Strange Desires

by Joe Simpson Walker

  Behind him stood the machine. Roy had never seen anything like it, it resembled a miniature crane, standing four or five feet high, with a metal arm about a yard long. Suspended from the end of the arm, under a mechanism of wheels and cables that made them swing rapidly back and forth, were a pair of dummy legs, carved out of wood, but very feminine in their shape. The legs had been laced up into a pair of boots like the ones worn by Kate the receptionist, knee-length military boots with thick soles and rounded toes. As they swung, the booted wooden feet delivered a continuous, rapid, two-footed kicking to the man’s buttocks. He writhed and struggled in his bonds, and would have roared with anguish had his mouth been free, but his struggles were quite useless and no words could get through the gagging tape, only a noisy mumble, like the sound of a large dog chewing on a bone.

  Before him sat the young girl - she was younger than Roy, about the same age as Angie, he’d have guessed. She was also like Angie in being rather short in stature, and very dark in her colouring. Her hair was long and black, her eyes brown; her lips were full, and at that moment they were pursed into a mocking smile as she looked down at the helpless man. She stretched her legs a little more, to put her feet closer to his face. She was wearing boots, a short lace-up pair, with pointed toes and high heels. Above them her legs were bare, up to the skirt of a printed pattern mini-dress, the breast of which bore a ‘D.M.S.’ badge with the name MARCIA.

  Then she pulled her legs in again and got up out of the chair. She stepped around to the machine, took hold of two sliding controls and pushed them, both together, with calculated suddenness. The speed and force of the kicking legs increased dramatically. Back and forth swung the long boots, right boot then left, like two metronomes set going a second out of phase. The captive bellowed in gagged agony.

  His tormentress giggled. She stepped in front of him, and squatted down; getting a fingernail under a corner of the tape, she ripped it away. He yelled with pain and gasped for breath.

  “Hey, Prisoner 12!” she yelled, raising her voice above the noise of the torture machine, “what would you like to do to me now?”

  The prisoner was still breathless and before he could find words, she sat down again, and pulled undone the lacing of her ankle-length boots. A moment later, both boots were pulled off, revealing a pair of fluorescent green ankle socks. She jumped up again and danced about, capering in her socks. “What would you do to me now, hey?”

  The removal of her boots produced an extraordinary effect on the prisoner. He seemed to forget the kicks still thudding against his bottom and made a furious attempt to wrench free from the straps. His face turned crimson with rage. “You little bitch, I’ll kill you! Let me out of this!”

  “I’ve got my boots off, I’ve got my boots off!” she sang, still dancing. “I’ve got my boots off, and you can’t touch me!”

  “Can’t touch you? I’ll strangle you! I’ll - ugh! Ugh!”

  She’d stopped dancing and had thrust one of her socked feet into his face. “Smell that! I’ve kept these socks on since Monday! You know why? So I can do - this!”

  Without sitting down, she’d pulled the socks off, peeling them away from the soles of a pair of unwashed, dirty, sticky feet. Now she caught her victim’s nose between finger and thumb and held it in a vicious twist, while she stuffed her sweaty green socks well into his open mouth. He retched and choked, but resistance was hopeless. She pulled two or three fresh pieces of tape from a big roll and plastered them over the lower half of his face, making it quite impossible for him to get rid of the horrible new gag.

  Standing back, she looked again at the mechanical legs, still kicking him remorselessly. “Your bum’s had enough of the tenderisers, I reckon. Time for the agonisers!”

  She opened a closet. It contained about a dozen pairs of boots, all in different styles but all the same size; she chose a pair like her own, ankle-length and pointy-toed. Holding the boots in one hand, she stepped again to the machine and turned it off. T he swinging wooden legs slowed abruptly before settling to a halt, and the noisy humming of the mechanism died away into silence. “That a relief?” the girl enquired, still shouting. “No? Your bum still sore? Think how it’s gonna feel when I’ve changed boots and set the kicks going again...”

  “Just a moment, Under-Mistress Marcia,” Mrs Gardner said.

