by Ashley Hind
It enrages me that it still just won’t come naturally. In the outside world, amongst the likes of Samson and Lionel, I feel strong because my fetish-wear makes me so and they are slaves to how I look because it is so overtly sexy compared to anything the other girls in our social circle wear. Here, everyone is doing it and have been for years. They have the confidence of knowing the game, of knowing how to act. They seem like professional BDSM freaks, and I am merely the amateur. I don’t know how to gain their secrets. I have no partner to learn with, never had. All the confidence I go in with can be stripped away because my brain clouds and stops me from finding my instincts to dominate. That’s why I sought guidance from my tutor in the first place, so that she could instil the attitude I would need, but she just chewed me up and spat me out.
I come back here in the hope that it might suddenly click, just like it clicked that night I put Samson in his place and took Lionel off to have him kiss my boots in private. I captured them both in those few moments. So far that same instinct has not overtaken me in these surroundings. I have even seen Madam Pauline Destiny turn up on one occasion and thought briefly I could sneak a peek at her and witness how she went about doing things. What I actually did was make a hasty exit straight out the door, scared that she might see me. I guessed that, rather than introduce me as an equal who deserved only the very best of slaves, she would somehow get me into another compromising and helpless position that humiliated me in front of a whole crowd of clubbers, assuring I could never set foot in there again with any kind of pretensions to play the dominatrix. It seems she wins every time.
My Bitch Senses are on high alert now because I have spotted her two favourites, Castor and Pollux, which might mean she too is around. The memory of them simmers my blood. My puss itches and demands I get them for her. It would be something out of my wildest dreams. It would make me. I scope them out in secret for a long while, looking for signs of her. If she is to come she is leaving it late. The more she does not appear the more my puss insists I seize the chance, the more my brain colludes by allowing the memory of the both of them inside my nemesis former tutor to pour through it. There is just something about the two of them, and I cannot see past this now.
They are lauded by many but retain the haughtiness that sets them apart. You could slap them, you really could. As attractive as they are it is another thing to be so arrogant about it. They have seen me shamed and used, stuffed into a box and denied the pleasure of them. They witnessed my open desire and smirked about it. They are able to plunder their Mistress whilst she doesn’t even think me fit to touch her. They could have overruled her and freed me to have them, as befits a goddess like me. I would even have stayed quiet if they simply used me as they saw fit, but they did neither. They just walked. They left me with my mortification without even a backwards glance. That is a status quo that needs to be reversed.
I am up before I have begun to fully think through my move. This is my opportunity. These heels mean I cannot hurry, so my approach at least looks measured if not entirely assured. They are seated at a table in a booth, so I will tower over them initially and be able to look down my nose at them. They don’t seem too bothered by this. They note my approach and give each other a quick glance, telepathically sharing thoughts. Now they just sit impassively, trying out various Zoolander faces for the crowd they think watching their every move. It angers me but at the same time has me on the cusp of folding. That bitch had me in a box last time I saw these two, and that isn’t going to garner instant respect. I have this one chance to grasp and change all that. I am looking delicious enough to eat, more than a match for Pauline Destiny. I need to remember what I am capable of. I need to remember all those molten pussy-making fantasies of two men inside me and understand that this is a real chance to make them come true, not just now but whenever I choose.
Still they do nonchalant faces to the crowd as if I am not here. I could either start swinging punches or I could use words to ensnare them. My growing annoyance might demand the former but, since we are in a side room away from the dance floor, at least I could attempt the latter without having to yell over the music. I decide that talk is the best opening gambit.
‘I need cocks to fuck me tonight,’ I say, regarding them in turn with my steeliest of expressions. ‘I have chosen yours.’
They don’t look at each other. They don’t have to. If they always come as a pair there must have been a fair few women stood before them as I do now, asking to have their rudest fantasy made real. They look me up and down, still with expressions that suggest they are in charge. They inspect me without disdain but they aren’t going to let me think I have anything over them. Eventually Castor speaks. I know it is him because he has a thick chrome C hanging from a ring through one nipple. I guess it could stand for something else but I will go with the obvious, since his friend wears a similar P in the same place.
‘We only have one Mistress,’ he says, and then looks away, as if our business here is done. He is the stronger of the pair, that’s my guess. I certainly got that impression when I saw them in action. It is probably him that insists, without a single thought for their wives at home, that they entertain certain other females. His pseudo-twin would probably be happy if it was always just the two of them. He will be the one who decided that they sport those matching haircuts beloved of 80’s pop stars, swooping over one eye and dyed jet black. He is the one who would have ordained that they dress identically tonight, in black PVC shirts open nearly all the way down, and leather trousers cut away to expose the groin and buttock area so that the codpiece below is on view. He does love a codpiece, our Castor.
I feel like sweeping the cocktail glasses off the table, leaping upon it and booting him full in that smug face of his, but that might cause a rumpus. I can’t see that getting me what I want. I need to remember the joy of them in tandem, the beauty of their pale bodies, the aloofness when they take you that makes it so scintillating. I want them. I want to take them away from that bitch they call Mistress. She needs to know what it is to be second best. Their indifference sent the burst of anger through me but it is the thought of my supposed tutor’s mocking face that spurs me into action.
