Folly

by Jassy Mackenzie

  I gave a deep, theatrical sigh. Leaned back on the pillows and put my feet up on the bed, forcing him to scoot along the carpet in order to keep massaging them. The covers had been turned down for the night, with rose petals scattered on the pillows and four delectable-looking truffles in boxes.

  ‘You know, this is extremely annoying. Why didn’t you come prepared?’

  ‘I was distracted by the anticipation of the evening and by the thought of spending time with you, Mistress.’

  ‘A poor excuse. It does nothing to alter the fact you’ve displeased me. You should have spent more time thinking about what I might want and less time wallowing in your own lustful imaginings.’

  ‘I apologise, Mistress. I confess to being guilty of lustful wallowing. Although, in my defence, a lot of those imaginings had to do with what you might want.’ His thumb pressed against my instep and his fingers caressed my ankle, but it was his words more than his actions that made me catch my breath, and I had to make an effort to keep my voice harsh and sound as exasperated as I’d told him I was.

  ‘You’re boring me now. Your defence holds less water than a tea strainer. And I really didn’t want you wearing any of my clothes. You are not worthy of them.’

  ‘I know, Mistress. I am not worthy at all.’

  ‘Still, better my clothes than that grossly unfeminine outfit you’re currently wearing. Take those ugly trousers off. And the jacket and shirt. Go on, strip. While I’m watching you. And then look in my bag.’ I gestured languidly towards the ottoman. ‘You’ll find some underwear in there that I suppose you can borrow. It’s expensive stuff. Far too good for you. Try not to ruin it.’

  When he was naked, Simon unzipped my bag and, with great care, removed the items I’d packed right at the top – two sheer, black, silk holdup stockings and a brandnew pair of French knickers. I’d bought them the previous day and they were without a doubt the brightest scarlet and most delicate, laciest item that the shop had had to offer.

  ‘You’ll find a leather basque in there as well. Put it on. Carefully. And there are some heels underneath it.’

  Rather you than me in that uncomfortable garment, I thought, watching without offering to help as he struggled to lace it up. It was going to be way too tight for him, but I hoped the discomfort would only add to his erotic thrill.

  The shoes were the biggest I’d been able to find – size 11 – but they fitted him perfectly.

  ‘Pass me that whip,’ I said when he was dressed, sitting up as I gestured to the next item in my carefully packed bag. I’d packed the home-made whip with the fine chains attached to it. I thought it might evoke some happy nostalgia.

  ‘Here you are, Mistress.’

  ‘Now bend over my knee.’

  He complied, lowering himself over my thighs, his forearms resting on the bedspread, and I felt his weight on me, solid and warm and aroused.

  ‘Do you know why you are being punished?’ I asked him, leaning away from him to give myself more space to flick the chains lightly over his back.

  ‘No, Mistress. But I am sure I deserve it.’

  ‘You are being punished for becoming hard yet again in my presence,’ I told him. ‘I did not give you permission, and this is not the first time you’ve offended me with this vile sight. Will you never learn?’

  ‘I know, Mistress. I’m so sorry. Genuinely sorry. It’s just that I couldn’t help it … You are so—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ I snapped. ‘I don’t want to hear excuses. Next time this will not happen. I am going to demand that you strap on a restrictor.’

  I brought the whip down lightly on his lace-clad backside a few times, not really wanting to cause intense pain, but rather to warm him into our session.

  ‘I’d like a bath run for me, slave,’ I said once I felt he’d been sufficiently disciplined. ‘Run it deep and hot. When it is ready, you’re going to bathe me.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’ Climbing to his feet again, he teetered off to the bathroom in his high heels. When he was out of sight I let out a relieved breath. So far, so good. I hoped he was enjoying it. To my amazement, I found I was, if only for the adrenaline rush.

  I looked into the palatial bathroom once or twice and gave him another few strokes with the whip to punish him for not filling the tub fast enough. Then, when he returned and knelt in front of me to tell me it was ready, I commanded, ‘Undress me.’

