The Dominatrix

by Becky Bell

  'All right.'

  'What about Monday? At the Belvedere. Do you know it?'

  'Just around the corner.'

  'Good. I'll pick you up.'

  'No.' She didn't want Gregory Wilmott at the bedsit, not until she had a chance to find out a little more about his new-found contriteness.

  'No, of course not. Inappropriate. We'll meet there. Eight o'clock.'

  'Fine.'

  'Thank you.'

  'For what, exactly?'

  'For being so understanding.'

  'See you on Monday.'

  Angela put the phone down and stared into space. She realised her hand was trembling slightly, but she found herself smiling. It seemed incredible that Gregory should call, after all this time, just when he had been uppermost in her thoughts. But it was an opportunity she wouldn't have wanted to miss, particularly at the moment. Seeing him again would help her to sort out exactly what she'd felt about that night. She was also fascinated to know if Gregory was, like the three men she'd seen enjoying Paula's special services, prone to the submission and domination. If so, then that might fit in well with her own plans...

  She waited until they were on the coffee.

  Gregory had been perfectly charming. He had asked her all the right questions about her work and where she lived, and what she did with her time, and had listened attentively to all the answers. He was beautifully dressed in a grey suit and blue shirt with a yellow silk tie, and his complexion had that healthy rugged look which, she was sure, indicated that he was still riding his hunter on a regular basis. His straight black hair had gone grey at the temples since the last time she had seen him, but that only increased his appeal.

  They had eaten Caesar salad and seared salmon steaks on a bed of rocket, but had passed on the desserts. The coffee, served in tiny white china cups, was excellent and the view, overlooking a brick colonnade and a circular pond surmounted by a small fountain, where peacocks strutted between the shrubs, was lit by floodlights hidden in the bushes.

  'Would you like a brandy?' Gregory said.

  'Yes. I think I would.'

  He raised his hand to attract the attention of one of the waiters. 'If you don't mind me saying so, you seem different.'

  'Different?'

  'More confident, more at ease.'

  'I think I'm a little less naive,' she said pointedly. 'And what about you?'

  A waiter approached the table. 'Could we have two brandies, please? Do you have Delamain?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And some more coffee,' Angela added.

  'Certainly, madam.'

  He hurried away.

  'So we've talked about me. What about you, Gregory?'

  'Look, I've been meaning to say, I should never have... I mean, it was really terribly wrong of me... I was tired. I had been very stressed.'

  'You could have been in a lot of trouble.'

  'I know. I'd like to think we could still be friends.'

  'Friends?' She arched an eyebrow.

  'If there was anything I could ever do to help you.'

  'I'm curious,' Angela said, feeling more and more confident.

  'About what?'

  'About you.'

  'What about me?' His dark brown eyes were looking straight into hers and there was something about them that bothered her, since the moment he had stood up to greet her in the bar downstairs. What it was exactly, she could not put her finger on.

  'As I said, I was a bit naive, I didn't realise what was going on.'

  'Going on? I thought that was obvious.' He looked puzzled.

  'Not to me. You enjoyed it, didn't you? You enjoyed being whipped.'

  He looked at her steadily. 'Where did you get that idea?'

  'I thought that was obvious,' she replied sharply. 'Are you going to answer my question?'

  Gregory averted his eyes, staring down into his coffee. 'Yes, I enjoyed it.'

  'Because you're into S and M?'

  He smiled. 'You've even got the right terminology.'

  'And I know what it means.'

  'If you must know, I've always had these ideas - these fantasies, if you like.' He looked up at her again.

  'And you paid a prostitute to make them come true?'

  'What makes you think that?'

  'Because I remember every word you said that night, Gregory. "It's less than I normally pay", wasn't that the phrase you used?'

  'Mary, my wife, she's very... orthodox. She thinks sex is something you slip in somewhere between cleaning your teeth and going to sleep. She's a pretty woman. I tried to broach the subject with her, once, but she refused to listen.'

  'So when you're up in London...'

  'There are a lot of women who cater for such tastes.'