I keep my eyes on Castor but shove my champagne glass towards Pollux, forcing him to take it off me. I lean over the table, right across it so that my face is inches from that of the more dominant twin. I see surprise in his eyes. He has seen the fire in mine, and the curl of my lip to expose teeth barred with fury. He will smell the sweetness of me, belying my anger. He will see my cleavage, huddled and invitingly bulging at the circle cut in my top, so softly at odds with the hardness of my expression. I am on the verge of erupting, apparently ready to tear this effete poser apart in front of all those that hold him in such high regard, and I could. He thinks he has only one Mistress?
‘That Mistress is me.’ I am almost snarling as I speak, my words deliberately slow so that they can sink in. ‘Tonight you become mine.’
His eyelids flutter and I know he is rattled. My painted lips alone could render him inert. He tries to remain composed, perhaps glad no one else can overhear us. From the back it might look like I am whispering entreaties to him, begging for his attention. I lean away from him again, my threat delivered, but my eyes still burn his.
‘Well, we had no other plans,’ he says, then looks away again, as if not under my influence. I could force him to look at me, but I have already triumphed and I will get my dream tonight. That initial burst of ire is swept away by the elation of knowing I will be taking them both home any minute. I almost want to clap and hug him, thank him for being so generous - which wouldn’t be very goddess-like behaviour. Still, I must remember that even with my enemy Madam Destiny they never fully bow to her.
‘From now on,’ I say, still trying to be stern although the bubbling excitement inside me is defeating this, ‘I will take precedence over anything that you are doing. My word will be the
one you obey. Next time any other plans you had won’t even enter your head. Do you understand?’
He peruses his cocktail glass a moment, snatches a glance at his partner in crime. I can tell he is on the verge of denouncing his former Mistress and proclaiming them both mine to do with as I wish. I am going to win. My curvier curves and more professionally applied make-up have seen me victorious. My bottomless pit of no-expense-spared footwear and outfits has no match anywhere. There is not the slightest trace remaining of the lost, beaten and unloved urchin I unfairly became in my childhood. I was always born for this. The likes of Pauline Destiny have nothing on me. His next words will signal his desire to switch their allegiance to me, forever.
‘We will give you this one for free,’ he casually informs me. ‘But next time you will have to pay - double what we pay to Madam Destiny, because of your insolence towards her.’
I am hit with another jolt. It is ire and incredulousness, panic and doubt, all mixed into one.
‘You want me to pay for you?’ I say, my snarl back again. ‘In that case you can take your no-bigger-than-average pale cocks and stick them up each other’s arses!’
Not really! What I actually say is, ‘Then you had better make it good enough for me to want to pay for a next time.’
I can feel the heat in my cheeks but my pussy is hotter and she will win the day. I am shamed but it is only a slight humiliation. The rewards will outstrip this. I need them and I cannot make a stand against this so I have to suck it up and play along, even when Pollux grows some balls and decides to chip in.
‘We say this time will be free but we will expect you to cover the cost of one of the private rooms here,’ he says, with a bit of a sneer.
I bite my lip. I can still get this on my terms. They want to fuck me every bit as much as I want to fuck them. Now it is just about posturing and negotiating for power, about who gives what ground.
‘I want to do it in private, at my house,’ I tell them, and I know I won’t be moved on this. ‘I want you to see how much better my dungeon is than anything you have been in. I have new ceiling hooks and a crucifix I want to use to hang you from whilst I suck your cocks. That is my fantasy. After that you may do as you will with me. I will drive you there and make sure you are taken care of afterwards.’
The part about the crucifix and the cock sucking is certainly true. I want it in the comfort and security of my own bedroom, not in the clinical surroundings of the dark private rooms available here, waiting my turn for one to become free, the clock always counting the time permitted inside. They look at each other. There is a kind of smug telepathy going between them and they think they have yet another victory coming their way in the form of yet another deliciously wanton older woman who wants them to have their way with her and treat them into the bargain. They look back at me and nod to show they agree with my proposal. Easy meat, they are thinking.
I tell them to be outside in ten minutes and they make me wait five too many, emerging in matching ankle-length leather coats to hide any flesh their outfits leave naked. They look the part and they know it. We drive fast through the night. It seems almost dreamlike; the blur of lights and shapes in my periphery; the complete silence between us despite the air we share being thick with a palpable lust that seems to demand a thousand dirty words. I am glad I brought the Maserati because it smacks of power and it means Pollux has to squash ungracefully in the back, which is no more than the leggy fucker deserves. I am glad too that my dungeon is starting to look good enough to boast about. It’s not your standard dingy hell-hole. It is chic and with flexible lighting. I have put in art works as well as equipment of torture. Full-length pictures in worship of the curvy female form adorn each wall. There is a bronze on a stand of a naked female bottom as if bent over, life-sized and incredibly detailed. It makes me salivate whenever I study it. My new crucifix is also like a piece of art and stands in pride of place in the centre of the room, towards the big front window.