  She stepped into the room. The machine had drowned out the opening of the door, and neither participant in the scene had happened to glance in that direction. Now that Under-Mistress Marcia was aware of her presence, her whole manner changed. She cast a guilty look downwards at her bare feet.

  “Put your boots back on immediately,” Mrs Gardner said severely. “Until a prisoner’s thoroughly broken, you have to be careful in dealing with him. This is a strong man - supposing he’d been able to burst loose? He meant what he said, Marcia, I assure you.”

  Marcia’s head remained drooped. “Sorry, Madame Davinia.”

  “You could have been hurt. Don’t put the machine back on,” she added. “I think we’ll give Prisoner 12 another dose of live kicking instead.”

  She turned to Roy, who’d followed her in. He became aware that his jaw was hanging open.

  “You really had no idea what kind of an establishment I run here at the Lodge, did you?”

  Roy shook his head. “Mr Keane never mentioned it.”

  “He’s very discreet. But I don’t mind telling you. This house is a residential college in the science of feminine domination.”

  “You mean like with whips and stuff?”

  “We use the whip. But actually, our principal instrument of control is the feminine boot.” She unfastened her gown and threw it carelessly over a chair. Above her boots, knee-length and high-heeled in a classic style, she was clad in a tunic and shorts of glistening black plastic. Her shoulders were square and bore studded epaulettes; her neckline plunged down from her white, unlined throat in a deep, narrow V-shape. Around her waist was buckled a belt so wide as to be almost a girdle. Its huge steel buckle bore the ‘D.M.S.’ logo.

  “You may not know this, young man, but the boot is a psychological symbol of aggression, dominance and cruelty. Here at Lockwood Lodge, our inmates learn what that means - they learn it very well.”

  “You’ve got inmates?” Roy gasped. “Do you mean blokes pay you to come here?”

  “No, they pay to leave. It’s a set fee for any length of stay, and if a man chickens out before I’m finished with him, he can ransom himself - but it costs. Any other kind of escape is impossible. Even if anyone succeeded in getting away from the house, he’d then have to make the journey home with no means of transport and no money, dressed in quite a conspicuous way.” She gestured at Prisoner 12, strapped down in his thin cotton briefs. “And he might get there only to find that we’d taken some very compromising pictures during his captivity, and had already delivered prints to his wife or mother or employers.”

  “Er - yeah?” Roy said.

  “Within the Lodge, any kind of inmates’ rebellion is equally impossible. We can accommodate up to fifteen inmates, each in his own personal cell. I have a staff of four under-mistresses, not counting Kate, and at any given time most of the inmates are well on their way to being broken into obedience. But we should always be careful,” she concluded.

  She was standing over Prisoner 12. “You cringing toad.”

  If he’d had some hope that Madame Davinia’s reappearance meant he might be untied from the straps, or at least relieved of the disgusting gag, it surely left him. He crouched in his bonds, looking fearfully up at her.

  “This young man has just brought me an exquisite new pair of thigh-high leather waders, created especially by the House of Footwear. Under-Mistress Marcia is going to set them on my feet, and then I shall kick you - kick you so hard, and so long, that in the end you’ll plead to be put back under the machine.” She sat dow
n. “Marcia, the boots!”

  Marcia took the big cardboard box from Roy. Dropping to one knee, she removed Mrs Gardner’s knee-length boots, sliding them off with servile care, revealing slim, pedicured white feet. She opened the box and unwrapped the layers of black paper. Mrs Gardner watched the unpacking with an outward air of sternness, but her eyes glimmered in anticipation.

  The boots were revealed. “These are ace leather waders, Madame...” Marcia began; then she stopped.

  Mrs Gardner’s expression had changed, too. “Give me that boot,” she said quietly.

  Marcia handed her the topmost boot. She held it up close, examining the surface, scanning the leather with her sharp eyes, and stroking it with the tip of a long, slender finger. Eyes and hand travelled from top to toe, with an occasional glance of comparison at the other boot, still lying in the box. Finally, she looked up at Roy.

