Читать книгу The Secret Life of a Submissive and Bonds of Love: 2-book BDSM Erotica Collection - Sarah K - Страница 18

‘It’s time to start living the life you’ve imagined.’

Henry James

‘Do come in out of the rain, darlings. Come in, come in,’ said our hostess, beckoning us inside. ‘So lovely to see you again, Max, and you must be Sarah. Delighted to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,’ she gushed, as she embraced first Max and then me.

I wondered exactly what it was she had heard, and when I say ‘hostess’ I use the term loosely. Georgina was six foot four if she was an inch, built like a brick outhouse with the kind of physique most men would kill for at thirty, let alone in their early fifties. She had broad shoulders, a narrow waist and great legs, which had been waxed or shaved, as she was wearing sheer skin-tone stockings, along with the most fabulous shoes.

Georgina had huge feet, size twelve – I know because I asked her – and was wearing a pair of custom-made kitten heels. They were gorgeous, covetable, in peacock blue, and set with diamanté and little blue and turquoise stones. Her outfit was equally gorgeous: a beautifully cut cocktail frock and matching long jacket in a fabric that draped like liquid silk, matched her shoes and reached to just above the knee.

When I admired her shoes she positively purred with pleasure. ‘I’m so glad you like them – I had them specially made to match my evening dress. This fabulous man makes all my shoes for me. They just have a nice little inch-and-three-quarter heel, but they still do that whole calf thing,’ she said, turning her foot to the side so that I could admire her long shapely legs. ‘I mean, I’d look ridiculous in stilettos,’ she added, without a hint of irony. ‘I have all my clothes made for me. I found this amazing little woman. Buying anything really special off the rack for a woman my size is just about impossible.’

I nodded. She seemed absolutely delighted to have another woman to talk to.

In another life, a million miles from this one, Max told me, her alter ego, Ben, was something high up in a multinational that everyone had heard of.

‘My seamstress said that just above the knee is a very flattering length for the older woman,’ Georgina assured me, taking my arm and guiding me towards canapés and champagne, which were arranged on trays on a table in the centre of the huge hallway. She’d teamed the outfit with a Purdy bob in soft caramel blonde, subtle make-up and lots of jewellery, and she moved in a great cloud of Chanel No 5.

I liked Georgina the minute I clapped eyes on her. It didn’t take me long to discover that she was quick, funny, candid, gossipy and a mine of information. Better still, I didn’t have to wrestle with the dilemma of whether to call her Sir or Madam.

Max and I had been invited to a supper at Georgina’s house with a small group of people that Max had known for years. They were into the lifestyle – that’s what Max said. The lifestyle.

During my research online I had seen endless websites and that there is a huge industry servicing the lifestyle with sex toys, restraints, whips, canes, bondage gear, outfits, dungeon equipment, holidays, chains, and even greetings cards, gifts and soft toys. But up until Max’s phone call I had assumed – wrongly, as it turned out – that as far as the whole BDSM thing went, other than the odd date à deux out in the vanillaverse, he and I would be keeping ourselves to ourselves. I thought that it was something that for the most part – fetish clubbers and exhibitionists aside – went on between couples in secret, behind closed doors, and that what went on between us would be happening either at my place or Max’s. I hadn’t really thought about going out together as a couple with my straight friends, let alone going out with any of Max’s weird ones. Wrong, wrong and wrong – birds of a feather flock together. People who are into BDSM don’t live apart from the rest of everyday life; rather they’re part of the rich tapestry of it – it’s just that they’re some of the more twisted stitches.

So I had been flattered, but also really curious, when Max had asked if I wanted to go out for dinner with him, with this group of his friends who also were into BDSM.

‘When you say “into”, what does that mean exactly?’ I asked. I had visions of me rolling up all Brad and Janet straight into a scene from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, complete with a dungeon full of leather-clad, whip-wielding weirdos.

