A moustachioed master in a low-peaked leather cap, black shirt, jodhpurs and knee-high jackboots mounted the podium. Both bound women visibly tensed when he cracked the riding crop in his right hand against his calf.
‘Now that our two lovely slaves are in place, we can begin our game,’ he boomed. ‘These two beauties have no idea what manner of pain and humiliation lies in store for them over the next sixty minutes, but doesn’t every slave love surprises? We’re fortunate to have them at our mercy, so let’s not spare them.
‘The game we are about to play is called Pleasure and Pain – two things guaranteed to test the endurance of our slaves. When I give the signal, their masters will come up and begin subjecting them to the two P’s. Whichever slave first makes a sound shall earn for the other either sixty seconds of the most exquisite pleasure and for herself sixty seconds of pain, or the other way round. She won’t know which until a sticker is removed from her breasts. If it’s black underneath, pain is the penalty. If it’s white, the reward is pleasure. So masters, don’t keep your eager slaves waiting any longer.’
The master of ceremonies stepped aside as two other men mounted the podium and took their places before their respective slaves. At the sound of a shrill whistle the man standing before the blonde produced from beneath his black leather jacket a feather duster, and his companion a sleek black vibrator.
The bound blonde squirmed in an agony of discomfort as the feather duster set to work, tickling the sensitive spots under her armpits and around her waist. The other master glided the thrumming crown of the vibrator over the puckering folds of the brunette’s dark thatched sex. She bit her lower lip in order to contain a whimper of pleasure.
The masters teased and tormented their slaves with well-practised and fiendish expertise, manipulating them to the point where they could not help crying out. After several minutes of sustained tickle torture, the blonde finally uttered a small cry. Her master peeled a label from her left breast and held it up for the audience to see. The sticky surface was black, which meant that the other slave was condemned to sixty seconds of pain. Her delighted master produced a small silver chain with a steel clip on either end. She squealed as the clamps were fitted to her labia, then mercilessly tugged, stretching her slick nether lips. Constance winced in sympathy, unable to imagine the terrible torment the helpless captive must be suffering. While this was happening, the other master sucked the stiff brown nipples of her fortunate companion and fondled lovingly between her thighs.
Following sixty seconds of pussy torture that must have felt more like an hour to the slave on the receiving end, the clamps were removed and the second round of the game commenced. This involved a greased red rubber ball, the size of a golf ball, being inserted in the vagina of either woman. Their masters then began lashing between their thighs with a cat o’ nine tails, hard enough to cause discomfort rather than real pain. The first slave to lose her slippery ball was deemed the loser, or winner, depending on the colour on the underside of the sticker peeled from her breasts. Once again, it was the blonde who first lost control, the ball popping from her pussy and rolling off the stage. This time she was not so fortunate. Her label had a white underside, which meant her companion received the pleasure, while she was subjected to the pain.
A master from the audience was invited to administer sixty seconds’ worth of his best to the apprehensively trembling girl. He obliged by energetically flogging her thighs with a long thin whip, while the relieved brunette received another welcome treat from her master’s vibrator.
As the game continued the punishments meted out to the slaves became ever more severe. Both, in turn, had their breasts roped tightly and several heavy objects suspended from their clamped nipples and pussies, the blonde receiving slightly more of the sadism than her companion. At the end of the hour their masters released them from their bondage and the appreciative audience applauded the show. Constance was as shocked as she was excited by what she had witnessed. As she watched the two naked slaves being led away by their masters she was uncertain whether she ought to pity or envy them.
Upon her return to the bar, G presented her with a hand-written note, which read:
Dear CB, your master awaits you in the darkroom.
‘Who left this for me?’ she demanded.
‘An admirer,’ G told her. She gestured to her right. ‘The door’s just over there.’
Constance decided she needed another drink before making up her mind whether or not to accept the mysterious invitation. She could control what happened in a fantasy; whatever lurked in the club darkroom was another matter.
‘G, what exactly is it like in there?’ she enquired when she managed to catch the barmaid’s attention again.
‘I’d rather not spoil the surprise,’ G replied. ‘But you won’t come to any harm, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’
Constance was not sure what she was afraid of. Almost from the moment she had stepped into the club she had felt her self-control slowly but surely slipping away. It was as though she was caught in a web that was drawing her ever deeper into a twilight world where the boundaries between fantasy and reality were no longer discernible. She could finish her drink and leave the club, a wiser and more enlightened woman, but she knew she would have to come back.
Reasoning that she ought to at least satisfy her curiosity, she summoned up her courage and strode towards the darkroom, hoping she did not look as nervous as she felt.
Once the door creaked shut behind her she was in almost complete darkness. All she could see were two rows of tiny red lights, inches above the level of her head. There were six on either side of her, at intervals of about three feet. She heard a moan from the darkness and what sounded like a whip striking flesh. She almost turned and ran, but forced herself instead to take a forward step, her high heeled footfall on the wooden floor sounding like a small explosion.