  “Someone’s worn these,” she said.

  Examined with care in a good light, the signs of wear were plain: long deep creases in what had been an unsullied surface; at the knees, from where Angie’s booted legs had clutched Roy’s sides; at the ankles, from where her feet had locked together and driven hard rhythmic kicks into the small of his back; in the insteps and toes, from where she’d marched exultantly up and down the road. She’d had the boots on a good forty minutes, and had exerted herself in them. And no boots that were tailored to receive Mrs Gardner’s legs could have accommodated Angie’s without a strain.

  “You think so?” Roy said. It was no good denying the accusation, so the only thing to do was play dumb.

  “I know so,” Mrs Gardner snapped. “Have you tried them on?”

  “Me?” Roy said. “How could I?”

  Mrs Gardner cast an angry glance down, but couldn’t argue: Roy was a big young man and getting his feet into the boots would have been a hopeless undertaking. “Well, someone has,” she snapped. “And I’m not paying seven hundred pounds for a pair of cast-offs.”

  She flung the boot in her hand down at Marcia. “Pack them away again.” She’d left Roy’s delivery note on a small table; now she turned the note over, found a pen, and began to write a message on the back. “This will explain to Mr Keane why I’m refusing delivery. He’ll understand. And he’ll want to know who ruined a special order. This has never happened before in all the time I’ve known him. It’s enough to get somebody the sack, I can assure you.”

  Oh, shit, Roy thought. But his face maintained an expression of polite regret. “I’m sorry you’re not satisfied. But I’m only the courier.”

  Mrs Gardner made no answer. Her pen scratched a few sentences over the paper. With a sidelong, uneasy eye upon her, Marcia packed the boots away. Prisoner 12 crouched in his bonds, his eyes travelling helplessly from Mrs Gardner to Marcia to Roy. There was a silence broken only by his muffled retching at the taste of sweaty socks in his mouth.

  Roy took the note and parcel from Marcia. “Er - sorry you’re not pleased with your boots, madame. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” Mrs Gardner said coldly.

  Hefting the box under one arm, Roy walked out of the room. Later, buying his round and telling the tale to his mates, he’d probably laugh at the whole episode but at that moment he really wanted to be out of Lockwood Lodge.

  But he was hardly back down the corridor when he was brought to an involuntary halt. He heard a confusion of voices, the noise of several people shouting and struggling all together. It seemed to be coming from below, from somewhere downstairs. As he stood there it grew louder, as if the commotion were on the move and coming closer; one voice became distinct, screaming one word over and over.

  “Roy! Roy! ROY!”

  On the stairway below, Angie appeared, in the grasp of four people, two girls and two men. The men were clad in thin white cotton briefs, with leather collars around their necks. Their faces and bodies were filthy with soil, smeared across their bare skin in broad strokes, as if by a strong but clumsy hand. One of the girls was a tall blonde, the other a skinny brunette; they were dressed identically in tight black body stockings, studded belts and riding boots stained with mud. Each wore a ‘D.M.S.’ badge; one bore the name JULIANNE, the other KIM. Between the four of them, Angie’s captors were hauling her up the stairs, but she fought every step of the way.

  She caught sight of Roy, standing transfixed on the landing. “Roy! Roy! Make them let me go!”

  “Shut your mouth!” Julianne, the thin brunette, snarled.

  “You fuck off! Roy, they’re all perverts here!” Angie gasped. “I got out the car - I only wanted a look around the house. I walked around the back and I saw these two had these two fellas on their hands and knees, walking them with leads on their collars like dogs! They made them roll on the ground, and wiped their boots on them!”

  “I told you to shut up!” Julianne said.

  She lifted a hand to strike Angie across the face but before the blow could fall, Mrs Gardner appeared, drawn out by the noise and shouting. With Marcia at her boot-heels she strode down the corridor, staring angrily at the scene.

  “Julianne? Kim? What the fuck is going on? Who’s that?”

  “We don’t know, Madame Davinia,” Kim said. “We found her trespassing in the grounds.”