  He got to his feet and began by slipping off the jacket of the steel-blue business suit that was one of the few smart garments I owned.

  ‘Hang it up,’ I snapped. He was on his way to the dressing room with it in any case, but at least now he was doing it under orders.

  He came back and continued with the ritual, kneeling down once again to unbutton and unzip my pencil skirt before sliding it over my hips and down onto the floor. I stepped out of it and waited for this garment, too, to be put away.

  Then my blouse. He stood very close to me as he unbuttoned it, and with me in my stockinged feet and him in the heels he was at least a head taller than me. He kept his head bowed, totally focused on his task. He was wearing some kind of aftershave or cologne – I breathed in the aroma of sandalwood. It was strange that I barely noticed he was wearing the basque, which was too small and sat too low on him. My eyes were drawn to the breadth of his shoulders and the texture of his skin.

  Then my bra. He reached around my back and unclipped it without so much as a fumble and I couldn’t help feeling rather disconcerted by his expertise in this area. I made up for it by bitching at him, as he knelt to take off my stockings, that he shouldn’t hang them up, but should use some common sense and place them reverently on the ottoman at the end of the bed, together with my panties.

  And as he removed those, he knelt so close I could feel his breath warm on my stomach and when he pulled them down his lips brushed against the tender skin of my inner thigh. The caress was so sensuous and gorgeous that I caught my breath and then stood paralysed with indecision as to whether or not he had committed a punishable offence.

  Had he done it intentionally?

  Of course he had.

  Did he want to be punished for it?

  I had no clue. I longed for more experience. I was worried I’d made a mistake; been too slow to chide him, and too responsive to his unexpected touch. I wanted that moment back, so I could call him to task for it, but too much time had passed and the opportunity had slipped away.

  Then he took my left hand in both of his and led me into the bathroom, where the gigantic, deeply filled tub awaited. Peaks and crests of perfumed foam bath topped its surface, together with a scattering of rose petals.

  For a moment I felt a rush of power so strong it could only be described as joy. This had all been done at my command. The ridiculous clothing he was wearing, the humiliation he was undergoing, the fact he was doing exactly as I asked … right down to running me the most luxurious bath I was ever likely to see in my life.

  And then the enormity of it all sank in.

  This was not my power – oh, no, I was delusional if I thought so, because it was all borrowed. It was his power I was enjoying. All of it. He had merely entrusted me with its safekeeping for a little while.

  ‘May I have permission to ask a favour, Mistress,’ he said.

  ‘Speak up, slave,’ I responded, stepping into the steaming water and, with no small relief, lowering myself under the cover of the bubbles.

  ‘The Mistress has asked to be bathed. I feel I could only perform this task to your satisfaction if I was allowed into the bath with you.’

  Oh, Jesus, this was another scenario I hadn’t even contemplated, but this time I was at least ready with a comeback.

  ‘I doubt whether you’ll perform it to my satisfaction in any case,’ I shot back at him. ‘You’ve displeased me more than once already tonight by continuing to plague me with personal questions. Remember that only obedient and incurious slaves are granted privileges.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

&nb
sp; ‘You have not earned your place in this bathtub.’

  ‘No, Mistress. I have been a veritable comedy of errors this evening.’

  ‘Slave, this cheekiness has to stop.’

  ‘I’ll strive to control my tongue,’ he replied, and from the way he said it I knew he intended me to feel a warm rush of excitement at the words.

  ‘Well, since I happen to be in a generous mood, I’ll allow you into the bath, but only if you take off those panties you’re wearing and hand-wash them carefully. But if you slip up again, I really will be angry and I will make you suffer for it.’

  ‘I will do my best to satisfy you, Mistress,’ he said, and again I was left breathless by the intention behind his words.

  He stripped naked, and I watched as he carefully soaped and rinsed the panties and patted the excess water out of them with one of the hand towels before hanging them on the towel rail. Then he climbed into the bath.

  Now the water was even deeper, brimming to my shoulders, and he was leaning forward, unwrapping a plastic bath cap and gathering my hair up in it.

