by John Argus
There was a large gas fire to one side, and the flick of a switch on a little remote control device sent tall flames licking and dancing in the grate. He picked up a glass of brandy from the table on his other side and sipped as he examined her. ‘Keep your back straight,’ he ordered sharply.
‘Yes, sir, Mr Richardson,’ she said.
‘Sir will do. I did not give you permission to use my name.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘What should I do with you, slut girl?’ he said acidly.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
He pondered for a while, swilling the amber liquid around in the glass. ‘Tell me about Gwendolyn Allison Pepperdine,’ he said eventually.
‘Sir?’ She wasn’t at all sure what he wanted to know.
‘Tell me about her family,’ he qualified.
‘I don’t really have much of one.’
‘Sir!’ he snapped, making her flinch from his sudden ferocity.
‘S-sorry, sir,’ she blurted hastily.
‘Father?’
‘Stepfather,’ she confirmed. ‘My father died when I was a baby and my mother married his cousin shortly afterwards. Lord Pepperdine,’ she stressed sarcastically. ‘He considers himself a great thinker and humanitarian.’
‘He’s a politician?’
‘Good heavens no,’ she snorted. ‘Him stand for election? He’d never do something so common.’ She shifted her sore buttocks on her heels and then hurriedly added, ‘Sir,’ as he glared.
‘So how did he get his money? Inheritance?’
‘He wasted his on something or other. Father had a lot though, and mother inherited that. He manages it,’ she said sourly. ‘My mother’s parents must have hated him. When they died it turned out they’d left her nothing because they knew he’d get control of it. Instead they left all their money to me in a trust for when I turn twenty-one.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he said, nodding as he absorbed her words. ‘But until then you’re under the old man’s thumb.’
She made a face of displeasure. ‘Yes sir, I am.’
‘And he wants his stepdaughter to show a little respect.’
‘Yes sir, that’s about it,’ she confirmed.
‘So do you think he liked that picture of you in the tabloids?’ he asked, and Gwen blushed slightly at the thought of it. ‘Perhaps you could pose for a real men’s magazine. What do you think? That would surely annoy him.’
‘I – I don’t think that would be a good idea, sir,’ she said uncertainly, wondering what he was getting at.
‘I bet you’d like to pose for such pictures,’ he mused, idly running a fingertip around the rim of his glass, golden reflections of the fire dancing in the crystal. ‘I bet you’d come just from seeing them.’
Gwen shifted uncomfortably on her heels again.
‘Imagine how angry he’d be,’ he went on, a calculating smile playing across his lips. ‘Gwendolyn,’ his voice spoke her name in rich deep tones, ‘I want you to write something for me.’
He leaned over her and unsnapped the wrist restraints, then placed a paper and pen on the table.
‘What, sir?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘I will dictate and you will write,’ he told her.
She leaned forward uncertainly, wondering what he was up to, her bare breasts pressing against the edge of the low table, the nipple weights making small clacking sounds as they touched the wood.
‘Dear father,’ he said. She hesitated, and then wrote the words. ‘I had a wonderful time today. I had sex with ten different men.’ Gwen frowned, but continued anyway. ‘I walked down the street wearing only my short coat, and opened it to every attractive man I saw, offering them sex with me.’ She wrote, her eyes flitting up at him in confusion. ‘I find I am happy only when being fucked, and have come to the conclusion that I want nothing in life but to be a whore.’
The pen hovered and Gwen looked at him fully. ‘I’m not going to sign this,’ she stated firmly.
‘I am beginning to enjoy being buggered, too,’ he went on, paying her no attention, gazing at the brandy with amusement in his eyes.
‘Why am I writing this?’ she asked in exasperation.
‘For the same reason you do anything: because I told you to,’ he said casually, and then went on, ‘I’ve heard that successful prostitutes can have sex with many men in one day, and I envy them.’ Gwen dutifully wrote the words, thinking the man slightly insane. ‘I don’t want any of your money, nor even the money from my trust. I want only to be a prostitute, to be used again and again by man after man, all day and all night.’
Gwen couldn’t believe the nonsense he was making her write. Oh well, she thought, if it pleased him.
‘Now sign it,’ he commanded, and she looked up uncertainly. ‘Sign it.’
‘I won’t have this sent to him,’ she said defiantly.
He sipped his brandy and then smiled lazily. ‘Why?’
‘Because he…’
‘Because you don’t want him to know what a whore you really are?’ he stated for her.
Gwen wavered, not knowing what to say.
‘You do realise that no one will believe it’s for real? They’ll simply imagine you wrote it to antagonise your stepfather.’
Well, she supposed that was true. She was known for possessing an odd sense of humour.
‘Now come along, Gwendolyn,’ he said with exaggerated patience, ‘be a good girl and sign it.’
She stared at him, then down at the letter, and feeling she had no will of her own, she signed her name, feeling strangely detached as she did so. He leaned forward and slid it off the table, then read as she knelt anxiously, wondering what his intentions were. Then he smiled, and tore it into a number of small pieces.
