by Becky Bell
'Clean it up,' she said, giving him a minute to recover.
'Yes, mistress.' The man crawled over to the corner of the room, where there was a small waste bin lined with a plastic bag and a box of tissues. He took the tissues, used them to wipe up his ejaculation, then crawled back and put them in the waste bin, the chains clanging on the floor.
'Go into the next room and wait for me there,' Paula ordered, opening the door.
The man obeyed. He tried to get to his feet, forgetting how he was chained, but a sharp jerk on his balls soon reminded him and he decided to crawl instead. Paula closed the door as soon as he left.
'Well, Derek, now it's your turn.' And mine, she thought, but did not say.
She went to the wall and unwound the white nylon rope from the cleat that held it taut. She allowed the rope to run through the pulley, Derek, held in suspension for so long, collapsed to the floor, his muscles turned to jelly.
'Take the helmet off,' she ordered.
It took him a moment before his arms would respond. His hands were still bound together by the thick leather cuffs, but he managed to grip the rubber helmet and tugged it over his head. The phallus-shaped gag popped out of his mouth, covered with saliva.
'Get on the bed, on your back.'
'Yes, mistress,' Derek squeaked.
There was a small double bed in the corner of the room, its mattress covered with a black sheet. Short lengths of thick white nylon rope were tied securely to each leg of the metal frame. Though his legs were still bound tightly together, Derek managed to pull himself over to the bed then lever himself up on to the black sheet.
Paula had gone to the cupboard. She took out an odd-looking plastic dildo, its shaft curved and distressed in a crude effort to make it resemble the shape of a real phallus. It had a large black rubber bag attached to the end. Hanging from the bag by a short tube was a rubber bulb.
Paula climbed on to the mattress. She grabbed his arms, hauled them up over his head. She took hold of the white rope at the top left-hand corner of the bed and tied it to the central link in the leather cuffs. Then she straddled Derek's shoulders, allowing him to look up her long, stocking-sheathed legs to her sex. Her labia were fat and rubbery, with little pubic hair to hide the inner contours.
'You do know what to do, don't you?'
'Yes, mistress.'
Paula leant forward. The rubber suit he had been squeezed into earlier had a long zip at the crotch. She pulled it open, and his erection immediately sprang free. He moaned loudly with relief.
'Open your mouth.' As he obeyed, she took the dildo and placed the rubber bag between his lips. Using the rubber bulb, she began to pump air into the bag until it filled his mouth completely and his cheeks were bulging, the rubber dildo sticking up at a right-angle to his face.
She didn't allow many of her clients the privilege of being used by her, but Derek was one of them. He had been coming to her every two weeks for over a year.
Paula squatted over his face, taking the dildo in her hand and placing it at the mouth of her vagina. Her sex spasmed as she felt the thick cylinder of rubber nosing into her delicate flesh. Slowly, she lowered herself on her haunches, allowing the dildo to impale itself in her. She was very wet. Administering a whipping always got her excited. She sank right down until she could feel Derek's face on her thighs and the tip of the dildo nestling against the neck of her womb.
'Mm...' A huge wave of pleasure flooded over her. She used her left hand to hold Derek's cock, as if it were a lever specifically designed to help her support herself; meanwhile, with the middle finger of the right, she searched out her clit. The first touch was electric. She moaned again.
Paula knew her own body well. She knew what it liked. Sometimes she would string one of the slaves up in front of her, lie on the small bed and masturbate lazily, bringing herself to a slow climax while they were made to watch. But she was in no mood for delayed gratification now. She needed to come quickly. She jammed her finger against the little promontory of flesh and flicked it from side to side. Her body rocked with the shock of pleasure this produced. She pushed herself down on to Derek's face, feeling his cheekbones press into her big fleshy thighs, and the dildo sank deeper, too.
Derek started to struggle.
Paula's whole body went rigid. She felt her vagina contract tightly around the dildo as her orgasm took control. She managed to flick her finger against her clitoris one more time, then she crushed it back against the underlying bone as her orgasm exploded. Wave after wave of pleasure rolled over her.
During all this, she had been clutching his penis spasmodically, more for support than for his pleasure, but now it began to jerk in her hand, jetting semen out on to his black rubber-covered belly.
'Did I give you permission to come?' she said, as soon as the waves of feeling had passed. She stood up, tearing the dildo from her body with a loud squelching sound. His cheeks and chin were glistening with the juices from her sex.
He shook his head.
'You know what that means, don't you?'
He nodded. It meant punishment.
Angela Strickland was ten minutes early. It was only her seventh day at Slaughter and Roe and she was still keen to make a good impression.
Their offices were in Notting Hill Gate and, like most estate agents, had a long frontage on to the street, the rows of desks on view to the public behind the big plate windows and the advertisements for the latest properties that hung in them. The best desks, at the back of the large open office, where it was slightly more private, were allotted to the more senior staff and the worst right at the front in the window, where the sun beat down remorselessly in the summer, and a chill wind blew in through the front door in the winter, went to the more junior employees. As the most junior, Angela sat right in front of the glass.