  Great. So now I had the bonus of my hair staying dry, but the disadvantage of having to sit facing him, wearing what must be the least flattering piece of headgear that has ever been invented.

  But thankfully my slave was busying himself with his allotted task instead of cowering away from the plastic-capped apparition in front of him. He’d opened one of the containers of body wash and was lathering it up in his palms, sending another layer of fragrance into the steam-filled air.

  Leaning forward, he massaged my shoulders with his soapy hands. His fingers eased the knots out of my shoulder blades and stroked the stress away from my upper arms. With light, fingertip pressure he rubbed the back of my neck. Then, using a sponge, he squeezed hot water over my neck and down my back.

  ‘If my Mistress could stand up now, please,’ he murmured.

  What?

  Oh, shit!

  The problem was I couldn’t think of any reason to deny his request. He had me on that one. And so, before I knew it I was scrambling to my feet, water and bubbles cascading down my body, to stand in front of him, calf-deep in the water, with my feet a few inches apart, stomach muscles as tight as I could get them and staring resolutely ahead, just as if I was about to start an aerobics session.

  ‘Thank you, Mistress.’

  I was not going to look down, and I was thankful the mirror beside me was already steamed up. I kept my gaze fixed on the elegant white double basin in front of me, upon which stood a cut-glass vase containing an arrangement of fresh flowers. Around it yet more rose petals had been scattered.

  I told myself that I could not afford to be self-conscious. My client was paying me to fulfil his fantasy. And if that fantasy involved looking at me naked – well, he wasn’t going to recoil from the sight, even if I wanted to myself. My body was going to turn him on. There was no doubt about that, because it already had.

  He knelt before me, his arms reaching around me and his hands pressing softly against the small of my back. His touch moved around over the curve of my hips to my stomach, then higher, and I literally did not breathe as he slid his fingers under my breasts, cupping them, before moving up and then inwards, circling around, until he touched my nipples, squeezing them into swollen peaks with a sensuous pressure that sent a shiver of lust down my body.

  And then he swiftly moved his hands down my body to my calves, rubbing and stroking, and I was thankful that I had spent that morning in the bath at home shaving off every hair I could find.

  But he, too, knew about suspense, my wicked slave, because now his hands were roaming higher, inch by delicious inch, soaping the skin on my thighs which he’d so disobediently kissed earlier, then cupping my buttocks, then trailing around to tease just below my navel, moving lower and lower …

  And then, sliding in between my legs tantalisingly slowly, his hands touched me, caressing my most intimate folds of skin in movements so exquisitely sensual that felt as if they were turning me into liquid gold. His touch was so divinely erotic that I had to clamp my jaws together to try to maintain control, glaring ferociously at the innocent basin I faced.

  ‘If my Mistress would like to sit down now …’

  With legs that felt a lot weaker than they had when I stood up, I lowered myself into the water again. My legs slid in between his, my thighs resting on his own, and, with a shock, I saw his indigo eyes were looking directly into mine. What I saw in his expression was deep, powerful arousal, raw lust, a look distinctly un-slavish, and all I could think was that, right at that moment, he could do whatever he wanted to me and I would not have the will to say no.

  And then, from somewhere deep inside, I found the strength to say, in a low and rather breathless voice, ‘Dry me now, slave.’

  A minute later I was stepping out of the bath, into the fluffy embrace of the oversized towel he was holding, into pleasure of a different kind, one less sexual, more sensual. As he stood behind me and pressed the towel against me, holding me against him as he did so, it was all I could do to stay on my own two feet and not succumb to the desire to lean back against him and let him enfold me in his muscular arms.

  I walked back through to the main bedroom, still holding the towel around me.

  ‘You can hang this up,’ I told him, discarding it as I slid in between the sheets. ‘And on your way back, slave, because you have pleased me, you may put on my used panties. The ones I’ve just been wearing, that are folded at the foot of the bed.’