‘Sometimes it’s good for us to write, just to see our thoughts with our own eyes.’
He motioned her forward, then turned her and locked her restraints behind her back once more before turning her back. ‘Do your friends know what a whore you are?’ he mocked.
‘I don’t think anyone knows what a… a whore I am, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not sure I knew myself until, well…’
‘Until I showed you.’ He stretched out a leg, his foot pressing up against her pussy, rubbing lightly.
‘Yes, sir,’ she confirmed.
‘Do you have a best friend?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir; Candice.’
‘And what do you suppose she’d think if she knew what you’d been doing recently?’
‘I suppose she’d think I was an incredible slut, sir.’
‘Maybe we could send her that videotape,’ he chuckled. ‘Do you like that idea, Gwendolyn?’
‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
He smiled and sipped his drink, then set the crystal glass down and leaned forward and removed the nipple clips, before sitting back, watching her expression of anguish as the surge of returning feelings made her pull frantically against the restraints binding her wrists. He continued pressing the toe of his shoe against her sex, rubbing slowly against her.
‘I adore your nipples,’ he stated evenly. ‘They look so delicate, so vulnerable.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she managed, despite the storm of discomfort raging in her breasts, despite her yearning to cup and comfort them; a yearning heightened by her inability to do so. And then she realised she was slowly grinding her hips, rubbing her sex against the toe of his shoe. The realisation shocked her, but at the same time aroused her. She didn’t know why it should, but it seemed that each new depth to which he lowered her induced a higher level of sexual abandon.
‘Would you like me to fuck you now, Gwendolyn?’ he suddenly asked bluntly.
She couldn’t deny that she would like that, very much. ‘Yes, sir,’
she sighed.
‘Beg me.’
‘Please fuck me, sir,’ she panted.
He sipped his brandy again and then chuckled. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think so. I think you’re doing well enough there on my foot. Have you ever masturbated on someone’s foot before, Gwendolyn Allison Pepperdine?’
‘No,’ she gasped, her face reddening further.
‘Are you close to coming?’ he asked.
‘I… I… yes,’ she gasped, but he withdrew his foot and her hips slowly stopped grinding as she looked up at him forlornly. He got up and moved behind her, then knelt. She gasped as a hand yanked back on her hair, then his teeth were chewing lightly the nape of her neck as his free hand cupped her breasts. He pinched her nipples then slid his hand down between her legs, and she shuddered as his fingers pressed against her clitoris and began to rub. At once her hips began to rock once more, driving herself against them.
‘Do you want to come?’ he demanded, hissing in her ear.
‘Oh yes, sir…’ she wailed.
‘Are you nearly there?’
‘Yes, sir… I am.’
He stood, pulling her up then dispassionately shunting her forward so she stumbled. Then he pushed her against his armchair so the padded leather arm was between her thighs, her left leg bent with her knee and shin on the cushion, her right leg straight and supporting most of her weight.
‘Then come,’ he commanded. ‘Right now; let me see you come.’
Gwen felt the pressure of the arm up against her moist sex, and a new wave of humiliation swept over her even as she began to grind against it. He stepped back, watching intently, and she rocked her hips with increasing fervour, feeling the cool leather pressing up into her sex, gasping as it became slick and rubbed against her. Her breasts were moulding against the edge of the chair’s back and she rolled against it, the awareness of how she was degrading herself like daggers in her mind as she gasped in helpless need.
The climax began as a sharp explosion between her legs, and then flared up and out. She shuddered as she frantically worked her body against the chair, crying out in short gasps each time a new bolt of wondrous pleasure lashed her body. For long seconds she rode the solid piece of furniture, and then collapsed across it, her breasts heaving as she breathed deeply, feeling intensely embarrassed.
He gave her a moment to recover, then pulled her off the chair and held her from behind, examining the glistening wetness along the leather arm. ‘Is that how you behave at your stepfather’s house?’ he asked cruelly, intentionally bringing attention to her shame. Then without awaiting an answer he chuckled and led her from the room.
Gwen stumbled along at the end of her leash, trying to understand why she was so excited about demeaning herself so utterly before him.
They returned to the dungeon room, where her replaced her leather restraints with thin gold shackles. This time he let her have her wrists in front of her, but ran a chain between the new gold collar around her throat down through the linked shackles around her wrists, to the chain linking the two on her ankles. She could not raise her hands very high, nor lower them very far, and she especially could not touch herself between the legs.
Then she was forced to shuffle as he led her back, taking small steps while he guided her to the kitchen. ‘You have two choices, girl,’ he said. ‘You can make me dinner, or clean the floor. Which will it be?’
Gwen was not much of a cook, but that was better than cleaning a floor – something she had never done, of course, nor had any wish to do. ‘I’ll make your dinner, sir,’ she said.
‘Then it had better be good,’ he stated severely. ‘And if I don’t like it you’ll be punished.’