‘Everyone who will be there is either a Dom or a sub, and Georgina, our hostess, is a transvestite.’ Which certainly chimed with the whole Rocky Horror thing I’d got going on in my head, although Max said it casually, in the same way you might say Georgina was a keen gardener. ‘Oh, and she’s gay. And a switch.’

‘Which means what exactly?’ I asked.

‘A switch is someone who takes on the role of Dom in some situations and subbie in others. Some people would say they get the best of both worlds.’

‘Have you ever wanted to switch?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Max. ‘Although Georgina keeps telling me I shouldn’t knock it till I’ve tried it.’

‘So what do I wear, Sir?’ I asked.

‘It’s black tie, so dress up,’ he said.

‘When you say “dress up”, what do you mean exactly, Sir?’

‘Georgina loves entertaining. Her parties are always over the top, so evening dress, heels, jewellery – knock yourself out, go to town. Something stunning would be just fine.’

‘Stunning?’

‘Stunning, Sir,’ Max corrected. ‘And no underwear,’ he added, as if I needed any reminding.

I already knew that Max kept a running total of how many times I broke the rules. I suspected there was a good chance that he was writing them down somewhere.

Life had changed so much in the months since we’d met. I still couldn’t walk past the side table in the sitting room without getting flashbacks of the first time we’d got together, which left me with a funny little shiver of excitement.

After our first session together I’d slipped off my dressing gown as I was about to get into the shower and had caught sight of my body in the bathroom mirror. I saw the marks across my back from the flogger, which I guessed would bruise, and the sight of them gave me an odd and unsettling sense of pride. I felt strangely peaceful after that first meeting and since I’d started to play I was sleeping the best I had for years. It was as if finding BDSM had finally joined up the random patterns of dots in my head. It felt as if I’d finally found what I was looking for.

For a couple of weeks before our dinner date at Georgina’s Max had been away on business and I’d been away teaching on a residential course. Trying to talk on the phone had proved close to impossible – I’d had no mobile signal at all except in the lobby by the reception desk of the hotel where I’d been staying, which wasn’t exactly the ideal place to explore the continuing mysteries of BDSM – so we’d been spending a lot of time emailing, texting and IM-ing. Writing ‘Sir’ is so much easier than saying it.

We spent hours online. Max liked to tease me with descriptions of what he planned to do to me. I played along and described my fantasies. Text and internet sex might not be as great as the real thing, and the fantasy element loomed large, but it was huge fun and not something I’d been expecting to be doing in my forties. And I was excited and at the same time relieved to have finally found a place to explore and try out my kinks. I was still trying to work out my feelings about pain, but if I’m honest I couldn’t wait to see Max again. I had never surrendered myself so totally to anyone in my life before, and choosing to trust someone so implicitly was heady stuff. Mad? Probably. Addictive? Definitely. Dangerous? Well, yes, but nothing is without risk and in this case it was a risk I was prepared to take.

I was remarkably calm about the things Max and I had got up to. There were lots of things I didn’t know about or understand, but Max assured me that it could all be learned and he would be delighted to teach me, and I wanted him to teach me.

Each time we talked on the phone, on Instant Messenger or by email I enjoyed the crackle of desire and flirtation. The connection between us was growing and I liked the way it felt. Between conversations about the niceties and otherwise of BDSM, we spent a lot of time talking about books, films, music and life in general. It sounds mad to say that it wasn’t what I had expected, but it wasn’t. For the first time it made me consider if I wanted a real, long-term relationship based on BDSM. Not that that was what Max was suggesting or offering, but what we had was beginning to feel like the beginning of something potentially bigger and more long-term than just a casual arrangement. I believe we both wanted more.

But whatever it was or whatever it became, Max made it perfectly clear every time we spoke, texted or emailed that we played by the rules or not at all. I wondered if it was possible to live by the rules and still have a normal relationship. What made a BDSM relationship work, he said, was keeping and respecting the dynamic of Dom and sub, Master and slave, and not coming out of role when we were together. If we didn’t respect the rules, then it became not so much a game as a joke. When we were together our roles were rigidly defined. For him that was the way BDSM worked and hadn’t I wanted him to guide me through the mechanics of it? But could I live like that every day? It was a thought I would return to many times.

