Confessions

by Amber Stephens

  She took me to her favourite restaurants where she drank water and the occasional vodka and she invited me to girls’ nights out where we’d get tipsy and tell each other what our men liked to do in the bedroom. It was on one of these that I had a little too much to drink and let slip the fact I’d been a dominatrix.

  Cara raised her eyebrows but took it calmly. ‘I knew there was something about you,’ she said. A few days later she picked me up for a night out and said as we left the building, ‘I want to show you something.’

  We hopped in a cab and went uptown, to somewhere in the mid-fifties, on the East Side. Cara paid the driver and took me down a narrow flight of stairs to a tiny door at the bottom. My stomach clenched in nervous excitement as we approached. I knew what was on the other side.

  A little plate slid across after we’d knocked and we were inspected. Evidently Cara was recognised because we were let in and found ourselves in a waiting area, lined with red velvet and silver chains.

  Cara and I looked at each other; she had a strange smile on her face. I was keenly aware of the fact that this was the boss’ wife. I felt uncomfortable there, but I could hardly run off and risk offending her.

  After a time a woman came out to see us. She was wearing a cat suit and carried a vicious-looking whip.

  ‘Hello, Mistress Venetia,’ Cara said. ‘This is Abigail.’

  ‘I know why you’re here,’ Venetia said sternly. ‘But why is she here?’

  ‘She’s from England,’ Cara said. ‘She used to be into the S&M scene over there and wants to see how New York dungeons compare.’

  I had wanted no such thing, but I held my tongue. Rob would hardly thank me if his boss’ wife came home complaining about how I’d embarrassed her. Anyway, it wasn’t as if I was going to be shocked by anything tonight. I decided to just go along with it; I might even end up enjoying myself.

  Venetia smiled. ‘Come this way, ladies,’ she said staring at me. ‘You can get changed in there. Cara led me into a changing room, with a variety of outfits. I’d never been a submissive before and I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but Cara went straight for a rubber maid’s outfit. It didn’t surprise me. It’s generally those who hold power over others in real life who most love to be dominated, and someone used to shouting at the home help in her two-storey apartment overlooking Central Park, was naturally drawn to dressing as such a maid when play time came around. She stripped off, glancing at me shyly as she took off her knickers. She had a great body, though a little stringy from too much gym time.

  Eventually I chose a harem-girl’s skirt and jewelled bra, as it was the easiest to put on. I was finding myself a little turned on, to be honest, and as I slipped off my panties, I could feel that the crotch was moist. I turned around and saw Cara staring at me as I fastened the top. I wondered if she was going to try and seduce me. I didn’t hate the idea, but I would have preferred she got her kicks from the dominatrix, to avoid the awkwardness next time we went out for drinks as much as anything. Plus I liked Rob and I didn’t want to cheat on him, even if it would help his career.

  Ten minutes later we found ourselves in what looked like a torture room. Nothing too dissimilar to the dungeon back in London, though they seemed to really like dog collars here.

  Cara wore one, and one of the guards clipped a leash to a ring at the back. Venetia reappeared and immediately forced Cara to her knees. Venetia slipped a stockinged foot out of her stiletto and offered it to the rubber-clad society lady. Cara began licking Venetia’s feet, running her tongue up and down the arch and taking the big toe into her mouth, sucking frantically. Venetia watched me as she held Cara’s leash taut against the older woman’s throat.

  ‘Get on the rack,’ she said. I turned around, looking for what she meant. Too slow – she snapped her fingers and two guards rushed up, grabbed me by the arms and frog marched me to what looked like some kind of gym equipment in the corner. They quickly strapped my arms and legs to the contraption, which consisted of a series of interlocking steel struts all resting on gimbals which allowed it to swivel, spin and tilt. The guards left me there.

  Venetia dropped the leash and kicked Cara in the stomach, doubling her over. Then she stalked over to me.

  ‘The safety word is Geronimo,’ she whispered. ‘Now open your mouth.’