  Officially, because you’ve pleased me. Unofficially, because after seeing that look in your eyes, I think a layer of fabric between you and me would be a good idea if I’m to keep you in check.

  ‘Has my performance been satisfactory to you, Mistress?’ he asked, returning to my bedside.

  Performance … satisfactory … a tantalising choice of words, to be sure. My panties, worn proudly around his lean hips, did nothing to diminish his masculinity.

  I remembered how, when I’d done training on the sex lines, most of the would-be dominatrices had been confused and put off by the fact that their callers would beg to be dressed in women’s clothing before being ridiculed.

  ‘If they’re transvestites or gay, why do they want to speak to women?’Melissa, one of my slower-on-the-uptake trainees, had asked.

  ‘They’re neither of the above,’ I’d responded.

  ‘What are they then?’

  ‘Heterosexuals,’ I’d replied, somewhat dismissively.

  ‘Who wear ladies’ panties?’

  ‘Who happen to enjoy being forced into female attire. It shames them, because you tell them they’re not good enough to wear it, and at the same time it turns them on because it’s so sexy and feminine and forbidden.’

  ‘So these guys like women?’ Melissa had frowned, absorbing what I was telling her with some difficulty.

  ‘They love women. In fact, they hold them in extremely high regard.’

  The truth was that, despite what I’d told Melissa, I had never thought of the clients who got aroused by wearing women’s clothing as being particularly masculine. I had imagined them to be effeminate and insipid.

  Looking back, my job had been so easy, with the callers safely on the other end of a phone line. How confidently I had judged them, and how sagely I had offered my opinions.

  In real life, and having gone way too far already with my client, the situation was less clear cut but more confusing, more erotic, more dangerous.

  In addition, I was having to revise my views. I understood now that Simon was, in no way, effeminate. Rather, he was totally assured of his masculinity. Secure enough to explore his darkest fantasies without shame or embarrassment. Fearless enough to subjugate his power to a woman without becoming threatened.

  ‘You have been …’ Propped up on the pillows, I considered my slave’s behaviour for a long moment while he waited at the foot of the bed. ‘You have been adequate. There is room for improvement most certainly, but to
night you have not displeased the Mistress.’

  ‘It would be an honour to please you further, by worshipping your body more intimately,’ he said softly, ‘if you feel I have earned the privilege.’

  I swallowed. How far to let him go? How much control did I dare to relinquish?

  ‘There are many levels of privilege,’ I said, hoping he wouldn’t notice my voice was slightly hoarse. ‘Each must be earned. On this occasion, I can offer you … the privilege of pleasuring your Mistress intimately, but only with your fingers …’

  I didn’t miss the flicker in his expression. He wanted more. He powerfully desired oral sex, to go down on me, to plunge his tongue inside me in slavish devotion. This was the reward he had hoped for. I would be foolish to be too strict with him. If I left my decision as it was, it could be a deal-breaker.

  And who was I trying to deny anyway? Myself, or him?

  ‘And with your tongue,’ I finished, and saw him almost imperceptibly exhale.

  ‘That will be my honour,’ he murmured.

  Again, the question loomed in my mind as to exactly what I was at this stage of the game. Reclining on the pillows, I couldn’t escape the question as to where privilege stopped and prostitution began.

  Let him have his fun for a minute or two, then fake an orgasm and tell him to stop, I counselled myself.

  I realised, thanks to the effect of all the wine, that although the room wasn’t quite spinning around me, it was definitely starting to float away. That was all right. I could use a sense of unreality right now. It would help me cope better with what I’d just given my kinky client permission to do.

  Or, to put it another way, what he had paid me to allow him to do.

  Closing my eyes, I gave myself over to his sweet ravishment.

  First, the pressure of his hands on my thighs as he parted my legs. I clutched my fingers around the smooth coolness of the sheets. His breath was warm on my skin, and then my grasp tightened as I felt the touch of his lips on my inner thighs. Moving higher, exploring my most sensitive folds of flesh, his kisses were warm and wet and luscious, and they were followed by the slippery and sensuous caress of his tongue.