The darkroom was warm and claustrophobic. Her spine tingling, Constance felt like the damsel in distress in a horror film, waiting for some form of hideous monster to spring from the darkness at any instant.
She heard the moan again, unmistakably feminine, only a few feet away. She wanted to call out, but did not dare. Besides, she did not even know who she was looking for. She sensed a movement to her left and uttered a startled cry when a leather-gloved hand brushed the back of hers.
‘No need to be frightened,’ came a whispered male voice.
‘Who are you?’ she responded nervously, edging backwards from the source of the voice.
‘Not knowing is part of the adventure,’ came the reply. ‘Take a couple of steps towards the red light directly in front of you. We both know you haven’t come this far just to turn and run away.’
Constance had the uneasy feeling that this unseen man was reading her mind. She took one tentative step forward, then another, coaxed like a reluctant puppy by his whispers. Though she knew he could only be a few feet away, being unable to see the slightest thing had her nerves on edge.
‘Now, hold out your right hand,’ he whispered, after she had taken half a dozen steps.
Constance obeyed hesitantly, her every reaction taking place in slow motion. Her fingertips brushed cool rubber, beneath which bulged the firmness of a male torso. She instinctively withdrew her hand for a few seconds, then touched the rubber-sheathed body again. The only sound from the man standing at arm’s length was his deep breathing. His second skin was tautly stretched and slippery smooth to the touch.
She formed a mental picture of the man as her hand glided slowly over his belly and chest. All she could tell for certain was that he was heavily built, though not fat. The rest she had to leave to her imagination. Her hand reached his chin, touching rubber rather than flesh. He was wearing what felt like a gas mask, plastic goggles covering his eyes. Constance found the sinister uniform perversely exciting. Even if the darkroom should suddenly be bathed in light, she w
ould still be unable to see the person beneath.
The rhythmic breathing from the mask became more laboured as her hand began travelling in a downward direction. She touched what she first thought was some kind of latex object protruding from between the thighs of the masked man, then realised it was his erect penis. It bulged within a rubber sheath chained to the front of his suit. She traced a fingertip along the length of his shaft and was startled when rubber gave way to hot flesh, halfway to the crown. In that instant she would have given anything for a flash-light.
‘Now it’s my turn,’ he whispered.
‘To do what?’ she pleaded softly.
‘To get to know you more intimately. Follow me.’
He took her hand and she allowed herself to be led through a heavy velvet curtain, into what felt like a long, narrow cubicle. He walked with slow, carefully measured paces, as though instinctively aware of the layout of where he was leading her.
A few paces further on, he directed her to stop and raise her hands above her head. She obeyed with only the slightest hesitation, her heart pounding and perspiration dampening her brow. She heard him grunt. Something clinked, then cold steel touched her wrists. In the instant it took her to realise what was happening the manacles had snapped shut. Her cry of protest was cut short by a gloved finger pressed to her lips.
‘Trust me,’ the masked man whispered.
Chained to an iron bar, Constance had little choice. She held her breath as he unfastened her dress at the back and eased it down over her body. All she wore underneath was a black silk cache-sex and hold-up stockings. Gloved hands cupped her breasts, teasing her tingling nipples to full stiffness by squeezing them between thumb and forefinger. Though still quivering nervously, she permitted herself a gentle sigh of pleasure.
Several delicious minutes later his hands left her breasts and moved down over the slope of her waist. Hooking a thumb in the string of her sex-pouch, he stretched it out from her back, then snapped it against her skin. He did this three more times before the elastic finally snapped and the flimsy strip of silk fell to the floor. A fingertip nuzzled the soft down of her pubis. Constance instinctively parted her thighs as his hand slid in between. When he eased his finger between the soaking folds of her labia she was unable to contain a muffled cry of ecstasy. Her only regret was that he was not penetrating her with his cock, the damp crown of which was pressed lightly against her left thigh.
Whoever this man was, he knew how to use his finger to maximum effect. Constance could not have done it better herself if she were playing this erotic scene in her mind, rather than participating for real. The man thrust a second finger up inside her and began pushing into her aggressively with both digits. She responded by bucking her hips and moaning loudly, clenching her fists and straining against the manacles on her wrists. She did not care who might hear. Her pleasure was merely heightened by the near certainty that she and the man in rubber were not alone.
She could not remember a climax as intense as that which electrified every nerve of her body a few minutes later. Her sex juices flowed so copiously she thought she must be melting. When the man withdrew his hand from between her thighs, he presented his soaked and scented fingers to her lips. She had no hesitation in sucking the leather clean of her own juices.
He left her then. When she realised he was gone panic replaced the pleasant afterglow of her orgasm. She had expected him to take full advantage of her helplessness, not to abandon her in the darkness, chained up and naked.
‘Where are you?’ she whimpered. ‘Unlock these handcuffs, now!’
Silence was the only response. Constance was about to shout when she heard somebody creeping up on her from behind. She turned her head, but was still unable to see a thing. A bare-chested figure embraced her around the waist from behind, his stiff cock nuzzling the cleft of her buttocks. The cold metal of a pair of nipple rings touched her back. A second man, wearing what felt like a studded leather jacket, pressed against the front of her body, rubbing the tip of his cock against her belly.