'Good morning.'
She was surprised to see Gary Roe striding in through the door, minutes after her. As the senior partner, she had barely said more than two words to him, the whole week.
'Good morning, Mr Roe.'
'Gary, please. I've never been much for formalities.' He came over and sat on the edge of her desk. 'Sorry I haven't been around much, last week. Like to welcome all the staff personally, but it's been a bit hectic.' Gary was in his early thirties. He was slender and tall, with a large gold signet ring on his finger. He wore a beautifully tailored grey suit, a handmade white shirt and a silk tie. He had a ready smile and deep-green eyes, with crows' feet at each corner. His curly dark brown hair was so thick that it grew right down over his forehead.
'That's all right. I didn't expect...'
'Anyway, how are you settling in?'
'Fine, thank you Mr... Gary.'
'Good. Good. Josephine's been keeping a beady eye on you, I expect.'
Josephine Donald was a fifty-year-old matron, who wore a peach-coloured twin set and pearls, and black-framed spectacles. She ruled the office with a rod of steel, keeping all the employees under strict supervision, the slightest hint of horseplay punished with one of her withering looks.
'She's been very kind,' Angela replied. It was true. Josephine was a martinet but a maternal one. She had helped Angela with all her problems and had even given her much-needed advice about trying to find somewhat better accommodation than the mouldy bedsit she was presently inhabiting.
'Good. Good. And remember, my door is always open, if there's anything I can help you with: anything at all...'
'That's very kind.'
'Well, better get on.' He smiled, revealing very regular and very white teeth, then strode across the office to the spiral staircase that led to the first-floor offices that the two partners inhabited.
Angela Strickland thought of herself as a little naive. She'd had very little experience of city life. Born and brought up in a remote part of Cornwall by her widowed mother, she had been sent to a remote boarding school in the highlands of Scotland, where a man had been a sight as rare as a glimpse of the sun. But she knew enough to un
derstand that she was attractive to men and to know why. She had the sort of blonde hair that was almost luminous, falling in liquid waves way past her shoulders. Her face had delicate, sharp features with a straight nose, a small mouth with very red lips and deep-blue eyes. Though she was not tall, only five foot three inches in her stockinged feet, she had shapely slender legs and her figure was curvaceous, with a narrow waist and a jutting bosom.
And for that reason, she couldn't help wondering if Gary Roe's interest was entirely due to concern for the smooth running of his firm, or whether he had another motivation.
By nine-thirty the office was fully populated and the phones had started ringing. To teach her the ropes, Josephine had asked Sally Fennell to work with Angela for the first two weeks, and they had got on well together. Sally had shown her how to go to properties and work up the details that would form the basis for the one- or two-page circulars that would be sent out to other agents and given to prospective buyers. They were supposed to go to a house this morning at ten for this very purpose.
'Angela.' Josephine walked across the office to Angela's desk. 'I've just had Sally on the phone. She's going to be late. Dentist or something. Do you think you're up to going to Park Drive on your own?'
'I think so,' Angela said hesitantly.
'Good. Here's the key. The owner's already moved out, so the place will be empty. Just make sure you get all the dimensions.'
'Fine.' It shouldn't be a problem, Angela thought. The firm provided a pro forma, and all she had to do was fill it in.
Josephine put the key on Angela's desk. 'Any problems, just ring me.'
'Thanks.'
Angela took an electronic tape-measure from her desk drawer, and an A-Z of London. She checked she had a pen and a clipboard, as well as the pro forma. Park Drive was only around the corner from the office and she decided to walk. It was early spring and, though a weak sun was trying to burn through the clouds, there was a cold northerly wind and she needed the light mac she had brought with her.
Out on the street she walked briskly along to Holland Park, then turned left into a small, discreet cul-de-sac. The houses were terraced and had mostly been converted into flats, but Number 18 had a single bell on the panelled front door.
Angela unlocked the front door and stepped inside. There was a litter of post on the doormat, together with circulars and little cards from minicab companies. The house had that particular smell that all empty houses had in common, a combination of dust and damp and stale air.
Closing the door behind her, Angela walked around the ground floor. It seemed pretty standard. There was a dining room off the kitchen and a large sitting room with a tiny patio garden not much bigger than a postage stamp, its terracotta paving dotted with numerous plants in big terracotta pots. The plants all looked healthy and well cared for, testimony to the fact that the house had not been empty for long.
Angela took off her coat, hung it on the newel post of the stairs and began work in the kitchen, pointing the electronic measure and reading off the widths. It took her twenty minutes to complete the downstairs, double-checking everything, determined not to make a mistake on her first solo assignment.
When she was satisfied she hadn't missed anything, she mounted the straight staircase to the first floor. The door to the bedroom at the front was open and she wandered in. Again, she carefully measured the bedroom and the en suite bathroom, noting all the features: the number of built-in wardrobes, the colour of the bath, the presence of a bidet and a separate shower cubicle. At the other end of the landing there was another small bedroom, a small shower room and toilet. Opposite this was another door to what she imagined was the third bedroom. Oddly, she thought, the door was locked, though the key was in the lock under the handle.