He disappeared, probably, she thought, to his little theatre, as she soon heard the distant sound of a television.
Most of the food was fairly simple, consisting of meat in the freezer, microwave dinners and cans of soup and stew. Could she get away with stuffing something into the microwave? Possibly, but she thought it likely he was testing her in some way. He would want her to cook something substantial. She could do a steak; that would impress him.
As she busied herself, Gwen gave little thought as to why she wanted to impress him.
Getting the ingredients was a challenge in itself. She could not raise her shackled wrists as high as her breasts, and had to carry over a stool and carefully climb it before being able to even remove the steaks from the freezer. Getting other items was a similar problem, but she managed to cope – just. She found a cookbook as well, and then dug out some pots and pans.
Every few minutes as she tried to cook dinner she experienced a little shiver of excitement at being shackled and naked. It was quite bizarre in many ways but certainly more exciting than any other effort at cooking she could recall.
She felt perversely domesticated as she set the table, then finished the steaks and tipped the chopped mushrooms beside them on their plates, then placed the two plates on the table, knowing as she did that she was being presumptuous. Still, he hadn’t told her not to make something for herself. Then she shuffled quickly down the hall and stopped at the door to the theatre. ‘Excuse me, sir, dinner is ready,’ she announced.
He followed her back to the dining room, looked at the two steaks, then at her. Gwen blushed. ‘I don’t recall inviting you to eat,’ he said coldly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ she replied disappointedly, feeling really very hungry.
He sat down and picked up a knife and fork, then cut into the steak and ate. He chewed carefully as he studied her, and then nodded slowly. ‘Very good,’ he said approvingly. ‘Well done.’
Gwen felt a wave of relief and delight – and then annoyance that she should be reduced to feeling either having just cooked a meal for some arrogant man she barely knew.
‘Because of that I’ll let you eat, as well,’ he decreed.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, reaching for the nearest chair.
‘Not at the table, of course,’ he added, raising a hand to stop her, and then he picked up her plate and put it on the floor beside his chair, and it was obvious he had no intention of placing the knife and fork with it. ‘As befits a slut,’ he mused.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, feeling a little hurt after the effort she’d gone to for him; few men had enjoyed the luxury of having Gwendolyn Allison Pepperdine cook for them!
But she crouched down on her knees and shackled hands, and set about trying to eat the steak without the benefit of knife or fork. It was awkward and messy, but at the same time the sheer humility she experienced was oddly arousing.
After dinner and after stacking the dishwasher Gwen was allowed to kneel beside his armchair as he relaxed and watched a movie, and after a time she was ordered to fellate him. For reasons she herself did not properly understand she chose to antagonise him by using her teeth to continually nip him, not to hurt but to goad, until she got the reaction she’d deep down been longing for, and he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the dungeon.
But instead of punishing her, or perhaps as a punishment, he stood her in the centre of the room and chained her arms above her head and spread apart.
This both aroused and frightened her, thinking he was about to hang her by her wrists and whip her. But all he did was spread her legs, shackle her ankles down, and leave her as she was.
All night.
With the heavy door closed shouting, cursing and begging were pointless. All Gwen could do was wait for him to return and free her. It was an excruciatingly long night and her legs and arms grew painfully stiff, cramped and sore long before morning, hence she was deeply relieved when the door finally opened and Richardson appeared, already immaculately dressed for a day’s work. She was tired and in a foul mood but, fearing he would leave her as she was all day if she antagonised him further, said nothing.
&nbs
p; ‘Have we learned our lesson?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, doing a poor job of keeping the resentment out of her voice.
He smiled lightly, pinching one of her nipples as he stood before her. ‘I think there’s still too much of the brat in you to learn so quickly,’ he said, and then undid the shackles holding her and she groaned with undiluted relief as she was finally able to flex her numb limbs.
‘The alternative to obedience need not be pain,’ he told. ‘It might just be boredom,’ and with that casual remark he turned and left, and she glared after him.
Gwen sat for long quiet minutes in reflective mood, drawing her knees up to her chin one at a time and luxuriating in the delicious sensation of movement. Finally she rose, not bothering to find clothing, went into the kitchen and made breakfast, then had a long hot bath during which she drifted off to sleep.
After the revitalising bath she dried herself and gratefully spent much of the day dozing on the sofa in the lounge or sleeping on his huge bed.
A warbling tone woke her and she sat up and rubbed her eyes, looking around the room in confusion for the source of the noise. Then, realising it was coming from outside the bedroom, she got up and made her way along the hall, and gazed doubtfully at the little entrance console next to the lift.
In the monitor she saw a man, and recognised him as Kenton. He stood in the small lobby, a large box on the floor beside him. The sight of the little creep made her shudder, but she knew he was working to Richardson’s instructions, and so it would be wise to see what he wanted. She pressed the talk button on the console. ‘Yes?’ she said into the small grille, watching him look up into the camera.
‘I have Mr Richardson’s order, miss,’ his metallic voice informed her.