  I did as she asked and she jammed a plug in; the end tickled my throat and I had to fight not to gag. How was I to say the safety word with this in my mouth? Maybe she’d intended that, to heighten my fear. She strapped the plug in tight around my head. She inspected me, using the end of the whip to lift the skirt and have a good look at my pussy. ‘Very nice, I bet you cost a good few shekels at the slave markets.’

  The cool air of the dungeon tickled my lips and I yearned for some more physical attention. But she wasn’t ready yet. She left me there, my shoulders aching and my pussy dripping as she slowly walked back over to inspect Cara, still lying on the floor.

  ‘What sort of shitty maid are you?’ Venetia shouted. ‘Asleep on the job again? Get up, bitch, on your hands and knees.’ Cara obliged. ‘Now clean this floor, using your tongue!’

  Cara began lapping at the floor, which was covered in thick matting. Venetia walked behind her and slid the whip down between the blonde woman’s thighs, tapping against her rubber crotch. Then she snapped her fingers and one of the guards rushed over to hand her a small, black object. I couldn’t quite see what it was, but as Venetia reached down and yanked Cara’s knickers down, exposing her bony backside, I realised it was a butt plug. Venetia didn’t bother with lube; she just worked the end of the plug into her submissive’s anus and forced it in to the hilt. Cara moaned.

  ‘Keep licking!’ Venetia snapped. She then pulled Cara’s rubber knickers back up and turned to look at me. She cracked the whip over the slobbering Cara. I moaned softly and lifted my hips in a desperate attempt to find some kind of relief for my intense arousal.

  ‘You like that, little concubine, don’t you?’ I nodded. ‘You like it when I hurt her?’ I nodded again.

  Venetia began whipping Cara frantically. I wanted to stop looking, the desire was unbearable. Then Venetia came over to me and, without a moment’s hesitation, she slipped a hand under my skirt and stuck three fingers inside me. I was side-swiped by this, I generally didn’t touch my clients in such a straightforwardly sexual manner, but I was grateful for the attention. I would have preferred one of the guards to use his cock on me, but concubines have to take what they can get. I pumped my hips, trying to get purchase on her questing fingers, wishing she’d use her whole hand. I tried to recall the image of her thrashing Cara. I wanted more pain to be inflicted.

  However, Venetia soon realised some spark had gone from my eyes. And she nodded. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘I know what you need.’

  She moved away and spoke to the guards briefly, who dragged the unresisting Cara over and strapped her to some bars on the wall in front of me. Then she handed a crop to one of the guards. He began slapping the crop against Cara’s rubber-bound breasts. I breathed heavily through my nose, the ball restricting my air flow. I wasn’t getting quite enough oxygen, which is the whole point of course. To induce low-level panic and to heighten the eventual orgasm by restricting oxygen to the brain. My eyes must have told the story as Venetia stepped up to the rack and unzipped the front of Cara’s outfit. Her small and perfectly round tits sprang out. They looked fake to me, but a damn good job. The guard resumed his strokes, this time against Cara’s bare breasts. She groaned in arousal. I was as hot as a deep-fried chilli.

  Venetia decided to put me out of my state of delirium. She called the other guard over. He had a fantastic body and I wished I could see his face. He flipped the rack over until I was face down. He swivelled it so I could see the violation of Cara across the room, and stepped into it and in between my spread legs. I felt his cock spear me from behind as Venetia joined in the lashing of Cara. It took just a few strokes for him to bring me off and I hope he wasn’t disappointed. He certa
inly satisfied me. I thrashed and groaned, trying to scream against the ball jammed into my mouth. He clutched my hips tight as if I were a beast trying to escape his death grip. Afterwards I collapsed against the harness and closed my eyes in exhaustion.

  Cara paid.

  Cara was well known in the BDSM community, and it was through her that I set up my own little cottage industry. There were plenty of people interested in being dominated but who didn’t want to go to a dungeon. Over the next few months I developed an extensive client list. Rob knew all about it. Once I’d explained I had no intention of actually sleeping with any of my clients, he accepted it. Have I said before what a great guy he was? I think my openness helped. From day one I’d told him what I was. I think he was just happy I had something to keep me busy.