  'What, exactly?'

  'It's too embarrassing.'

  'Please, Gregory; it interests me. I want to know the details.' Angela felt a now familiar pulse of excitement emanating from her sex.

  Gregory was looking at her with a different expression. It was as if he was about to tell her something, then changed his mind. 'Why?' he said instead.

  'I want to know, Gregory. You owe me. Don't forget that.' Her tone was adamant. 'If I'd gone to the police...'

  'I know, I know. All right, if you want to know, I get turned on by being totally dominated.'

  'Go on.'

  'It's difficult to explain. Perhaps it's because I run my own business and have to make all my own decisions. But, when it comes to sex, I want all the responsibility taken out of my hands.' He lowered his voice. 'I want to be a slave.'

  The waiter had arrived at the table with a tray and gave Gregory a long sideways look as he placed the brandies on the table. He replaced their coffee cups with new ones, while they sat silently watching his movements, the air thick with a pregnant pause.

  'Will that be all, sir?' he asked.

  'Thank you.'

  'My pleasure, sir.' Was there a slightly sarcastic tone to his voice? He walked away.

  'A slave?' Angela reminded him.

  'Yes. I want a woman to completely take over. To be in charge. To totally dominate me. Do you think that's strange?'

  'And bondage?'

  'That's part of it. If she ties me up, it means I'm powerless to change my mind. It means I'm completely vulnerable. That's what's exciting. To think she can do anything she likes to me and there's nothing I can do to stop her.' Angela saw a spark of excitement in his eye.

  'Including being whipped?'

  'Yes. That's partly a physical thing, too. The buttocks are very sensitive. Whipping draws blood to that whole area. It increases the flow to all the other parts down there.'

  Angela did not let him get away with the euphemism. 'To your cock,' she said blatantly.

  'Yes. At least, that's what it feels like. It's completely different from normal sex. Sometimes she makes me wait, makes me beg for it.'

  'She?'

  'There's one particular woman I go to.'

  'A specialist?'

  'Yes.'

  Angela almost asked him if it were Paula Divine, but stopped herself. 'And you're her slave?'

  'While I am with her, yes. Completely. She knows exactly what I want - which is to give her total control.'

  'So when I whipped you that night, when I lost my temper...'

  'It just brought it all back; it was like being with her.'

  'You came, didn't you?'

  'Yes,' he said, blushing. 'I couldn't help it. You are so beautiful, Angela. I'd always wanted you. I'd always had fantasies about you.'

  'Sexual fantasies?'

  'Yes. I used to imagine what it would be like if you were... if I was with you.' The sleeveless red dress she was wearing had a plunging neckline that revealed more than a hint of her swelling, buttery breasts. She saw his eyes flick over them.

  'My slave.'

  'Yes. To have you doing that to me, even under those circumstances... It was too much.'

  Angela sipped her brandy. She felt remarkably c
alm, considering the fact that everything she had guessed about that night had proved true, in spades. It was up to her, now. Gregory's confession had left the way open for her. Since he had called, four days ago, she had had a lot of time to think.

  'I want you to take me home,' she said, rehearsing a new tone of voice.

  'Of course. I thought...'

  'Pay the bill, then wait here, I'm going to the loo.' She thought the tone was just right. She could see the puzzled look on Gregory's face.

  Ten minutes later, they were climbing into his Jaguar. It was a five-minute drive to her block of flats and she sat in the car in silence, with her legs crossed. She had dressed with great deliberation. The skirt of the clinging tight glossy red dress came to mid-thigh, but it had ridden up in the car, so she was sure he could glimpse the lacy tops of her stockings.

  'Here,' she said as they arrived outside. There was no parking anywhere in the street, so he double-parked immediately outside. 'Go and find somewhere to park, then come in,' she said, her tone brooking no dissent. 'Top floor, flat nine.'

  'Look, if you'd rather we just called it a night...'

  'Do as I say,' she said. The tone suited her. What's more, it gave her a kick of excitement. If Gregory Wilmott was the sort of man who liked to be dominated, then she was going to find out if she was the sort of woman who liked to dominate.

