by Nicole Dere
Jill stared up at her through tearful eyes. ‘What if something happens?’ she asked meekly. ‘What if someone comes, or there’s a fire?’
‘Then you’ll have to turn into Houdini,’ Jackie chuckled. ‘I’ll only be gone two or three hours, hopefully.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Although it won’t be worth me going at all if I don’t get a fucking move on.’
‘I could scream.’ Jill’s voice trembled. ‘Somebody’s bound to hear me.’
Jackie nodded. ‘Probably, but what’ll you tell them once they break in? Or more likely they’ll call the police.’ She chuckled again at that prospect. ‘Might even be me who comes to rescue you. That would be a turn-up for the books, eh?’
‘Then everyone would know, about you.’
‘And you, sweety,’ Jackie countered confidently. ‘Our kinky little games gone wrong, eh? Or do you think they’d really believe that poor little you were being held prisoner here? But give it a try if you think it’ll work.’ She bent close and Jill shrank away. Jackie sat down, leaned into her, slid a hand up one leg to the warmth between the thighs, the soft crest of hair over the folds of the sex. She stroked the dampness and felt the thighs quiver and tighten about her hand. She gave a triumphant laugh. ‘Or if you really want to.’ She leaned closer still, pursed her lips and planted a slow, possessive kiss on Jill’s upturned mouth.
Jill heard the front door slam shut and the lock snap into place. She sniffled and wiped her wet cheeks with the corner of the sheet. She could smell Jackie’s sharp cologne, mingled with her own perfume, on the pillow. All at once she felt a great welling of helpless rage and buried her face in the sweetness, pounded the yielding mattress with clenched fists and drummed her feet into the springy yieldingness as she kicked furiously. Her buttocks rose and fell and she writhed in a frenzy of helpless rage. Wild with her frustration she flung herself up, kneeling, and tugged against the chain, throwing herself down to the bottom of the bed until it quivered tautly. Her fingers clawed uselessly against the restraint of the collar until her neck hurt, and she sobbed, muttering every obscene word she could think of.
Eventually the rage ebbed and she flopped on her front, sobbing quietly, and then after a few more minutes her sobs died away too.
Her head throbbing, she drifted into a hazy doze, during which her mind ranged in disjointed review of the previous night. You like all this, a voice accused in her head. You love being abused. It turns you on...
She jerked awake, startled and afraid, as though the shocking thought had been voiced by someone else. She moved onto her back. The chain chinked softly on the bed rail, and its coldness rubbed against her throat and cheek.
She put both hands up above her, clasped them around the chain’s unyielding links. She was a prisoner. Chained like a dog, utterly helpless until her mistress returned. She stood, her feet amongst the pillows, her knees braced against the wobble of the mattress. When she tried to straighten her legs the chain stretched taut, almost vertical, and she felt the uncomfortable tug of the collar on her neck. She tugged again at it, whimpering at her helplessness. She bent again so that the chain slackened, and stepped over its loop. She turned, almost losing her balance, so that her back was to the wall, and leaned her shoulders against the cool surface of the wallpaper. Slowly she endeavoured to stand fully upright once more, her shoulders and back rubbing against the wall, and she felt the chain tightening, felt it press coldly against a thigh, then up, passing between her legs, and she moved slightly so that it rubbed against her mound and the tender softness of her sex lips, lay hard against the length of the fleshy folds. She twisted her shoulders, seized the chain as it stretched up over her belly, and manipulated it so that it lay exactly between her breasts. Its unyielding cold steel rubbed at her breastbone in her cleavage. Its remorseless hardness was both uncomfortable and arousing. Her shoulders rubbed too, against the raised pattern of the wallpaper, irritating her skin a little. She felt the pulsing rise of her excitement, the flow of the juices stirred by this exotic, shameful stimulation. Her eyes closed, the tears formed and trickled down from beneath her lids, and her head rolled back and forth against the wall. She surrendered to the tide of masochistic thrill; her jaw hung open and she murmured over and over, ‘No... no...’ in a low moan of shameful pleasure.