  I rented another apartment, uptown, where people could go without bumping into their neighbours or friends. I fitted it out with a few tables, wall-racks and chains, but most rooms were just tastefully furnished, with nice comfortable carpets. My clients on the whole weren’t looking for the full dungeon experience, which is why they came to me. I had one guy who liked me to bathe him, then suddenly grab his head and hold it under the water for what seemed a scarily long time. I had to be very careful with my stopwatch.

  A female client I had, some big-name Wall Street financier, liked to dress as a schoolgirl and lay herself face down over my knees while I spanked her with a hairbrush. I had to install cable so she could keep her eye on the stock-market channel as I whacked her wobbly backside.

  The sessions would get me hot, but I was always careful to leave myself an hour or so between appointments so I could masturbate to release the tension. I set up a CCTV system so I could watch re-runs of myself hurting people while I lay on the floor fingering myself to climax. Then I’d be ready for the next client.

  Even with regular self-relief, Rob would usually be met with a wet and horny girlfriend when he got home. He was young and fit and I don’t think he minded. I was like Cato in the Pink Panther films, he’d come in to a dark apartment, not knowing where I was, then I’d leap out at him screaming like a banshee. Though unlike Cato I’d be naked and would fuck my man where he lay.

  Please understand, sex with Rob was entirely straight, we didn’t even use blindfolds and silk scarves. It was important to me to keep the two parts of my life separate, and Rob just didn’t want to go down that road. But it’s not quite that simple either. I’d be horny because of what happened at work, and though I could certainly become aroused and achieve orgasm without even thinking about leather straps, I’d be lying if I said I never fantasised about bondage or domination while I was having sex with Rob. So it wasn’t entirely absent from our bedroom. But for all intents and purposes, my relationship with Rob was entirely normal. He was good in bed. Perhaps not very inventive, or experimental, but I quite liked that about him, he had no real kinks; he grounded me, I guess. And what he lacked in adventure, he made up for in enthusiasm. He could go for hours when he wasn’t too tired from work. Some weekends we hardly left the flat and never bothered to put clothes on. I used to love it when he fucked me from behind as I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands pressed against the glass, looking out over the New York skyline, twinkling with a million lights.

  I loved New York, I loved Rob, I loved my job and I loved my life.

  So of course I had to go and screw it up again, didn’t I? One day Rob came home to find me even more horny than usual. Two of my sessions had overrun, leaving me sopping wet and dazed with lust. I’d beaten one man until he’d had to use the safety word and my final appointment had asked me to kick him repeatedly in the balls with my sharp-toed boots. He’d left a bit mangled and my pussy was throbbing with desire. I rushed home and waited for Rob.

  As luck would have it, he was late that day so I tried to put sex out of my mind by doing some housework. Our maid was dreadful and I often thought she could have done with some lessons from Mistress Venetia. I was vacuuming like a maniac when I heard the door slam. He took one look at me and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I think I might get lucky tonight,’ he said.

  I said nothing, my chest heaving and my nostrils flaring. I needed his cock inside me immediately and told him so. He shrugged and dropped his trousers and pants showing me his beautiful, silky smooth cock, stiffening before my eyes.

  I didn’t realise I was still holding the vacuum cleaner pole as I stumbled towards him.

  ‘Er,’ he said, half nervously. ‘What are you going to do with that?’

  I had no intention of doing what I did do, which was to detach the pole from the machine, raise it over my head, and bring it down on his stiff penis. He screamed in agony and fell to his knees. I didn’t stop and began raining blows down on his head and shoulders, out of my mind with lust and … well, maybe just out of my mind.

  And that’s it basically. He didn’t press charges but told me I had to get out of his flat. I had no stomach to stay in New York alone and I knew I needed help. Proper help this time, not just weekly sessions with a shrink.