  'Yes, of course,' he said meekly.

  She got out and let herself into the house. She had planned everything. Of course, it was entirely possible that all her plans would have come to nothing, and her theories about Gregory prove to be incorrect, but for the small financial outlay it had involved, it was a risk she had been prepared to take. She was two hundred pounds up from last Thursday night, in any event.

  She left the front door ajar and went inside. Quickly stripping off the red dress, she brushed her hair, sprayed herself with perfume, then pulled on a pair of long black satin gloves. They reached up almost to her armpits. She smoothed them over her flesh, making sure there were no wrinkles. She kicked off her court shoes and replaced them with black patent leather ankle boots with a towering four-inch heel. Like the gloves, the shoes and the lace-topped stockings, she had bought the black satin basque she was wearing on Saturday. She had bought one or two other items, too. Only the thong-cut black satin panties she wore were not new.

  Angela looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. She looked like a whore. She looked like Paula. She smiled at her reflection, stooping to remove a crease in the flesh-coloured stocking around her right knee. She had dressed like this on Saturday night, then lay on the bed and masturbated while she worked out exactly what she was going to do with Gregory. She had come three or four times before she was finally sated.

  Angela sat in a small wing chair and crossed her legs, her clitoris pulsing strongly as she did so. Her breasts ballooned out of the cutaway bra of the basque. She could see the tops of her nipples. Their corrugated flesh was already knotted. She held her hands together in front of her chin, her fingertips resting against her lips, and stared at the door.

  There was a gentle rap on the door.

  'Close it behind you,' she shouted.

  He stepped inside. 'God...' he said as he saw Angela. 'You look magnificent. I had no idea...'

  'Come here,' she said pointing to a spot in front of the chair. She had rehearsed everything she was going to say.

  'Yes.'

  'Be quiet,' she snapped. The rehearsals were over, this was the real thing. 'On your knees.'

  'What?' he stuttered.

  'You heard me.'

  Without a moment's hesitation, Gregory sank to his knees, though his eyes remained riveted to Angela's body.

  'Get on with it, then,' she said, copying Paula. She suspected he would know exactly what to do.

  And he did. He leant forward and pressed his lips against the black patent-leather boots, kissing every inch of them. Angela felt a strong surge of arousal as she watched him. Was this how Paula felt?

  'Now the other one,' she said; but made no effort to uncross her legs.

  He straightened up and kissed the toe of the other boot. Angela swung her foot away. He hastened to catch it.

  'Suck the heel,' she ordered. Her nipples were tingling. She raised a hand and cupped it over her breast, as if to try and soothe it, but that had the reverse effect only increasing the prickling sensation.

  Gregory lowered his head and sucked on the sharp pointed heel.

  'Go down the hall. The bathroom's at the end.' She pointed at the door to the left of the bed. 'Take your clothes off. All of them.'

  'Yes.'

  'How do you address the woman you pay for these services?'

  'She makes me call her "mistress".'

  'Then you'll call me Ms Strickland. Do you understand?' She remembered Paula making a joke of her name. How appropriate it seemed now.

  'Yes, Ms Strickland.' He started to get up.

  'On your knees,' she said immediately.

  'What if someone sees me out there?'

  'Do as you're told.'

  Gregory crawled over to the door. He opened it and crawled through.

  Angela stood up. She stood in front of the mirror and smiled. Slowly, she ran her gloved hand down over the smooth, silky satin and cupped it around the curve of her mons, the tips of her fingers touching her labia. Her clitoris pulsed strongly.

  A few minutes later, Gregory crawled back into the room. His clothes were bunched up in his arm. He closed the door.

  'Quickly,' she snapped. 'I'm not in the mood to be kept waiting. Over there,' Angela said, pointing to the side of her small double bed. 'I want you to kneel there and stretch your arms and your body out across the bed.'

  Gregory obeyed immediately.

  'Does your other mistress whip you?'

  'Yes, Ms Strickland.'

  'And we know you love it, don't we?'

