically, gradually increasing the pace. All the while I was thinking of the pain I had inflicted on my client, the red welts on his back, and the pleading look in his eye.

  I was about to come when the door opened and Vanessa walked in. She didn’t look surprised. She walked over to the bed, grabbed hold of the end of the dildo and pulled it out smoothly.

  ‘James, Ryan,’ she called over her shoulder, never taking her eyes from mine.

  ‘You’ve been working too hard,’ she said as the muscle-bound, well oiled men came into the room, faces deadpan. ‘You need a treat. I’ll take care of your client.’ And she stepped out. The two guards dropped their trousers and moved into position. Ryan adjusted the bed so my head was raised at around a forty-five-degree angle.

  James grabbed hold of my hips and lifted my haunches up. Then he pulled me back and impaled me on his rigid, ribbed shaft. I groaned with appreciation as the muscular blond began thrusting himself deep inside of me. Ryan, at the other end, presented his long, thin cock to me. I opened my mouth but he shook his head and handed me something.

  It was my riding crop. I gripped it tightly, enjoying the feel of the rough leather against my palm.

  Vanessa knew exactly what I wanted. As James pumped into me, I lashed Ryan’s cock, matching him stroke for stroke. Ryan winced with pain, so I lashed him harder. His cock shrivelled and retreated, so I lashed him harder.

  I came so hard I nearly gave myself a hernia. As my body convulsed, James never stopped thrusting into me and I never stopped whipping poor Ryan’s shrunken penis. James shot his load into me as my fire began to die. I sank back against the cot and closed my eyes, enjoying the afterglow.

  I gave Ryan half my tips that night. I reckoned James had got the better end of the deal, so I didn’t give him anything else, he’d seemed happy enough.

  * * *

  I hadn’t thought things could get any better but, after that first time, the floodgates had opened and I enjoyed the job even more. Now that I was gaining sexual, as well as professional, satisfaction from kicking people in the genitals, I was over the moon.

  Then things went wrong. Not seriously wrong, but … well, I’ll tell you the whole story. I had a couple come in, Guy and Natalie. Nice people they were, good looking, successful, and well spoken. They liked to try out stuff in the bedroom, and they’d read in this magazine that BDSM was the new thing everyone was trying.

  They asked me to dominate the two of them together, and to force them to do things to each other they might feel funny about asking each other in real life. This isn’t that unusual a request as it happens. So that’s fine, I’m wearing my strap-on, thinking Natalie might worry I’m going to use it on her and the guy might worry I’m not going to use it on Natalie.

  First I tied them both back to back and hit them with the pretend whip; they didn’t want any marks you see. Then I forced Natalie to lick my boots. She was wearing nothing but a G-string and Guy had a little leather hold-all.

  ‘Come over here,’ I said to Guy, who was on his knees, watching us with a hungry look. He stood up.

  ‘I didn’t tell you to stand up!’ I hissed. I shoved Natalie over with my boot and stalked over to Guy. ‘On your knees!’ He dropped to his knees.

  ‘Now you, bitch, get over here and show him your arse.’ Natalie shuffled into position. I dropped a spot of lube into Natalie’s cleft and said, ‘Fuck her like a dog.’

  Well, Guy jabbed his dick in his girlfriend’s pussy and started sliding it in and out. She groaned. Then I started thrashing the two of them with my crop. I tried to get a few good blows in on his cock as it showed itself from time to time. I built up the speed and felt the familiar warmth in my crotch as I lashed out more and more violently.

  Then I don’t really remember perfectly what happened. The red mist came down and the next thing I knew was that I had eight inches of my fat strap-on jammed in Natalie’s virgin backside and was beating the screaming girl over the shoulders with a cane while Guy was pulling at my arm, shouting out the safety word over and over again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Vanessa would have fired me if I hadn’t left of my own accord. She promised to give me a good reference if I promised to get some help. I saw a shrink for a few weeks while I sorted my head out. She told me I needed to separate my work life from my home life, and that included sex. Easier said than done. But one of the things she pointed out to me was the fact that while I’d had a ‘normal’ boyfriend, I didn’t find myself frustrated in the dungeon. Maybe, as I was finding satisfaction at home, I could keep a clear, professional head at work.

  I didn’t think too much of that at the time, but a few weeks later, I met Rob. I’d taken a temp job as a secretary in some dull office in Docklands and he was an American stockbroker on my floor. And not long after we met he was quite literally on my floor, m
y kitchen floor, as I sat on his thick cock and pinched his nipples. I know you’re not supposed to, but we slept together on the first night. Or at least we fucked each other all night, and then slept together as the sun came up.

  Rob was amazing. Attractive, rich, funny and with a bit of a kinky side that made me feel I could open up early on and tell him about my past. He was a little surprised, but appeared to accept it. I was quite pleased to see he didn’t appear to be massively turned on by the stories I told. He wasn’t freaked out, but neither was he extremely curious.

  A few months after we started seeing each other, Rob said he had been called back to New York and would I like to go with him? I didn’t have anything to stay in London for so I agreed, after a few days’ consideration. Rob’s bank had fixed him up with an apartment in Lower Manhattan with spectacular views out over the Hudson. He asked me if I wanted him to get me a job at his office, but I declined, saying I wanted to find my own way. The money wasn’t important, I had plenty in savings and Rob was loaded of course. Rob brought me to work functions and I grew friendly with some of the other wives and girlfriends, these were stick-thin Sex and the City types, quick-witted and funny. I liked them but wasn’t sure I really fitted in. Rob’s boss’ wife, Cara, took me under her wing. She was attractive and bright, and just getting to that age when she was starting to worry that her husband might be looking for a younger model. She spent a fortune on creams and, as far as I could tell, never ate anything at all.