‘My master commanded me to call you,’ she said hesitantly. ‘We listen to you every Saturday night and really enjoy the show. It’s high time slaves and masters were given a voice on the airwaves.’
‘I like a woman who knows how to grovel,’ the presenter replied. ‘What is it you wish to say to our listeners?’
‘With your permission, I should like to tell you of a game my master and I play,’ LC answered.
‘Permission granted.’ At the silence that followed, he snapped, ‘Well, come on. Speak up, or I shall instruct your master to cane you on air.’
She took a deep breath, then resumed speaking, in a faltering voice. ‘My master has developed a computer game called “Password”. To play it, he keys in a secret word. It can be any word, as long as it contains the letters S and M. I then press a letter key and the computer selects a command for me to carry out. It might be something simple, like kissing my master’s boots for sixty seconds, or something much more degrading.’
‘Such as?’ the presenter prompted.
‘I might… uh, for instance, have to hop around the room on one leg for two minutes, while screwing myself with a cucumber,’ the woman answered. ‘Or perhaps I would be commanded to stick a finger up my bottom and tap-dance for a minute. That one happened the last time we played. The game continues until I correctly spell out the word my master has entered.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ the presenter enthused. ‘You are a very lucky slave to have such a creative master. Would you like to send a message to the many submissive women I know are listening at this very moment?’
‘Uh, yes, okay,’ she replied. ‘I have been my master’s slave for several years now, and we could not be happier. We love one another dearly and I am never forced to do anything against my will. I have a good job, lots of friends and a great social life, but when my master and I are alone, I am a different woman. To love and serve a man in this way is the most beautiful and fulfilling thing in the world. To any woman listening I would say, don’t be afraid.’
At that moment Constance felt as though the caller were speaking to her personally. She was still certain she was listening to some kind of bizarre X-rated play and the voice was that of an actress. But when the presenter, who called himself ‘KT’, repeated the telephone number of S/M-FM, she decided there was only one way to find out for sure.
Her call was answered by a woman with the maternal tones of a middle-aged agony aunt, who identified herself as ‘G’. She did not ask Constance for her name and Constance would not have dreamt of volunteering it.
‘This cannot be a real radio station,’ Constance said.
‘Oh, S/M-FM is very real, believe me,’ the woman assured her. ‘We’re on air every weekend, from midnight to four a.m. Sub/dom community radio is what we’re all about. You’re a first-time listener, I can tell.’
‘How ever did you manage to get a licence?’ Constance demanded.
‘We didn’t,’ G replied. ‘You’ve heard of pirate radio, I assume? Well, we’re as unlicensed as you could possibly get. It’s when submissive women ring in that it all seems worthwhile. Would you like me to put you on air? You won’t be asked to give your name, or any information that could identify you.’
‘Why not?’ said Constance, her heart beating faster. ‘After the night I’ve had, I could do with a cheap thrill.’
A few moments later she heard the voice of KT welcoming her to his show.
‘I still think this must be some kind of wind-up,’ she began.
‘You have your radio on in the background,’ he replied. ‘You hear your own voice from the speakers. Do you really think a so-called respectable station would be allowed to broadcast a show like this?’
‘Perhaps not,’ she conceded.
‘Now that you are on air, do you have anything you wish to tell our listeners?’ he demanded gently. ‘Perhaps you’d like to reveal some of the kinky games you play with your master.’
‘I don’t have a master,’ she replied, without thinking.
‘No master?’ His tone was sympathetic. ‘But you would like to have one, wouldn’t you? Why else would you be calling? Tell you what, why don’t I be your master? We can play a little game right here on air. Doesn’t that sound appealing, my poor lonely little virgin?’
‘I’m no virgin,’ she snapped.
‘A fiery young woman who needs to be taken firmly in hand, then,’ KT added. ‘Well, are you game to be my slave of the air-waves, or would you rather we discussed politics?’
His arrogance infuriated and excited Constance, in equal measure. He was probably some dirty old man with a radio transmitter rigged up in his basement, seeking on-air cheap thrills. Nevertheless, it could not hurt to play along with him. ‘Okay, I’ll be your slave,’ she agreed. ‘What do I do?’
‘Whatever I tell you,’ he answered. ‘Are you in your bedroom?’
She confirmed that she was.
‘What are you wearing?’
‘Just my knickers.’
‘Describe them.’
‘Lacy pink. Not much of them.’
‘Take them off.’
Constance smiled. ‘Whatever you say.’
‘Address me as “master”,’ he said firmly. ‘And don’t be tempted to disobey my instructions just because I can’t see you. I don’t take kindly to cheating at games.’
‘Yes, master,’ she heard herself breathe as she reached with her free hand for the waistband of her panties. She had not intended to obey his instructions, but the firmness of his tone was sufficient to make her change her mind.
When she was naked he instructed her to kneel by the bed. She complied without hesitation.
‘Now, I am going to hear your confession,’ he said. ‘You have a secret fantasy you wish to share with me. Don’t be shy. I’m your master, tall and domineering. Close your eyes and I’m there in your bedroom with you, standing behind you, cane in hand. Would you like to feel my cane across your bare backside, whacking those soft, tender cheeks?’