  'Yes, Ms Strickland.'

  Angela went over to her chest of drawers. She opened the bottom drawer and took out a leather riding crop. On Saturday morning she had taken the two hundred pounds Paula had given her and gone to Soho. She was astonished at how easy it was to find the sort of items she wanted to buy. She'd found a little shop in a side street that sold a whole range of implements of flagellation, as well as bondage equipment and outré garments in leather and rubber.

  'Can you see what I've got here?'

  'Yes, Ms Strickland.' His voice was tremulous, but she couldn't tell whether it was with fear or excitement.

  'You see, Gregory, I've had a lot of time to think about what I did to you last year. Do you know the conclusion I've reached?'

  'No, Ms Strickland.'

  'I've reached the conclusion that I actually enjoyed beating the shit out of you. So I've decided to experiment. I've decided to see if it really does give me pleasure. You do want to give me pleasure, don't you?' Angela was positively enjoying playing her new role.

  'Yes, Ms Strickland.'

  Immediate, lapdog responses had obviously been drilled into him.

  'Good.' She walked around the bed and stood right next to him, letting her leg press against the side of his hip. She ran the whip down the cleft on his bottom until it was touching his scrotum. Then she flicked it against his upper thigh, making him jump. His buttocks were firm and hard.

  Angela looked down at him. So far, just like Paula's clients, he had done everything she'd asked him to do. He appeared to be completely submissive. Before she'd met Paula and seen it for herself, she would never have imagined any man wanting to put himself through this. But now she knew that men were prepared to humiliate themselves willingly in this way, it undoubtedly excited her like nothing else ever had.

  Slowly she raised the whip, parting her legs slightly to get a stable footing. She took aim carefully, then slashed the crop down on his naked flesh. Thwack. Gregory yelped, his flesh trembling under the impact. Quickly she raised her arm again. Thwack. This time, he only moaned. She aimed l
ower with the next stroke, hitting just below the gluteal fold. This made him rear up off the bed, but he settled back down again immediately. She slashed the whip down twice in quick succession. His white buttocks were crisscrossed with red weals and his whole body was squirming, rubbing itself against the mattress.

  Each stroke had affected Angela just as much as it had obviously affected him. Her clitoris seemed to be so swollen, it was pushing its way out between her labia, and she could feel that her sex was moist and sticky. Her nipples were so hard, they felt cold.

  'What do you say?' she said.

  'Thank you, Ms Strickland.'

  'Get on the bed. In the middle. Face up.'

  Gregory stood up. He had an enormous erection that was throbbing visibly. As he lay down on the bed it settled on his belly. He had a mat of black hair on his chest.

  Angela opened the top drawer of her bedside chest and extracted a sleeping mask. 'Put this on,' she said tossing it on the bed.

  Gregory raised his head, fitted it over his eyes, then lay back again. Angela knelt down, searching under the valance. She pulled out a length of rope, another item purchased on her shopping spree. She had tied one end to the leg of the bed and the other to a padded leather cuff, identical to the ones Paula used, which she had found in the specialist shop in Soho.

  'Spread your arms and legs out to the corners of the bed,' she ordered. Like an automaton, he obeyed. She wondered if there was anything he would refuse to do for her.

  She wrapped the cuff around his left wrist and buckled it tight. Soon the other cuffs were secured around his wrists and ankles, and he was stretched across the bed so tightly that his muscles were strained and taut. He made not a word of protest, however.

  Now it was her turn. She had spent much of the weekend fantasising about what she would do to him. She'd had all sorts of wild ideas, her imagination running riot. She had tried out the rope and the cuffs in a number of different positions but decided this best suited her needs. When it came down to it her needs were all that mattered. Gregory's wishes were simply irrelevant. He had abnegated his right to have an opinion. He was here simply to be used. And that was exactly what Angela intended to do.

  She smiled. She remembered all the subtleties and nuances of her previous sexual encounters, delicately negotiating who did what to whom. Normal sexual liaisons were minefields of do's and don'ts. This was so much simpler.