Suddenly she was jolted from her reverie, steeped in shame, and swiftly writhed around, ducking to free the chain from its berth between her sex lips. But it was too late to deny or end the process she had begun. She lay flat again, on top of the dishevelled covers, the sunlight falling in a warm sheet across her legs. She moved her hands, ran them slowly down her stretching form, over her breasts and flat belly, her thighs, the damp and now throbbing centre of her sex.
The click of the door lock woke Jill and she struggled up groggily onto her elbows. Her dark hair was wildly mussed, hung over her eyes, and she swept it aside. She was acutely ashamed, and the blushes mounted hotly as she eased herself to a sitting position, raising and clutching her knees to her breasts. ‘Please, untie me,’ she called out. ‘I need the toilet. I’m bursting.’
Jackie came into the bedroom and pulled out a bundle of keys from the pocket of her trousers. It was attached by a short silver chain to a belt loop. Quickly she opened the padlock securing the dog chain to the bedrail, and Jill scrambled to her feet, suffering the indignity of having to wear her collar still, and leaving the length of chain dangling from it as she ran for the bathroom.
Gazing down at her from the open doorway, Jackie felt that heavy beat of sexual longing, and at the same time an odd sensation of frustration and an eagerness for more of that elemental, almost savage thrill of physical domination. It was a familiar feeling and an old enemy which, she was all too aware, could be dangerous and must be held in check. She reached out, all tenderness now, gathered the girl into her arms, lifting her, and rocked her like a baby, murmuring soothingly and placing a shower of light kisses on her face and tangled hair. ‘There, there, baby. There, there.’
‘Please, Ma’am? Can I have the collar off? It’s really chafing, and my neck’s sore now.’ It was late evening. The curtains were drawn, and they were sitting in the living room, Jill at Jackie’s feet, leaning back against the older woman, who was stretched out in an armchair, occasionally fondling the dark hair for all the world, Jill thought, as though she were stroking a favoured pet. And the binding collar made the symbolism far from fanciful. The chain had gone, removed much earlier, but not the shameful band of studded leather.
The weird detached existence had continued. Jackie had been all tenderness, they shared a bath, and then Jackie carried her through to the bedroom again and made love to her, a long and comprehensive loving that had brought her finally, sobbing with need, to a climax as consuming as any she had known, despite her weary mind and muscles.
And in turn Jill had played the more active role in reciprocity. This time Jackie had not ended it in that savage reversal, but satisfied herself with merely gripping Jill’s working head with her tight fingers, hooking them in the dark, silky hair, and holding the frantically working mouth and tongue against her grinding belly until she came, with a cry that sounded almost as if she were in pain.
They lay for a long while together on the bed, and Jackie subjected Jill to a gentle but insistent interrogation. Somewhat to her own surprise, Jill answered the most probing, intimate questions truthfully, painful though it was for her to do so. She confided all the details of her yearlong affair with Sharon, and what she felt was the even more shameful admission, under a little pressure, that she had never had sexual intercourse.
‘A cock virgin?’ Jackie had chortled with evident delight, which was enhanced by the rosy hue that invaded Jill’s lovely features. What about you? Jill had wanted to fire back in her embarrassment, but she dared not do so.
Now, after dinner and a shared bottle of wine, she found the courage to make her request to have the
stigma of her subservience removed from around her neck. She could not help equating it with the shackles of slavery, which she felt was becoming far too close to the uncomfortable truth. But Jackie was not so easily appeased. ‘First I have to know if you’re a good girl, if you’re learning your lessons.’ Jill knelt in front of her, and nodded. ‘Go and bring me a hairbrush. Mine, the black one with the long handle.’
Jill felt her stomach churn and her heart rate quicken, but she rose and went to the bedroom, returned with the implement, which she handed to Jackie.
‘Right,’ Jackie stood up and spoke crisply, as though her orders were perfectly reasonable, ‘bend over the back of the chair. Feet together, knees straight. Lean right down and put your head on the cushion. Stretch your hands out in front.’