‘No, master,’ she gasped, shutting her eyes.
‘Then speak to me,’ he told her. ‘Bare your frustrated soul, just as you’ve bared your body. There can be no secrets between us. Understood?’
It took a few moments of further stern persuasion for Constance to summon a favourite fantasy from the recesses of her mind. She spoke haltingly as she began confessing, her voice sounding to her own ears like that of a shy young girl, rather than an assertive woman. ‘I have this fantasy of visiting a… some kind of kinky club, where everybody is dressed in leather and rubber. I’ve read about such places in magazines, but never had the guts to visit one. Anyway, this place I’m thinking about has a darkroom at the back. It’s pitch black in there, just like being blindfolded.
‘I’m wearing a very short black leather dress and a mask, so that nobody will recognise me. I step into the darkroom and the door is bolted shut behind me. I don’t know what to expect. It’s terrifying, yet very exciting as well. There are a lot of people in there. Nobody speaks, but I can hear their heavy breathing. I’m feeling my way around. Someone grabs me and I cry out.
‘The next thing I know there are hands all over me, peeling off my dress and groping me all over. I try to fight them off, but all these rough, horny men know exactly what I want. They strip me naked and push me to the ground. I don’t know how many there are, but they’re like a pack of wild animals, thinking about nothing but their own pleasure. They all have me, three or four at a time. They don’t even know what I look like and they don’t care. All I am to them is a slave, to be taken and humiliated until they’ve fully satisfied themselves. They could be young men, old men, handsome or ugly. I never see their faces: I just feel their hands and their cocks. When they’ve finished with me they throw me out of the darkroom, like a used condom.’
‘You enjoyed telling me that story, did
n’t you?’ KT said when she had finished.
‘Yes, master,’ she responded, having managed to lose herself completely in her fantasy.
‘I enjoyed hearing it,’ he continued. ‘In fact, I should like to reward you for sharing it and for becoming a devotee of S/M-FM. There is a club just like the one you mentioned, where you can turn your fantasy into reality. Would you like to become a member – a truly liberated woman?’
Constance wasn’t sure. Relating an anonymous masturbation fantasy over the phone was one thing, but turning it into reality might be a step too far. For all she knew, the voice on the other end of the line could be that of a psychopathic pervert. Then again, as he knew absolutely nothing about her, it could not hurt to say yes, even if she had no intention of actually visiting the place.
‘Masturbate!’
The word cut like a hot sword through her reverie.
‘What?’ she cried.
‘Play with yourself,’ he told her. ‘You’re still my slave and I know how much sharing your dirty little story with me has turned you on – so do as I say.’
Almost dreamily, Constance allowed her free hand to drift down between her thighs, to cup the downy, hot mound of her sex.
‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ he commanded as she slipped a finger between her slick labia.
‘I… I want you, master,’ she gasped, thrusting her finger deeper. ‘I want your hard cock inside me, taking me, making me come – ohhhhhh, yesssss, your big, hard, juicy cock in me…’
As she frigged herself to a rapid climax, KT urged her to describe in detail what he was doing to her. Immediately afterwards, as she returned to her senses, she was shocked by the complete lack of inhibition which had seized her. It was one thing to lose herself so completely in the grip of passion with a man, but she had never dreamt she could do it for a disembodied voice, especially with any number of people listening in. Even then, she did not put down the receiver.
‘I think I’ve found a genuinely submissive lady,’ KT said triumphantly. ‘The name of the club is The Master’s Masque. I’ll put you back to G and she’ll give you all the details, along with your own private password, which you’ll need to gain admission. It’s going to be my pleasure to guide you on your path to fulfilment as a slave, mystery woman.’
Chapter 3
The club was located in South London, which meant Constance could not use distance as an excuse for not going the following Thursday night. Although she was normally a very decisive person, she was plagued by doubts in the days following her call to S/M-FM. Dare she take the plunge, or should she forget ever having heard of the club?
She could think of a dozen reasons not to go, the principal one being the potential danger. At the same time it was the most compelling reason to proceed with her visit. Whatever happened, she was unlikely to encounter anything like her pathetic blind date from the previous Saturday night. In the end she knew she would never be able to forgive herself if she didn’t at least check it out.
She pressed the buzzer on the black iron door to the basement club and glanced nervously round as she awaited a response.
‘Password,’ a gruff male voice demanded.
‘Virginal,’ Constance replied nervously.
A moment passed, then a bolt was drawn and the door was opened. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the unknown.
Just as in her fantasy, The Master’s Masque was a place for fetishists to parade their outrageous selves, a Mecca for masters and their submissive other halves. Rubber, leather and uniforms of every conceivable persuasion were the order of the night.
Constance entertained little hope of chancing upon the man of her dreams. She was there as a voyeur, window-shopping for cheap fantasies in a market of exotic creatures. Though she had never been timid by nature, something about the ambience of The Master’s Masque intimidated her.
She also felt vulnerable in her provocatively low-cut dress of skin-tight black satin, with a slit running from the spiked heels of her shoes to the tops of her thighs, leaving the full length of her seamed black silk stockings and an inch of creamy thigh on display. She reasoned that her customary sharp suits and designer dresses would have made her look far more out of place in the club. She hid her eyes behind dark glasses, like a rock star in fear of being recognised.