So what do you wear to a dinner party being hosted by a six-foot-four gay transvestite and guests with assorted but unspecified kinks? I’d thumbed through my dog-eared copy of Trinny and Susannah, but they were no help at all. So I’d spent hours rifling through my wardrobe trying to work it out for myself, weighing the possibilities, trying things on. I eventually decided on the safe option: a classic little black dress that had a tight empire-line bodice and a narrow skirt – which I probably wouldn’t have worn with a bra anyway – teamed with barely black stockings and suspenders, no knickers, black high-heeled strappy sandals, chandelier earrings and coral lipstick.

It was an outfit I had worn several times before and always felt good in, although up until that point always with my knickers firmly on. The lack of knickers made me very aware of my body – or more accurately feelings of nakedness and exposure, which I suspect was the whole point. The narrow skirt made me feel slightly more confident about going commando; the last thing I needed was a Marilyn moment on the way to the car.

When Max arrived he came bearing flowers and he smiled as I opened the door to him. ‘You look gorgeous,’ were his opening words.

I felt myself blushing as he stood back to admire me and my outfit. I also felt a little flutter of pleasure in the pit of my stomach. Fancying him was such a good feeling.

Besides the flowers – big pink peonies – he was carrying a square gift box. ‘Something for you to wear,’ he said, handing me the box.

I was rather hoping it contained knickers, something slinky in silk with a bit of a luxury lace thing going on – but it was soon apparent that it didn’t. Instead, inside was a silver circlet made up of small, articulated plates – a necklace – with a padlock as the fastener. I picked it up and turned it over in my fingers. The whole thing was far heavier than it looked and on closer inspection the lock was quite obviously not for show, although to the untrained eye it looked like a piece of modern jewellery.

‘I didn’t think a studded dog collar would really go with your outfit. I’d like you to wear it all the time from now on.’ He paused. ‘If you’re happy with the idea, that is.’

I looked up at him.

The collar was hinged at the centre point so that you could put it on, but I suspected the only way to get it off once it was locked, if you didn’t have the key, was with a set of bolt croppers or to enlist someone with a talent for house breaking.

‘Why don’t you try it on?’ he said.

I hesitated.

Max raised an eyebrow. ‘Is there a problem?’

I turned the collar over a couple of times. In its own way it was beautiful. It was certainly beautifully made. On the back of the lock was engraved the words ‘The property of Max –’

I’d seen collars on consensual slaves in books and BDSM sites, and I’d read about their significance. I’d been researching this world and writing about it for years, and the necklace was just a piece of jewellery, not manacles or leg irons; but what it represented was my acceptance that Max was my Dom, and if I chose to wear it I was agreeing to the notion – however preposterous – that he owned me. I reminded myself it was like the contract: it was only as binding as I believed it to be.

It was not a formal collaring – which implies permanent ownership and commitment – but it was still a symbol of possession, a commitment on both our parts to continue our journey together. I hadn’t expected him to suggest it so soon, if at all.

‘Is there a problem?’ Max repeated.

‘No, Sir.’ I looked up at him. ‘What does it mean?’

He smiled. ‘That you and I are beginning something – and at the moment it is very new and small and fragile, and that’s fine, but I wanted to mark it. I want you to wear it for me.’

I nodded, handing the collar back to him. ‘It’s a big thing.’

He nodded. ‘As big as you want to make it. And there’s no pressure. If it’s too soon I can put it back in the box – no harm, no foul. There’s no rush.’

‘Can I wear it tonight, Sir?’

‘You mean try it out?’ Max said, raising his eyebrows. ‘See how it feels?’

I laughed. ‘Sort of, Sir.’

‘OK. Here, let me put it on for you.’

The metal felt cold and heavy against my skin and I had a slight flutter as the lock clicked shut, but it also had a real erotic charge. I had agreed to the idea of submission, and this necklace was tangible proof. The expression on Max’s face was a mix of delight and something altogether more proprietorial.