She turned the key and opened the door. It was thick and padded on the inside. The room beyond was small and square and smelt heavily of a musky, rich perfume. The walls and ceiling and the stripped wooden floor had all been painted black. Angela could see the frame of the window that would have overlooked the small patio at the back of the house, but the window had been boarded up and the boarding painted black, too.
Even with the light flooding in from the hall, it was difficult to see more and Angela switched on the electric light. There was a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.
What Angela saw astonished her. In the corner of the room was a metal cage, about four feet high and two feet square. The top of the cage was hooked into a metal chain threaded through a pulley attached to an RSJ that ran diagonally across the ceiling. The chain was tied off to a cleat on one of the walls, so the whole cage could be suspended. There were two more pulleys hanging from the RSJ, both threaded with white nylon rope, which were secured to pairs of thickly padded leather cuffs.
On the far wall, square metal plates had been bolted into the plaster, two just above the skirting board and two at well over head-height. They were positioned at about three feet apart; screwed into each plate was a metal ring.
Jutting from the opposite wall was what, at first glance, looked like an ironing table. But it was built a great deal more solidly, with a huge steel bracket supporting it from underneath. Wide leather straps had been attached to the middle of the board; at the end closest to the wall and on either side of it, there were two more pulley-like arrangements of nylon rope, this time each attached to a single metal cuff.
Angela stared around in disbelief. It looked to her as if the room had been used as a sort of torture chamber. It repelled her and fascinated her all at the same time. She reached above her head and touched one of the leather cuffs dangling there. Experimentally, she wound it around her wrist. She found herself imagining what it would be like to be tied up here, with her hands bound above her head. To her astonishment, this thought produced a deep and shocking throb from between her legs.
Quickly, she took out the electronic measure. It only took a moment to get the measurements down. As soon as she had completed this task, she walked out into the hall and locked the door behind her again.
But the room was not as easily forgotten as that. As she walked back to the office, with her clipboard tucked under her aim, she found herself trying to work out what the various devices were for. The cage was easy to work out. A victim was locked inside, then suspended. With the lack of height, it would be impossible to stand up properly. It would be very uncomfortable, especially over a long period of time. She tried to work out what the ironing board arrangement was for. It was just long enough for a victim to be strapped along its length, with their buttocks jutting out at one end. Were their legs then secured in the leather cuffs from the pulleys on either side and drawn back over their heads, so their body was doubled up?
But even if that were the case, what was the point? Why would anyone want to own such complicated instruments of torture?
Back at the office, Angela typed up her notes, putting all the measurements into the computer. She would talk to Gary later about a valuation, though she had her own figure in mind. Naturally, she made no mention of the house's most unusual feature. She didn't mention it to Josephine, either, when the matronly woman asked her if everything had been all right. But she wanted to talk to someone about what she had seen.
At twelve-thirty, Sally breezed in. She dropped into the chair at the side of Angela's desk.
'Hi. Anything new?' Her mouth was still frozen with novocaine, and she spoke with a distinct slur.
'I went to do that house in Park Drive.'
'On your own?' She was grinning. 'In that case, I'd better buy you a drink. Come on, it's lunchtime,' she said.
They walked to the pub two doors down from the office, which most of the Slaughter and Roe's staff frequented, and found a corner table. Sally went to the bar to buy the drinks.
'So how did you get on, this morning?' Sally asked as she brought over two glasses of red wine.
'Fine,' Angela said.
Sally began to grin broadly again.
'What's
the matter with you?'
'You didn't find anything... unusual?'
Angela began to blush. She still hadn't worked out why the room she had found was equipped in the way it was, but had the uneasy feeling that other people might not be so naive. She didn't want to be made fun of for not knowing something that was perfectly obvious to the rest of the world.
'You did,' Sally said, reading her expression. 'Come on, tell all.'
'How did you know?'
'Know what?'
'About the room?'
Sally grinned again. 'I just guessed. Come on, what was it like?'
Angela told her. She told her about the cage and the ironing board and the pulleys.
Sally began to laugh. 'That's great.'
'So how did you know?'
'The owner came to the office a couple of weeks ago, before she moved out. I met her. She was a prostitute.'
'A prostitute?'
'You've seen the cards in the telephone boxes.'
'Yes.' Angela had seen them, all right. It would have been difficult to miss them. Almost every telephone box in London was covered with cards advertising the services of young women of every shape and size, the lurid details of what they were prepared to do accompanied by an alluring photograph purporting to be the woman in question, often clad in thigh-length boots or black stockings.
'Well, she was Miss Stern. Get it?'
'No.'
'Miss Stern. Domination, bondage and correction.'
'I don't understand.'
'Where have you been, Angie? Don't you know about all that?'
'I've read the ads. I wasn't sure what they meant.'
Sally laughed. 'You really have led a sheltered life, haven't you?'
'I suppose so.'
'You're not a virgin, are you?'
'No!'
'Just asking. This may come as a shock to you, Angie, but there are certain men who get their jollies in rather peculiar ways.'