For a fraction of a second Jill hesitated, so Jackie gestured with the brush. She obeyed, feeling the rasp of the braided upholstery across her stomach, its caress on her sensitive breasts and the front of her thighs. She locked her muscles, her behind hollowing as she clenched her buttocks in anticipation of the inevitable punishment to come. The fading marks of yesterday’s spanking still showed.
The first blow was struck with a loud crack and the fiery pain exploded all over her tender bottom. She jerked upright, shrieking with agony and clawing at the glowing imprint of the brush on her punished flesh.
‘Over you go again,’ Jackie said with exaggerated patience, and nodded towards the chair. ‘And try to keep the noise down, eh? The neighbours are usually in at this time of the evening, and we don’t want the law coming round, now do we?’
Sobbing sorrowfully, Jill nevertheless repositioned herself over the chair, waited in dread, and jerked convulsively at the next stinging blow and its spreading fire through her blistering flesh.
Chapter Four
The beating with the hairbrush marked a crisis point for Jill. It was the pivot on which the continuation and nature of this unique new relationship depended. For a while the significance of her compliance with it didn’t dawn on her; at least, not consciously. She was too wrapped up in the blazing, throbbing pain scorching her delicate skin, the intense agony of those blistering blows, so that the tenderest touches of the cold wet cloth, which Jackie immediately applied to the enflamed flesh, the softest contact of her lips on the swollen ridges which she lovingly bestowed, were part of that pain.
Only later did Jill acknowledge the importance of that first real instant of submission, when capering in what might be seen as ludicrous comedy after that first blow, clutching at her burning bum she danced about, mouth gaping in childishly incredulous shock, she had nevertheless instinctively obeyed the smiling command to bend over and prostrated herself over the back of the chair once again, like a female Isaac at his father’s altar.
This later contemplation carried its own, different pain. So much so that she continued afterwards to try to cling to excuses, to avoid the shocking truth. She had been too afraid of what further excesses might have been inflicted on her, she told herself. And there was an element of truth in that, of course. But it was the other strand in Jill’s personality, as strong if not stronger than the fear; something deeper, hidden until now in the recesses of her nature. It had surfaced only in her most private thoughts, through childhood and growing up; figured only in her most personal and intimate fantasies, the vivid images flickering through her mind, of violation bestowed upon her ever passive, ever willing body.
She was an accomplice in her own downfall. She let herself be lost in the tenderness which followed. The marks of the brush stood out in dark brands, their edges hard, raised lumps, and after bathing them Jackie smeared them with cold cream until Jill’s buttocks shone in the lamplight. She laid another damp cool cloth over them, and helped Jill to lie as comfortably as possible on her front, with her right leg draped over Jackie’s body nestling comfortingly at her side. ‘You’re my own good girl,’ Jackie whispered, her lips nuzzling at Jill’s temple. ‘Aren’t you, sweety?’
And she was. It was too mind-blowing to dwell on. In less than three days she had been transformed from an incisive, independent, go-ahead young woman embarking on a new career, to a helpless creature, a sexual plaything, totally subservient to the sadistic figure who possessed her.
Next morning, when she awoke after a restless night of stinging torment and teasing gratification, from searching lips and skilful fingers, she felt the difference in this attachment and her own complicit part in it. She endured the throbbing ache, the discomfort, and stared at the darkening, livid marks across her buttocks, while Jackie once more tended her after their shared bath.
‘Be easier to keep you on your feet as long as possible today, sugar,’ Jackie said as both of them stood naked in the sun-bright kitchen, powdered and perfumed and made-up. ‘Now let’s go and see what you can wear.’
Jill felt her heart rate quicken with nervousness. ‘Am I coming into work with you?’
Jackie grinned. ‘Of course you are. I can’t keep you chained up in here forever, much as I’d love to.’
Jill felt the deep blush rising from her throat. She lowered her eyes, felt too the shiver of pleasure at the tactile contact and her meek response. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Just wait a sec till I get dressed.’
Jill obeyed, and watched while Jackie quickly hauled on a pair of Sloggi briefs, with a broad elasticated waistband. She smoothed them into her crotch and flanks and they clung like a second skin. Their colour too was skin-tone, but the material was opaque enough to hide the dark triangle of pubis, and to mask the darkness of her buttock cleft. She wore a bra of a generous depth, like a sports bra, with straps of half an inch in width. The white cups were seamless, but held her breasts proudly.
