by David Saxon
Their two daughters, packed off safely out of the way at a prestigious boarding school, would be gone long enough for me to ring the changes in her that Kerry so sorely needed. I hoped that it was not too late for those little darlings, a forlorn hope perhaps, that they had not yet been gravely and irredeemably tainted by their selfish mother. Perhaps school was keeping them on the straight and narrow and in proper shape enough to be inflicted safely upon the world of unsuspecting men. If they weren’t then, perchance, in the fullness of time, they may pass through the portals of my academy. I hoped that someone might succeed me in a difficult, physically demanding but sexually satisfying task.
You, dear reader, will have deduced that I have no need of a wife nor, as you will discover, a housekeeper. They are, for me, needless accoutrements. I live alone and conduct all of my affairs from a large, isolated, red brick Edwardian house which, for these purposes I choose to call The Academy and it was there that I hold parties as a means of bringing together all my past clients and their husbands. Because Dominic had walked out on her, if only temporarily and within my game plan, my invitation to Kerry was couched in such a manner as to inspire her curiosity. I wanted her within my portals alone and of her own volition.
My parties, a means whereby my successfully re-tuned women, together with their husbands, meet and enjoy each other’s company, are always lively events. Within that circle my parties are famous for the releasing of inhibitions, flowing booze, food aplenty and countless dark nooks and crannies for those clandestine affairs the secrecy of which is broken only at grave cost to the loose tongued. So far there had been no such tongue wagging. It was also a means whereby I could keep tabs on progress and ensure that no one was defaulting and wandering back into their past failings.
Walpurgis Night seemed to be eminently suitable so I set to and produced my trade mark gold and black edged invitation cards; the gold for affluence, the black for … ah, who knows what mystery? Such decoration would, I feel sure, appeal to Kerry’s sense of her own worth. It suggested constellations of great wealth into the orbit of which Kerry believes herself long overdue in entering.
Of three stories and with a catacomb of cellars, the house was magnificently set in woodland through which a long gravel drive leads to a very minor and seldom travelled B road. A stream flows through the garden. There are outhouses which I have remodelled comfortably enough for those wishing to indulge their love of BDSM in private. The cellars are strictly my domain, my counsel chambers, so to speak and therein I have gathered together every device and every piece of equipment available to subdue and chastise women. One or two machines, like the milking machine, of which I am particularly proud and the pedestal yet to be tried, I designed myself; others I have copied from journals published in both America and Japan the homes of true BDSM in which England is playing catch-up. I was catching up fast.
Everywhere was deliberately under-furnished and prosaically decorated as a sensible precaution to prevent any ill-feeling should an accident happen. I didn’t want any of my visitors discomfited by such trivialities as cigarette burns or spilt drinks on expensive carpets. It was an essential demand of the freedom I advocated. And anyway I always had a client on hand to do the cleaning up. There is a study/library furnished with all the right books often referred to during my open house events; a dining room with a table seating twelve and two withdrawing rooms adequately furnished with settees and high wing back chairs. A reception room had nothing but occasional tables and a huge dumb waiter. The six en-suite bedrooms and all the guest rooms in the outbuildings governed the select number of guests whom, I always hoped, would make an indulgent weekend of it. On this occasion Kerry would be one guest more than my normal quota but then it will not be necessary to provide her with a bedroom. I had rather less comfortable accommodation for her.
I called in a tame electrician to create mood lighting and an equally docile engineer to produce sounds designed to enhance both mood and wantonness appropriate to the haunting night. Blood-curdling screams and maniacal laughter afar off tempered with tears and the pleas of the victims made a satisfactory background noise. Booze was brought in by the truckload with numerous cases of unbreakable glasses. The very best of food from the very best of caterers and the scene was set. Masks, cloaks and head-dresses were all provided as were tawses, benches and other portable equipment. A heavy oak saltire stood in the middle of the room on which to display masochists or perhaps others less eager but not afraid to investigate their inner desires. This was the centrepiece of the ceremony.
