Pat picked up a flogger from the pile of toys on the floor. It was a short, multi stranded whip of broad leather strips. It didn’t look terribly threatening, and as Pat began to lightly stroke Adele’s ass with it I couldn’t see it was having much of an effect. I felt a little disappointed, worried that Jeanne’s style, and hence Pat’s style, was not very intense. I didn’t think I was going to be satisfied with a vanilla sort of BDSM. But then I noticed the flogger landing a little more rapidly, with a little more authority, and Adele’s ass began to redden. I could see Adele’s mouth was held in a grimace, but she didn’t make a noise, even as Pat began to put some arm into the strokes. In fact, the only noise I heard in the room was the flogger hitting Adele’s skin. When Pat briefly stopped, all I could hear was my own breath, rapid and shallow. I thought I would die if I couldn’t press my clit onto something, anything, but I held tight.
Pat moved to the front of the bench and squatted in front of Adele. She reached under and grasped Adele’s nipples, one at a time, as she placed clamps on them. Adele’s eyes grew bigger and she bit her lip, but she still managed to stay silent. Pat picked up a riding crop and started hitting Adele’s breasts, their weight pulling them straight down from the bench, making them perfect targets.
Jeanne must have known I would fail to stay completely still, that my excitement would grow beyond the point I could control it. When I pushed down on the sofa and wiggled my hips, all control gone, she grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me off the sofa and onto my knees. Then she brought my wrists behind my back and held them there.
“I’m not impressed with your willingness to please me,” she said.
“But it’s all I want,” I said, turning my face toward her.
“I know what you want.” She took me by the jaw and pointed my face forward. Pat was unzipping her jeans.
“Remain still. Keep your hands behind your back. Stay on your knees. That’s what I want.”
I focused my attention on remaining still, and then I became engrossed once again in the action playing out in front of us. Pat kicked off her jeans and reached back into the toy pile. She was wearing a harness, all ready to go but for the large dildo she now slipped into place. As soon as she slapped on some lube, Pat grabbed Adele’s hips and entered her. She went all the way in at once, and it looked effortless. Adele cried out, the first sound out of her mouth all evening. There was no doubt it was a cry of pleasure, and as Pat worked furiously behind her, Adele became louder and louder until a sustained cry let everyone know she’d had a bone-rattling orgasm. Or she was an extremely gifted actress. I was quite certain she came, for I was quite certain I would have. I almost did without being touched.
I didn’t know whether Pat had come. She never changed her expression from the time of the first lash to the last thrust. She was so handsome, so focused. She took the dildo out of the harness and then pulled on her jeans. She was just slightly out of breath. She looked over at Jeanne. Jeanne looked at me.
“You may stand up now, Laura,” she said. “I’m going to have Pat show you out, if you don’t mind. I’d like a little time with Adele.”
Chaos reigned in my brain. My desire to obey Jeanne was met with an equal desire to punch her in the nose. How could she throw me out again? This was sadistic. She may never take a hand to me, I thought, and I’d still think her the most sadistic woman in recorded history. I was opening my mouth to say something when she put her finger to my lips and hushed me.
“And remember. Do not touch yourself. Not until I say it’s okay. Do I have your word?”
We stared at each other, she cool and remote, me in a tizzy. I took a deep breath and nodded, not willing to end this by telling her how angry and frustrated I was. Pat took me by the elbow and escorted me across the room. Adele was still strapped to the bench, her gaze fixed straight ahead. As we passed in front of her, she peered up at me and smiled. Smugly.
Chapter Three—Truth Feels Better Than Fiction
I hoped for a call from Jeanne the next day. There was none. Day two, day three—still nothing. I worked feverishly on my dissertation, trying to focus on anything but sex. I wasn’t used to not giving myself some relief when I felt aroused. I wasn’t into torturing myself, ironically. It hadn’t occurred to me the torture I’d willingly submit myself to from another woman might include withholding orgasms. I’m a masochist. I’ve slowly come to accept that about myself, even without any real experience. But I’m not crazy. No matter what form my sexuality might express itself in, it’s still sex. There remains a goal we all seek—the indescribably powerful elixir of an orgasm.