She half-expected to be set upon and ravished on sight, but the assembled masters were quite content to ogle her from a safe distance – at least for the time being. As she made her way to the bar, glancing nervously round, she found herself wondering how many of the hundred or so people present had heard her broadcast her fantasy and masturbate over the air-waves the previous weekend. The call had whetted her appetite for illicit thrills and the thought that even one of these men might realise who she was caused a delicious thrill to run through her body.
The barmaid was a tall and strikingly attractive redhead in her early twenties. Her pert breasts were bare and a heavy gold padlock dangled from a steel clip on either nipple. In the full-length mirror behind the bar, Constance could see that all she wore below waist level were scarlet high heels and a pair of matching rubber tights, with cut-outs through which the milky moons of her buttocks peeped. She tried not to stare as she ordered a glass of red wine.
‘This one’s on the house,’ the barmaid said with a smile when she had poured Constance’s drink. ‘We like to make our new members feel welcome.’
‘How did you know I was a new member?’ Constance demanded.
‘We spoke the other night,’ the redhead replied. ‘I’m G…’
Constance almost spilt her drink. So much for anonymity. At least in the dim light her blush might not be seen. ‘Who else knows who I am?’ she asked.
‘Nobody knows who you are,’ the girl answered. ‘You’re a mystery woman who called S/M-FM and shared a beautiful fantasy with our listeners. Let’s give you a name. What are your initials?’
‘CB.’
‘Okay, you are now CB – code-name Virginal.’
‘This is all very cloak-and-dagger,’ said Constance.
‘It’s more fun that way,’ G replied. ‘Besides, the majority of our members are respectable pillars of the community. There’s a big, unenlightened world out there that sees people like us as some kind of threat. The first time is always a bit nerve-wracking, but you’ll soon be feeling right at home. Excuse me, I must get back to work.’
Constance took her drink to an unoccupied table nearby and seated herself on a cold iron chair. Creature comforts were obviously not a priority of The Master’s Masque. In the centre of the table was a glossy magazine entitled The Masque. Below the blood red gothic-lettered heading was a picture of a blonde girl with huge breasts, whose features were concealed beneath a purple rubber face-mask. She was kneeling by a chair, her arms stretched above her head and her wrists chained together. Her prominent breasts were tightly wrapped in thick rope which left only the tips exposed. Another rope was wrapped around her lower body, from her hips to her knees. A master clad in black leather towered over her, brandishing a riding crop in his gloved right fist. His right boot was planted on the chair and his slave was licking the pointed toe through the mouth-slit of her mask.
Intrigued, Constance picked up the magazine and began leafing through it. The photographs and drawings on the glossy pages depicted masters and slaves in a variety of bizarre and erotic scenarios. The captions underneath claimed that all participants were members of The Master’s Masque and many of the pictures had been taken in the club.
Constance could not help imagining herself as one of the helplessly trussed models, willingly submitting to the will of a domineering master, in the presence of an appreciative audience. In the back of the magazine were three pages of personal ads – many with photographs – from masters and couples seeking slaves for all manner of games, as well as from submissive women seeking to be dominated. It was a glimpse i
nto a world she had only hitherto been informed about by occasional spicy newspaper stories. With every passing moment she grew more excited by the prospect of discovering the truth for herself.
‘Fancy seeing a live show?’ The soft voice interrupted her flight of fantasy. G was standing by her table, a knowing smile crossing her purple-painted lips. ‘There’s a show about to get underway in one of the play-rooms at the back,’ G explained. ‘I think you’d find it enlightening.’
‘What kind of show?’ asked Constance.
‘Close encounters of the S/M kind,’ G answered. ‘It’s much more exciting when you see it happening for real.’
It was an invitation Constance was in no mood to resist. She followed the tall slave to a black velvet padded door to the left of the bar.
‘Enjoy,’ said G, sliding open the heavy door and ushering her through.
The room beyond was in near total darkness, which rendered the sight on the spot-lit circular stage in the centre all the more striking. A pair of blindfolded and naked girls stood back-to-back on the podium, bound tightly together by thongs of thick leather around their shins, thighs and waists. Above their heads was a horizontal iron bar suspended from a pair of heavy chains, to which their wrists and upper arms were lashed. Their legs were spread wide apart and held in place by two chrome spreader bars manacled to their ankles. Fastened around their heads was a double harness of studded black leather, hanging by a chain from the overhead bar. The thick straps snugly constricted their foreheads and chins. Scrawled in red lipstick across the midriff of the plump blonde was the word ‘pleasure’. ‘Pain’ was written on her black-haired companion in bondage. Small round red labels dotted the breasts of both.
Constance found herself drawn to the tableau, like a moth to a flame. She tried to imagine how the two women must be feeling at that moment, so utterly helpless and lewdly exposed before the eyes of dozens of people. Before tonight she would have thought otherwise, but she had no doubt that they were willing victims of whatever perverse ritual was underway. The mystery was their motivation in succumbing to such a public indignity
All for Her Master Page 2