On that fateful evening, cold but clear and dry, cars rolled up the drive, crunching on the gravel bringing with them the looming night and the fitful glow of a cloud-ridden full moon. Its gleaming, intermittent light would titillate the senses of those who took pleasure among the dense trees, among the sights and sounds of the jungle, alfresco, the soft chill air fanning heated skin and touching passionate flesh.
I kept a sharp lookout for Kerry. From the outset I wore a red silk robe over my evening clothes but later, as Master of Ceremonies I would, as a mark of respect to my often far travelled guests, dispense with the evening clothes and let the real fun begin.
She came, as I expected she would, rather later than the others. She wore a buttoned and frilled, semi opaque blouse, tight over her splendid tits and low cut to reveal deep cleavage. It was tucked into a pair of jeans, expensive jeans but, nonetheless jeans. I winced at the miserable want of taste. I had rather expected a decent skirt. I gave her a black gown with gold suns and stars, a large brimmed, pointed, black hat and a wand with a gold star at its top. I was right in assuming that she wanted to make the grand entrance and I pandered to her vanity by making a great show of having the other guests assembled and, properly masked before a stranger, introduced to a worthy friend of impeccable pedigree. She simpered in her own reflection caught in the eyes of those to whom she offered a limp hand. It was much as if she expected it to be kissed rather than shaken. I had little doubt that many of the more sadistic guests would have delighted in exploring her pain threshold had they the chance. My promise to Dominic precluded any such deviation, however exciting the prospect. I had to deal with Kerry on a strictly personal basis. It would be a great pleasure for me but as we progressed into her submission and her growing to like it, her submissiveness would make my position somewhat less exciting. But all that was in the future. In the here and now I had the prospect of very exciting times ahead.
The time for our first skirmish couldn’t come fast enough. I was, happily, not restricted to a couple of nights. Oh no! Kerry was going to occupy me day and night for the next week or six. I was going to alter little Miss Bountiful very much indeed. I could hardly contain my impatience as the evening became more and more lascivious. I thought of all the things I was going to need to do with this girl to knock her back into the shape from which she should never have been allowed to wander. I had, at first, planned to wait until all the other guests had retired but that was a foolish expectation. By the wee small hours the clothes were off and the party was in full swing. As mine host I was kept very busy studying the liaisons with interest and tending to every need of my guests. Women with men other than their husbands, women with women and tangled orgies elsewhere in which it was not always possible to see who was doing what to whom.
I decided to start on Kerry immediately after the opening ceremony but, in the event it was Kerry herself who precipitated the move by expressing her sheer horror when Sarah, deliciously stark naked, was strapped to the saltire and whipped by all comers. Sarah had been my most recent client and part of the night’s proceedings had been to witness the declaration in which, like all the other clients, she agreed to give herself wholly and without restraint to her husband in any way he chose. You, dear reader, will have gathered a strange conflict in this oath. Though it appears to run contrary to the flavour of the party it does in fact enshrine all the sanctities of wedlock. As this story w
ill reveal, there is no anomaly.
Sarah is unique in that she is the only one of my clients who was reduced to outright viciousness towards her husband because she was ignorant of her own needs. She really had not understood what it was that so frustrated her. She blamed her husband for the inadequacy and their relationship went downhill almost all the way to divorce. Just in time, however, they were told about my Academy by Jenny, a previous client, who arranged for them to meet me at her home. Meeting, so to speak, on home ground arrangements were made that Sarah would come with Jenny and counselling would start immediately. I convinced John, her husband, that it would be a week or two and that the treatment was so intense that he’d be unable to visit. He didn’t like that. Few of the husbands did but my stock answer was always that anything of this kind involving treatment is always done on a one to one basis and should never involve anyone else, not even a partner. It is, like all therapies, a private affair at least, for as long as I chose to keep it that way.