  And so here I am. I hope I haven’t shocked you, or scared you. I’m not usually violent. But I know I’m not totally in control. And that is something I can’t bear the thought of. A dominatrix who loses control is fit for nothing.

  Abigail sat down and appraised the other group members coolly. She caught Shelley’s eye and, caught out, Shelley gave her the thumbs up, immediately feeling like an idiot. Abigail had this weird power over her, over everyone probably. She just had to look at you and you’d collapse in a wobbly mess, ready to do whatever she wanted.

  They filed out, Larry patting Abigail on the shoulder gingerly. Shelley couldn’t help but notice him walking a little awkwardly. This must be even more difficult for him than the others, she thought as she followed Rose and Cheryl to the dining room, listening to them chattering about the new Madonna album, as though they heard tales of violent domination before lunch every day.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After Abigail had finished, Shelley snuck up to her room and locked herself in the little bathroom. She was keen to get down in writing some of the technical terms and scenarios Abigail had mentioned. She was an odd one, Shelley thought. Of all of the group, she was the one Shelley felt least close to, even after the intimate confessional they’d just been through.

  When she turned on the BlackBerry she noticed two things, one was that the battery was running low, and the other was that Aidan had sent her an e-mail.

  Dear Shelley,

  Just a quick thanks for the excellent copy you’ve been sending through. Everyone here is most impressed with your endeavour. The edited extracts on the blog are going down a storm and we’ve had a lot of interest from the media wanting to know who you are and whether the story is genuine.

  Already a number of new advertisers on the strength of the extracts and publicity.

  Keep up the good work.

  Aidan

  Shelley flipped the gadget shut and sat on the bed. She was flattered by the professional kudos but, as usual, she couldn’t just enjoy her triumph; she had to ruin it by panicking about her own confessional again. The reason the stories she’d written so far were good was because they were true. How could she compete with that? She knew she was going to disappoint everyone.

  Not only that though, but if her story was patent rubbish, she’d be torn limb from limb by the rest of the group. She didn’t care about Fresh Paths, but she was beginning to think of the others in the group as her friends. How would they feel if they found out she was lying to them all? Shelley tried to put the thought out of her mind and sent a quick e-mail to Briony.

  Hi Brie. Hope you found your vibrator. Need info on BDSM dungeons in London and New York. Re latter, please try to locate underground clubs in mid-town East. Need for story urgently. Thanks

  Shelley decided not to attend the rest of the morning’s session but to try and find a quiet spot to type up the story, which she suspected would take her
longer than the others. She decided to send a message to Verity saying she had a stomach upset and needed some fresh air. She phoned reception and Sandra answered. Predictably, she was entirely unsympathetic.

  ‘You need to be a bit more careful what you put down your throat.’

  Shelley rolled her eyes thinking of nurse’s physique. ‘I think that’s a piece of advice we both could do to heed. Now please pass my message on.’

  Shelley smiled. She liked being the new Spicy-Shell. Maybe she’d keep up the hard-nosed bitch act when she got back to the office. Who was she kidding? It was easy to be tough down a telephone line.

  Shelley wandered around the grounds. It was a bright, breezy day and it was good to get outdoors and clear the stuffy institutional air from her lungs.

  She made her way around the back of the stately home, past the glass-house where the pool and gym were located and headed towards some outbuildings. As she arrived she was surprised by Dr Galloway, who popped out of a side door. This must be the drug rehab centre.

  ‘Ah, Ms Carter,’ he said, smiling broadly.

  ‘Shelley, please,’ Shelley replied. ‘Dr Galloway, I do think I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I was dreadfully rude to you yesterday, in your office. You asked me a perfectly reasonable question, under the circumstances, and I reacted most outrageously. Please accept my apologies, sir.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Dr Galloway replied, bowing a little. ‘I won’t hear of you apologising for such a thing. Whatever the circumstances, it is an uncomfortable conversation for any lady, and I apologise to you for my insensitivity.’

  Shelley wasn’t sure how long she could keep up the Austen shtick.

  ‘The answer’s no, by the way.’