‘I don’t want those leching bastards copping even a glimpse of my underwear, even under my clothes.’ She need have no worries on that score, Jill thought, staring at the trim figure when she had completed her dressing in white shirt, fitted with a checked silk cravat at the neck, and a dark power suit. The cuffs of the narrow, knife-creased trousers slipped snugly over the tops of the ankle boots of rich, soft, highly burnished brown leather.
All the while Jill stood there passively, like a tailor’s dummy in a department store, waiting to be dressed. ‘OK, babe, let’s get you sorted. We need to be careful with that poor little arse of yours. I must say I love your frillies. They’re gorgeous. Here, these’ll do for a start.’
‘Oh but,’ Jill let out a soft gasp of protest, and then her voice faltered as she stumbled on, ‘I don’t usually wear those in the daytime. Somehow they don’t seem appropriate for when I’m on duty.’ She stared in mute distress at the tiny scrap of material Jackie was holding out. It was a thong, and when she reluctantly took it from Jackie and slipped it on the two straps hugged her hips, and where they met the thin band emerging from the cleft of Jill’s bottom all three were joined by a small silver metal clasp in the shape of a tiny butterfly, which fitted snugly just above her coccyx.
‘Very cute,’ Jackie purred, giving it a little flip with a fingertip. Then she rummaged in another drawer. ‘Now then, stockings.’ Her smile broadening, she turned and thrust into Jill’s hand an even less substantial tangle of black straps; a suspender belt of the narrowest elastic and silk ribbons, with the little metal clips with which to fasten the stockings which Jackie now produced from the bundled mass in the drawer.
Jill’s face was an eloquent picture of her discomfort. She wanted to protest, but already she knew better than to try. Instead she fitted the thin belt around her waist, drew the gauzy dark stockings over first one foot then the other, to roll them up over her knees and fit them snugly to her thighs before clipping on the suspenders. It felt strange, and somehow shockingly provocative. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door, and was startled at the blatant sexuality of her reflection; the crisscross of narrow black webbing agai
nst her pale skin, and the dark nylon encasing her legs up to mid-thigh, the provocative breasts highlighting the nakedness of her body from the top of that saucy satin triangle at her belly.
‘A bra?’ she said inadequately, as Jackie rooted among her undies once more and brought out a wisp of a black camisole.
‘This’ll go fine with that little ensemble.’ It was of gauzy, almost transparent satin, with a deep edging of black lace at the bust and the hem, which hung just above the navel. It clung coolly to the breasts, whose small nipples nudged at the silk.
Jill had rarely gone without a bra in public. ‘I look like a tart!’ she said involuntarily, staring at her scantily-clad reflection.
‘My tart,’ Jackie corrected. ‘And you don’t. You just look sexy. And nobody’s going to see, only me. Don’t worry; you’ll look like Little Miss Fauntleroy on the surface.’
It was only a slight exaggeration, for Jackie chose a demure white, square-neck top, under a short-sleeved linen jacket of deep brown, with a matching flared skirt of a respectable knee length. The elegant, dark, four-inch heels completed the outfit.
If Jill had been nervous at her first entrance to Benbrough Div HQ, her second was ten times worse. She felt as though every pair of the many eyes encountering her could see straight through the pretty girl garb to the delicate frippery beneath, and the Technicolor bruises adorning her behind. She felt as though she were still chained to the briskly confident DI Barlow striding a pace ahead of her through the double doors, and even if the chain were invisible her enslavement to the ‘boss’ must be apparent. She did little to attempt to refute or disguise it, blushed like a schoolgirl at every reintroduction and was lost, like a Christian thrown to the lions, when Jackie left her to the mercy of the crowded outer office, with the adjunct, ‘Make yourself at home, sweety. Get to know the dregs you’ll be working with. Somebody might let you share a desk with them if you’re real nice. And being nice to this lot means going all the way and back again!’ There was a chorus of ribald laughter as Jackie headed for the seclusion of her own office.