Sarah’s strapping to the saltire was the culmination of the journey we had undertaken together to discover eventually if, in fact, she was a masochist. On finding that she was, I exploited it to examine just what kind of a pain threshold she had. It was an interesting journey into the beauty of pain. She enjoyed each and every form of punishment but her greatest desire was to be posed on the leather daybed with her legs folded and strapped down straight over the top of her head so that her bottom and pussy was gloriously exposed and taut. We started with the tawse which she found inadequate so finally I applied the knotted cat-o-nine-tails. She loved the way it folded and swept over large areas of her body, making the pain universal. By degrees we had found the severity and the duration she preferred. It made a new woman of her. Now, after this ceremony that so confused Kerry, Sarah was going home, duly marked by the whip and carrying with her the treasured cat-o-nine-tails.
I sympathised with Kerry’s sensitivities and led her from the room, urging her to enjoy some peace and quiet in the library where I sat quietly with her. She had been drinking so I made a great play of preparing her something to sober her up. I didn’t want to lavish too much time on her at this stage.
There was, to my surprise, a little laughter in her voice as she remarked yet again on the whipping. It made me think of how delicious her tits would look criss-crossed and reddened by the tawse or the cat-of- nine-tails. I detected a mild curiosity which was encouraging though her laughter, ringing with insincerity, was something that jarred uncomfortably. At the chosen moment I said:
“I have a secret passage, just over there.” I pointed to a corner kept cleverly dark by my tame electrician.
She clapped her hands. “Where? Oh where? Do let me see!”
She tripped along behind me on those ridiculously high heels, squealing like the spoiled brat she was. I pressed a hidden button and the wainscoting began to slide. I grabbed Kerry about the waist and flung her into the musty darkness and pressed the button to close the door.
“Noooooo! No, please … No, you fu…!” It whispered shut on her foul protestations and she had to quickly withdraw a reaching arm as the door finally closed upon her. I would hear no more of Kerry until I was good and ready to release her into my world of correction. It was a pleasantly peaceful moment.
Well now, some hours later, with the sun just lightening the eastern sky and the guests retired to their rooms it was time to see how Kerry was faring. I had had a pleasant few hours’ sleep which I am sure Kerry could not match. The house was very silent as I descended the thickly carpeted stairs. I had grown used to its natural creaks and groans and enjoyed the daunting power it inflicted on new guests like Kerry. It served as the first step in converting recalcitrant clients.
The locker into which I flung Kerry was so constructed as to have two doors, the one from the library and the other, to which I was now going, in the dining room. Its original purpose I could only guess at but it was not a tunnel, merely a small cavity, possibly a priest’s hole. I pressed the button and watched the door slide silently open. Rest for the wicked in that small, dark space was denied. It was enough to stand upright or to sit with knees raised. It was not possible to lie down so I was sure Kerry would be tired and stiff. I expected her to fall into my arms but she was, as they say, made of sterner stuff. I had misjudged her. She came out fighting. Mascara ran in black streaks down her cheeks and lipstick spread in grotesque clownish whirls all round her snarling mouth. Her eyes were blazing. She was astonishingly quick on her feet and I got a decent knock on the head before I managed to subdue her enough to cuff her hands behind her back.
She continued to shout and scream with a vocabulary very far from ladylike. In gathering up her Walpurgis Night costume from the floor of the cavity, I held her at arm’s length with a vice-like grip and then, by the mere expedient of grabbing a handful of her thick, lustrous hair led her, none too gently, out of the library. “You bastard!” she shouted and spat at me. That earned her a warning slap, gentle but authoritative, to the face. She recoiled in tears but continued to shout.
“Tch, tch! Such foul language! I thought you far too genteel for such a mouth.” I pulled at her hair, forcing her to follow me at a goodly pace. She stumbled several times but at last we reached the cellar door. Down the carpeted stairs I pulled her and at last, in the gloom of my discipline sanctuary, I released her.