Keeping her sandwiched so tightly between them that she could scarcely breathe, the two men began masturbating. Neither spoke to her, restricting their sounds to heavy breathing and low grunts. The man with his cock gripped between her buttocks climaxed first, his semen spurting over both cheeks and up her back. When the last drop had been spilt he wiped up the creamy rivulets, then brought both hands around to her mouth. Constance would have preferred his semen to be delivered direct, but licking it off his sticky gloves was a tolerable substitute.
She remained standing in the darkroom for at least another hour, during which time she was masturbated upon by a further five men, all of whom cleaned her with their fingers afterwards and then presented them to Constance to be licked clean. Finally the rubber-clad master returned, unlocked her handcuffs, then departed again. She scrabbled around on the floor for several panic-stricken minutes before finding her dress. Her sex-pouch had obviously been taken as a souvenir.
The following evening she returned home from work to discover a mysterious message on her answering machine.
‘Hello, Constance – or should I say CB? If you enjoyed last night, call me. The number is…’
There was no mistaking the voice of KT. Constance had been expecting to hear from him again. She was only slightly surprised that he had somehow managed to obtain both her full name and telephone number.
‘Basic detective work,’ he explained, when she called the number he had given her and demanded an explanation. ‘I presumed you wouldn’t mind.’
‘You presume a lot about me,’ she retorted.
‘And I have yet to be proved wrong,’ he said. ‘I hope your visit to the darkroom lived up to expectations.’
‘You were there?’
‘That’s for me to know and for you to perhaps never find out.’
‘Why are you so damned secretive?’ she demanded angrily. ‘You could at least tell me your full name.’
‘What do you stand to gain from knowing that?’ KT responded. ‘All you need to know about me, for the moment, is that I hold all the cards in this little game of ours.’
‘And the object of this game is?’ she snapped.
‘Nothing less than the fulfilment of your every fantasy, my dear Constance. Of course it won’t come cheaply. As you may already have guessed, I’m an extremely demanding master.’
‘I may not be able to live up to your expectations,’ she said.
‘We’ll soon see,’ he replied.
Constance had a thousand questions for this exciting and somewhat menacing figure who was proposing to become her master, but was curtly informed that they would have to wait. Before KT revealed the slightest detail about himself, she would have to prove that she was sincere in her desire to submit to him. Once she had proved herself suitable there would be time for all questions to be answered.
Her duty, in this assessment period, was to reveal to him her innermost fantasies. He could call her at any time of the day or night, wherever she might be, and demand a pornographically detailed confession. There would be no such thing as a bad time, if she truly wanted to be his. He was so persuasive, it was frightening. Though far from certain what she was letting herself in for, she agreed to his conditions.
Rather foolishly she assumed he would call at reasonably convenient times. KT had other ideas. On one occasion she was in the middle of an important business lunch when the mobile telephone in her purse shrilled. When she heard the voice on the other end of the line she had to excuse herself, race to the toilet and breathe down the line a fantasy about being arrested for drink-driving, then taken to the police station and offered a choice of being formally charged or stripped, spanked and screwed by half a dozen officers. Naturally, she chose the latter. Five minutes later she returned to her table, florid-faced and breathless. What if somebody had overheard her waxing pornographic in the c
ubicle?
His next call, the following afternoon, was even more inconvenient. Constance was giving a female friend a lift home from the health club they both frequented, when their conversation was interrupted by the telephone.
‘This really isn’t a good time,’ she pleaded. ‘Can you call me back in twenty minutes?’
‘You know the rules,’ KT replied. ‘No exceptions.’
Further protests about his bad timing met with no sympathy. Unless she started talking dirty within ninety seconds he would hang up. With a despairing look to her friend she murmured something about an important message she had forgotten, pulled over and parked awkwardly on a double yellow line. Leaving the engine running, she leapt out of the Porsche and ducked down a nearby alleyway. The conditions were far from ideal for erotic storytelling, but Constance was not one to shrink from a challenge. She started with a man in a long rubber mac chasing her down an alleyway and took her story from there, her panting lending authenticity to the tale.
She had reached the point in her narrative where the man in the rubber mac was ripping off her panties, when she noticed, in real life, two teenage boys standing nearby, obviously eavesdropping intently. She lowered her voice and slunk further down the alley, but they merely followed.
‘Master, there are people listening,’ she whispered in desperation.
‘There were people listening to S/M-FM,’ he replied. ‘Carry on.’
‘But—’
‘I said carry on!’ he snapped.
Constance finished her kinky story in a near-whisper, motioning angrily for the greatly amused boys to go away and mind their own business. The instant her master permitted her to hang up she fled from the alley, as though she were being pursued for real. She found her friend pleading with a grim-faced traffic warden, who was slapping a parking ticket on the windscreen of her Porsche.
All for Her Master Page 3