It is a complex piece of equipment in flat, brushed stainless steel. From the front aspect it is like a tall X, leaning backwards and supported along the floor by long flat struts, so that from the side aspect it is like a Z without the top stroke. There are shackles to restrain the ankles once the legs are splayed apart. Better still there are shackles for the wrists on a chain mechanism, so a handle can be turned behind the centre of the cross, which plays out or tightens the chain. As little or as much slack as required can be given, so that your slave can be brought forward and suspended all the way to the horizontal, dropped like a human drawbridge for ease of getting to parts that might need to be teased or punished. The man currently squashed on the back seat of my car is going onto this.
With Bertrand’s help it was positioned with care, opposite one of the new rings he has embedded in the wooden roof beam, from which tonight a bar on chains hangs, where Castor will also hang tonight. I can see they are impressed with the house, as if the car didn’t already tell them that I was wealthier than any other female they will meet at that club. I don’t offer them a tour. I’m leading them straight up towards my dungeon bedroom, them behind me so that they can watch my arse wiggling from side to side within my very tight latex shorts as I climb the stairs. Things like this can’t hurt.
I have the lights all individually pre-set, so that when I clap they all come on as planned, with spotlights on various key places and others off completely, to dim the background. I doubt my husband had such things in mind when he put this system in. He had some uses after all. I have taken to secreting a decanter each of cognac and single malt in a box upon a chest of drawers. I have flighty notions of one day coming home and switching on the light to find Detective Stark casually sat in the leather chair in the corner. I wouldn’t want to break the moment and ruin my air of sophistication by having to immediately totter off downstairs again to get him his favourite tipple. I pour us all large measures and instruct them to drink. I want them to taste the divine luxury only I bring. I want inhibitions lost immediately.
I should know what to do now, it being my dungeon filled with my toys. However, these guys are different to the likes of Samson. Laying down the law from the start might backfire. It is sad but true that I have to look to Madam Destiny for plans on how best to deal with them. She directed the action but it was kisses to start, not hard discipline, and they did not wait for instructions on when to get their hands busy upon her body. In all honesty, I am quite glad of the chance to be more passionate. I miss it. I miss not having to lead. In my fantasies it is often me lying between them, all naked, the warmth of their press felt as fingertips glide over my tingling body. It isn’t all whips and strapped-on sex toys. I need to learn when tenderness is better than hard domineering, and how to use a softer side without yielding power. I keep thinking I could let these guys simply take over and do what they want with me, but that won’t necessarily get them coming back for more - not when I demand it, anyway.
So, kisses it will be, ones tasting of the sweetest brandy; all of us standing, Castor to the front of me and Pollux close at my back with lips brushing my nape. In one of my dreams I am like this, impaled upon them both, my legs held up behind the ankles. I am in their hands, able to move only through them. We stand on a sheepskin rug in front of a huge open fire somewhere other than here. Lips are always on mine; warm breath always at my neck. I am eased gently towards my overwhelming finish, under their control, completely full of them and enraptured. I could buy the sheepskin but one cannot buy the tenderness; so difficult to find true affection between strangers, beyond mere desire.
They have yet to even remove their coats, as if that might be seen as an indication of submission, since their arses will be exposed to me. Experienced hands come around and squeeze partially bare flesh at my chest, sliding and finding a way into the circle cut to display my cleavage. My nipples are already hard before the fingertips pinch them. Other hands are down below, grasping a
t my rear and rubbing the crotch above the skin-tight latex. These men are hungry for me. I bite a tongue when it probes too deep. For my troubles I get a hard clutch between my legs that makes me gasp and robs my legs of strength. My control here is wafer thin.
My shorts are being tugged down over my fishnet tights. They cannot drop far because of the boots that come all the way up to mid-thigh. Too-eager fingers are trying to breach the holes in the netting, trying to get to my holes beneath, looking to make me ready for what we all know will come. I clench my buttocks and push forward in defence, but I can go only inches before a codpiece housing a solid bar of cock arrests my movement. I could give in, right now. I could allow the ravishment. I could let fingers tear away material to get to my nakedness, get inside me. In my fantasies I never feel out of my depth, even when in their arms. Here I am scared I might lose the ability to speak. I’m scared they might so easily blow away the veneer of the dominatrix and discover a girl who has never even had a man’s finger in her behind, let alone his stiff cock. How am I going to take him when the time comes, and not look and sound and behave like the greenhorn that I am? How will I make slaves of them then?
They need to be tied. It is much sooner than I had planned but it is the only way to bring us all under control. If I stay like this for even another minute it will be my pussy calling the shots - and she doesn’t give a stuff about psychological games and power and such like. She realises that the longer she is made to wait the better it can be, but she is a greedy cunt and has no self-restraint. I take a hold of the crotch-pouch to my front and squeeze. Holding it is the best way to grab his attention. I thrust outwards with my backside to force away the hands there and I make my break, leading Castor by the cock.
‘First I tie you and have my fantasy. Then I untie you and you do me all over this room - all over this house if you wish.’