After four days of not doing anything about the constant arousal, I knew I couldn’t stand it any longer. I’d taken to smoking cigarettes and stuffing myself with sweets, trying to assuage my craving. I was drinking a bottle of wine every night as I watched my cell phone and waited for her call. I started to feel like a cat in heat. Any second, I would start yowling. On my own, I could not withstand the agony. Once my mind was made up, I literally ran into my bedroom and fumbled in the nightstand for my Hitachi Magic Wand. I fell to my knees to plug her in and then nearly came at the sound of her turned to the low setting. I managed to hold off long enough to rip off my pants and fall on top of the wand. One, two, three seconds…and Boom! Explosive, yes, but one of the most unsatisfying orgasms of my life. It was immediately followed by guilt, dread, and a telephone call from Jeanne.
I was still lying facedown on the bed, straddling my lover, the Hitachi, when I heard the warbling of my cell phone. I was too boneless to dash into the living room to pick it up, but I knew somehow it was Jeanne. I didn’t doubt that among her many powers was the power of omniscience. She knew I’d disobeyed her. I was sure she was calling to tell me my disobedience meant she’d never be calling me again.
I staggered out of the bedroom, naked except for my “Clit-Lit” T-shirt, and stared at my phone. There was a message from Jeanne.
“Laura, it’s Jeanne. I’d like for you to join me at nine. Sharp. Just come to the front door as usual. Mrs. K. will see to you. And remember. Don’t touch yourself. I’ll be disappointed if you have.”
If we closely examined it, the truth was I didn’t touch myself, nor was I touched by another person. The Magic Wand was the only thing that made contact with my pussy. This may be considered a technicality, but it didn’t make it any less the truth. Technically. What if she threw me out because I couldn’t follow this one simple order? Despite my orgasm (which was nearly medicinal, something akin to a diabetic needing insulin), despite the disregard of her express wishes, I was still desperate for Jeanne and desperate to please her. I felt miserable.
I spent an inordinate amount of time on my makeup and clothes preparing myself for her. I wanted her to find me delicious. At nine o’clock, I rang the doorbell of her house and the ever dour Mrs. Kirchberger answered. She motioned me to follow her and we walked toward the rear of the house and down some stairs. I wondered if Jeanne had a dungeon down here, something more sinister in feel than her playroom upstairs. I hoped so. Mrs. K. knocked on a door, and within seconds, it was opened by a woman talking on her phone. She waved at Mrs. K., pulled me in by the arm, and closed the door with a push from her bare foot.
“No, no, Margaret,” she was saying. “I’ll be there by eleven. I’m working, I’m sorry. No, I’ll see you there.”
She disconnected and threw her phone on the coffee table in front of us. As she looked at me, I took a quick look around and saw we were definitely not in a dungeon. We appeared to be in the small living room of a garden apartment. It was beautifully furnished. The woman in front of me was also beautiful—about forty, with long auburn hair, a dancer’s body, a lovely face with simple makeup.
“Hello, Laura. I’m a friend of Jeanne’s, and she’s asked me to go over a few things with you before she meets with you tonight.”
She was friendly, but she spoke very rapidly. Whatever she was going to do with me, I felt like she’d done it plenty of
times before.
“I didn’t catch you name,” I said.
She laughed. “Oops. It’s Veronica. Sorry, I’m a little distracted tonight. Let’s get started, shall we?”
She motioned me to sit beside her on the sofa.
“I’m not here to talk to you about Jeanne or to try to explain her ways to you. Nor am I going to give you instruction on ‘the life.’” She said this while making quotation marks in the air. Her tone was matter-of-fact, sort of like a tired tour guide.
“Jeanne has her ways, as do all of the best tops, and she’s asked me to help prepare you so you’ll be most pleasing to her.”
This was a blow. I thought she was very pleased with how I looked. And if she wasn’t, why was I even here?
“I don’t understand,” I said, and I know I sounded hurt.