She dropped, crying, to the rubber matting. I hoped that she hadn’t, so suddenly, lost the will to fight.
“Get up, you bitch! You’re not hurt! Get up and tell me why you should be so revoltingly proud of yourself!”
She did not rise but wiped the back of her hand over her eyes and glared at me through the veil of her dishevelled hair. “I shall be missed, you know.” She spoke in even, subdued tones.
“Do I really look like someone who cares?” I taunted her brutally. “I might, in due course, allow you to write a letter to your daughters at school but...”
That brought her to her feet. “How the hell do you know about them? You ... you…!” She crouched forward as if ready to pounce.
“I was really pleased when your husband walked out on you.” “That bastard!”
“Ah! And I’ve no doubt that right now he thinks much the same about you.”
I shrugged my shoulders and caught hold of a handful of hair, bringing her upright by pulling hard. “All men are bastards, are they not? Isn’t that how you see them? Illegitimate children, one and all, eh? I wonder what that says about the morality of women.” I shrugged into her silence. “Ah well, now you are in the company of a professional bastard!” With that I pulled at her hair again, causing her to stagger towards a wall so I could reach a rail and take down a pair of handcuffs. Amid her horrible protests I dragged her back to a pole in the centre of the room and deftly cuffed her wrists around it. I stepped away to appreciate the sight for a moment then went over to a hosepipe coiled around a pair of taps. I turned them on, hot and cold, testing the flow until it was at a proper temperature. Then I played the jet full upon her. She squealed and tried to shy away but I played it over her hair and her face. She tried to kick out at me. Her shoe was flung off. I kept playing the hose on her.
“Did you ever let him stroke your hair? Did you ever caress his cock with those lustrous curls? Did you ever look at him with loving eyes? No, you bloody well didn’t! Did you ever take his cock between those lovely lips and suck him to make him come in your mouth? No, you bloody well didn’t!” I played the water into her mouth. She spluttered and choked. I directed the warm flow to her breasts. “Did you ever nurse his cock between those luscious breasts and let him give you a pearl necklace? I’ll bet you didn’t!” I played the jet on to her crotch. “Did you let him fuck you for his pleasure or did you only open your legs for him on those rare occasions when your condescending ladyship pleased?” I retreated towards the taps and, without taking my eyes from her, closed off the hot water. She s
creamed as the cold jet hit her a stinging blow. I played it mischievously all over her until her teeth were chattering too much for her to speak above a whisper.
“P… p… p... p ... lease … s … s ...s …top …”
“Ah, so you do have some manners beneath that arrogance.” I dropped the hose and went to her. She actually managed a smile. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a beautiful moment. She stood tall, proud and statuesque like one of those magnificent caryatids of the Erectheon in Athens. Taking handfuls of her sodden blouse, I ripped off the buttons all the way down to her waist and opened it wide. Her breasts in that soaking wet balconet brassiere were truly wondrous to behold. I played with them joyfully testing their magnificent weight, their warmth and their pliability. They wobbled delightfully and made me wonder if her children, lucky things, had been breast fed. I asked her. She shook her head.
“You deprived them of your own milk?” I exclaimed with as much bitterness as I could muster “I ...”
“Oh, yes. Frightened your tits would sag and become ugly dugs? Selfish bitch!” She nodded her head vigorously. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Dominic might have enjoyed watched you suckle them. Did that ever occur to you? Did it ever occur to you that Dominic, your husband, might have liked to suckle them too?”
“Ooooh, that is...!”
“Disgusting?” I pulled down the cups to reveal her huge nipples, nutty brown, big as thimbles with aureoles covering fully half the tit. I bent to the left one and took the nipple into my mouth, sucking hard as I held it in both hands. It stiffened under my tutelage. She squirmed pleasurably. I bit down hard, causing her to cry out then tenderly laved it with tongue and lips. After what was a very long moment of delight I reluctantly released the nipple and raised my head. “Was that disgusting?”