‘It looks good,’ he said. ‘Here, what do you think?’

I looked into the mirror above the fireplace and reached up to touch the cool metal where it rested against my skin. The necklace looked perfect with the dress I was wearing. Standing behind me, Max ran his fingers around the front of the circlet, letting them linger on the lock, brushing my fingertips as he did. His touch sent shivers through me.

‘It suits you,’ he said.

I smiled. He was right: it was a subtle sign that I was something apart.

‘Would you like me to take it off?’ he said.

‘No, Sir,’ I said. ‘I really like it.’

He smiled. ‘I’m glad. It’s time we were gone. We don’t want to be late.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ I replied, and picking up my wrap and bag followed him out to the car.

Georgina’s home – a rambling ranch-style bungalow – was tucked away behind electronic gates at the end of a long, well-manicured drive. Despite reassurances from Max that everyone was lovely and that we’d have a great evening, I was nervous – make that very nervous. He knew the people we were going to spend the evening with well, but for a newbie it was difficult to know what to expect once you got beyond the whole giant gay transvestite thing.

In the hallway Georgina handed us both a glass of champagne and beamed at me as if I was a new puppy. ‘It’s always so lovely to meet a fresh face. Max tells me you met on the internet. I met Anita the same way. I’ll introduce you just as soon as I track her down, and you’re not to worry about her: her bark is far worse than her bite. She’s an absolute poppet once you get to know her. Now you are going to stay, aren’t you? I’ll get Barry to show you to your room. I love sleepovers – they mean that we can all relax and have a drink.’

I smiled and said nothing, while glancing across pointedly at Max.

There had to be some upside to the whole don’t-speak-unless-spoken-to rule. I’d brought an overnight bag with me at Max’s insistence but had already said that I would prefer to go home. Mad as it might sound, I’m a bit of a prude, and had a horrible feeling that there was a chance that Georgina’s jolly dinner might degenerate into some kind of kinky swingers party. I wasn’t basing that on anything Max had said or suggested, or on anything I’d seen in the few minutes since we’d arrived; it was just that I’d got no yardstick to judge these things by. Swinging was something I’d read about but had studiously managed to avoid all my adult life. I really don’t mind what other people get up to, but the idea of having casual sex with complete strangers after a couple of glasses of warm Chardonnay was, and is, completely abhorrent to me. Being kinky doesn’t necessarily make you broad-minded.

I didn’t need to worry; Max had taken what I had said to heart. ‘I’m afraid we can’t tonight, Georgina,’ he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. ‘I’ve got a breakfast meeting tomorrow. Another time, though, we’d love to stay over.’ News to me, but face-saving.

‘Oh poop,’ said Georgina, with a wave of a hand that revealed fabulously manicured bright-blue nails. ‘He is such a spoilsport, isn’t he? Next time I’m going to insist that you stay – is that clear?’

Max pulled a face that implied regret and then gave an almost imperceptible nod in my direction.

‘Another time, then, sweetie. And I mean it. Maybe you could come over some time on your own, just the two of you. I’d planned to give you the green room. Barry and I have just given that end of the house a bit of a makeover,’ Georgina was saying. Then she smiled. ‘Feel free to use it while you’re here, if you like, if you want to get changed or powder your nose or anything. Seems a shame not to use it – I’ve had Barry whip the Dyson round. Now, let me introduce you to some people, Sarah.’

I glanced round. There were around a dozen guests besides Max and me. All the men were in dinner suits, the women were dressed up to the nines in evening dresses, cocktail frocks and evening gloves, and all but one were well over forty. The exception was a tall, very slim, red-headed woman who was dressed in a dinner jacket and trousers and smoking a thin brown cigarette in a long holder.

‘Ah, there you are,’ said Georgina, all smiles. ‘This is Anita.’ The redhead moved towards us with the easy grace of a cat, and looked me up and down as though I was lunch.