“Of course you don’t. I’m told you have zero experience. Just try to listen to me and don’t get defensive. Your job is to do as you’re told, which is easier if you don’t have too many feelings floating around. Trust me, they’ll just make things complicated.”
She took my face by the chin and moved it from side to side.
“You’re pretty,” she said. “Just a few things to work on up here. We’ll get your clothes off and see what else needs to be done.”
She led me toward the rear of the apartment and into an enormous bathroom, more like a spa, really. Veronica then spent the next hour going over every inch of my body. She tweezed, squeezed, and pruned. She shaved, waxed, and trimmed, leaving me with a delicate triangle of pubic hair, unbelievably smooth legs and underarms, and a hairless ass crack. I didn’t even know that could be an issue. I was mortified.
It only got worse when she took me into the shower area and I saw an enema bag hanging from the shower faucet. It looked huge and extremely menacing. I’ve never seen enema equipment and I’d not read much about it in any book in my collection. I guessed men were more into enemas than women. But I wasn’t naïve. I knew why a top would want me clean.
By the end of that experience, I was deeply humiliated, but I was also fairly certain nothing Jeanne would do to me later could make me feel worse. And yet, the fact that I was submitting to these indignities reminded me Jeanne was waiting for me. The thought of her thinking about what she’d do to me kept me excited. It was unlikely I’d say no to anything at this point.
Veronica’s final tasks were to dress me and put on my makeup. The dress was a classic black linen dress matched with black sandals. The makeup was elegant and simple, like Veronica’s. My hair wasn’t a problem. It fell to my shoulders with a natural wave. Veronica pinned it up for the minute it took her to put a three inch collar around my neck and then cuffs at my ankles and wrists. They all had rings on them, ready to be attached to something. I felt my pussy tighten. I must have been no more than a few minutes away from seeing Jeanne. From giving myself to her.
As we walked back through the small apartment, I glanced into a bedroom. It was as neat as a hotel room, but photos on the nightstand and a stuffed animal propped on the bed told me someone lived there.
“Is this your place?” I asked.
“Me? God, no. This is Adele’s.”
I stopped. “Adele lives here?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what the arrangement is between her and Jeanne, but Adele moved her stuff in here last year.”
I felt devastated, reminded of my insignificance. I had barely been touched by Jeanne, yet I somehow expected to be primary in her life. I’d already been told by Adele that she “belonged” to Jeanne. Why would I be surprised she lived in Jeanne’s house? I should have at least been relieved she wasn’t living in the main house.
I was about to ask more questions when Veronica tugged on my arm.
“Come on. Jeanne’s expecting you, and you don’t want to keep her waiting. I can tell you that much.”
Mrs. Kirchberger was on the other side of the apartment door when Veronica opened it. I was passed over without comment and led up the stairs toward the study. As I followed her, I couldn’t help wondering what Mrs. K.’s story was. She was the most reserved person I’d ever met. She hadn’t said one word to me in any of the times I’d seen her, no matter how polite I was or how direct my questions. She seemed too fusty and weird for someone like Jeanne. But then, I didn’t know Jeanne. My imagination had been obsessed with her for weeks, but time spent together in my head doesn’t really count. The only things I knew about Jeanne were that she collected art and dominated women. I was intensely drawn to her. What more did I need to know?
The study door was open. Jeanne was sitting at her desk, studying slides on a light board. She looked up and smiled.
“Ah, there you are. Thank you, Mrs. K. That will be all for tonight.”
Mrs. K. closed the door behind her and I could hear it lock. I could feel my nerves, wondering if I would please Jeanne, worried about the damn orgasm I had earlier in the day. I worried about Adele living in the house and what that meant. Maybe I was the most inconsequential of trifles for Jeanne, and Adele’s position, whatever it was, wasn’t at all threatened by me. She just feared it was. I guess I feared it wasn’t. I’ve never been one to break up a home, but the idea of not being part of Jeanne’s world seemed intolerable. I would accept second fiddle if that’s what Jeanne wanted.