  “She knows that bloke,” Julianne said, “whoever he is.”

  All eyes turned on Roy; nearest to him and most uncomfortable were Mrs Gardner’s.

  “She’s my girlfriend,” he admitted.

  “I see,” Mrs Gardner said.

  She beckoned with a finger. The little crowd of under-mistresses and prisoners brought Angie the rest of the way up the stairs, on to the landing. She waved a hand, and without letting go, they moved aside, allowing their mistress a full view of her.

  Then she turned abruptly back to Roy and snatched the cardboard box from out of his hold. She yanked the lid open and tipped out the contents: the long leather boots tumbled free of the black paper and slapped the floor at Angie’s feet. “Tell me, my girl, have you ever seen those before?”

  Angie had stopped struggling. At the sight of the boots, her mouth opened in understanding. “Are they yours?”

  “You’ve done more than see them, haven’t you? Your boyfriend wanted you to put them on, didn’t he?”

  “I never wanted her to,” Roy said. “I told her she couldn’t, just like I told her to wait in the car. She doesn’t listen.”

  Mrs Gardner ignored him. She moved closer to Angie, closing in on her, glaring down full into her face. “You’ve dared to put your feet - and your legs: your sweaty, beefy, ungainly legs,” she said, her scorn and indignation deepening with each adjective; “you’ve dared to stuff them into my leather waders? Do you know how much they cost? Do you think I want soiled goods for that amount?”

  Angie’s lips trembled helplessly, and nothing came out.

  “And you’ve seen something of what goes on here, too, haven’t you?. On your present showing, how can I possibly trust to your discretion? But there’s a solution. Many before you have found that Lockwood Lodge is a place that’s far easier to enter than it is to leave.”

  Angie was paralysed. Roy heard Mrs Gardner’s words in hardly less terror. But he was on the edge of the scene now, and momentarily forgotten. He was on the landing, and there was nobody between him and the stairs. He made a sudden leap to escape.

  “Madame!”

  “Look!”

  “Get after him!” Mrs Gardner screamed. “I want them both!”

  But Roy was already halfway downstairs. He might have got the rest of the way down, bolted through reception and disappeared into the night but he rounded the stairs only to run, full pelt into Kate the receptionist, staring upwards, her hands burdened by a tray laden with tea and biscuits. Neither she nor Roy had a chance to avoid the collision. Both were sent flying. As he fell Roy heard he
r scream, mingled with the clattering of tray and dishes, then his head landed against the banister, knocking him near senseless.

  After that, things were blurred. The two dirty prisoners took him by the head and feet and carried him back up. On the landing, Under-Mistresses Julianne, Kim and Marcia were struggling to subdue Angie, who was fighting with renewed and hysterical strength. They’d got her to the floor, and dragged the biker boots from her feet, to prevent her from kicking. Ropes had been brought from somewhere and Julianne and Kim were sitting upon her, while Marcia tied her up. Even when she was bound hand and foot she tried to bite, until they gagged her with something; an incidental effect of which was that her voice, screaming obscenities, was choked into silence.

  Then at Mrs Gardner’s command, Roy and Angie were taken higher, up flight after flight of stairs, to the very top of the Lodge: up to a long passage, with locked and barred doors all the way down. Rod in hand, keys hanging from her belt, a girl patrolled on guard duty. She was blonde, with her hair tied back in an immense ponytail that reached down past her bottom. “Two for the vacant cells!” Mrs Gardner shouted, and the guard-mistress unlocked two doors. As she was, bound and gagged, Angie was pitched through one and locked in. Next it was Roy’s turn. He saw a small room, with no light and shutters fastened over the window; then he hit the floor and his cell door slammed behind him, and he was left in the dark.

  He heard men’s voices, calling out. “Please, Mistress, what’s happening?” “Please, Guard-Mistress Savannah, what’s all the noise?”

  “Shut up!” Mrs Gardner roared. “I’m here, do you understand? You’d better mind your own business and learn not to worry about anyone else’s torments!”