Jeanne came up to me and held me by my upper arms as she looked me up and down. She kissed me on both cheeks, very Continental, and walked me to the sofa. There she poured champagne for us both and sat next to me. She kicked off her shoes and seemed very relaxed. She must have been pleased with what Veronica did, but she was not making me feel like I was about to get topped, which confused me. She touched her glass to mine.
“I wanted to thank you for your help at the auction. I was able to turn that painting around and sell it for a quick twenty-five percent profit.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “But you were the one who knew it would be valuable. I didn’t do anything.”
“But you did! You were with me. You were there for me. You understand this passion of mine for art.”
“I’d like to think I understand your other passion as well.” I peered over my champagne glass, trying to gauge her reaction to this. She dismissed my comment with a wave of her hand.
“Oh, that. There are plenty of women who get that.”
“There are?”
“You haven’t any idea, have you?” Jeanne put her glass down and started playing with a strand of my hair. “There is a very established community who enjoy dominating or being dominated by other women. I’ve lived within it for a long time. You’ll come to understand it soon enough.”
“So it is like my books.” I couldn’t believe my fantasy world might be more real than I thought.
“Adele mentioned you’re quite a collector of erotica. I’ve not read much of it myself, but I can’t imagine the real thing is much like the crap written by men.”
“Oh, no. I only collect the works written by women, about women.” I was a bit proud of this.
“Darling, I don’t want to rain on your parade, but a lot of those female author names are pseudonyms for male writers. Hacks, really. They’re writing strictly for money and haven’t a clue what actually goes on.”
I had the deep, sinking feeling that reminded me of junior high school when I would do something stupid in front of all the cool kids. It was becoming clear that those who practiced BDSM weren’t really into the books the way I was. I felt like a poser. I switched subjects.
“Speaking of Adele,” I said, “I wanted to ask you something.”
“I don’t speak about Adele.”
“So I can’t ask you what her living here means?”
“No, you can’t”
I opened my mouth, ready to approach the matter from another angle, but Jeanne spoke first.
“What interests me about you, Laura, is we share more than an interest in pain and pleasure. We share a sophisticated knowledge of art. That, to me, is very sexy.”
/> She leaned in as if to kiss me, her hand now holding the back of my head. Instead of a kiss she brought her lips to my ear and whispered, “Did you obey me? Have you touched yourself? Has anyone else touched you?” She moved her head back, seeking my eyes with her own. “Don’t lie to me, Laura. Everything ends if you lie to me.”
She held my face until I met her gaze. I knew I’d not be able to get away with any half truth. And I found I didn’t want to. If she was to have control of my body, I wanted her to have control of me, my craftiness, my sneakiness, my evasions. I wanted to be stripped of all the decision making when we were together. That, to me, was sexy.
“I used my vibrator today,” I said, keeping my eyes on her.
Her eyes narrowed. “I see.”
I started to speak, and she put her hand over my mouth.
“Don’t. Don’t make excuses. Don’t make your situation worse than it is.” She took the scarf from her neck and tied it around my mouth. I was crestfallen to have disappointed Jeanne, but excited to know I’d be punished for it. I could see this would be a confusing dynamic.
Jeanne stood and grabbed me by the ring at the front of my collar, hauling me up from the sofa. I soon found myself standing in the middle of the playroom. Jeanne looked at me coolly and told me to get my clothes off. She picked up a remote control and a chain began to lower from the tall ceiling, stopping at shoulder level. She clipped my wrists to it. On the floor were two small trap doors about four feet apart. She flipped those open to reveal chains bolted inside a pocket under the wood flooring. My ankles were tightly secured by these chains.
With remote in hand, she watched as my arms were raised above my head. I felt more exposed than I ever thought possible, and with each stop and start of the chain the feeling grew exponentially. I didn’t grow more naked as the bonds grew tighter. I grew more helpless, unable to move more than a few inches in any direction. I could taste the Hermes silk in my mouth. Was I drooling all over it? Was I ruining her scarf?
The Collectors Page 4