Читать книгу At Your Mercy: Tales of Domination - Various, Glenda Jackson - Страница 5

You’ve been expecting me for the last twenty minutes, and I’m still no closer to arriving. Tell a lie, the train’s just started its slow, trundling progress along the stretch of track from Farringdon to Barbican. With nothing more in the way of hold-ups, I should be at the station within a couple of minutes. From there, it’ll be a hasty dash to your apartment. But there’s no way of covering up the fact I’m late.

I didn’t deliberately set out to disobey you; I’ve never been one of those bratty bottoms, forever seeking ways to provoke my master and earn a harsher punishment. When you sent the message this afternoon telling me to be with you by six, no later, I made sure to be away from my desk by quarter-past five. That should have given me plenty of time to make the journey to your apartment; I just didn’t count on a signal failure stranding me between stations.

Tense as I am, I can’t help my mind drifting to thoughts of what you’ll do when I finally arrive, stammering apologies and explaining why this delay really wasn’t my fault. Your punishments are never less than inventive; half the time they don’t even involve you laying a finger on me. I’ll never forget the time I arrived at your apartment with a bottle of Liebfraumilch, because the corner off-licence didn’t have the Riesling you’d asked me to bring. How was I to know you can’t abide the taste of sweet white wine? That evening, you made me walk the seventeen floors to your apartment, rather than taking the lift. By the time I reached you, my lungs were burning and my thighs tight and cramped, the pain more exquisite than if you’d taken a paddle to my backside. Though it taught me never to bring you the wrong wine again.

The train slows, comes to a stop, and I feel a sick lurch in my stomach in response. We’re so close to my destination, and now I’m going to be even later.

I’m not the only one who’s biting back a groan of frustration, or glancing anxiously at a wristwatch. Most of my fellow passengers have already fired off text messages to explain their late arrival at wherever their destination might be. You don’t allow me that luxury.

Could anyone in this carriage even begin to guess the reason why I’m so twitchy, so desperate to be off the train? Surely not the man in the pinstripe suit opposite me, head buried in his evening paper. Though maybe he appreciates exactly what I’m going through; serious and sober, good-looking in his sleek silver-fox way, he strikes me as the type who may very well visit a mistress from time to time, grovelling at her feet in nothing but a pair of skimpy, see-through women’s knickers and begging for the feel of her flogger on his bare, vulnerable arse.

Perhaps I’m reading him wrong, and he simply likes to watch. Would he get off on the sight of me bent over your whipping stool, panties yanked down round my knees and my wrists bound to the sturdy legs of the stool, so I can’t pull away or rub my sore flesh as your cruel, thin cane comes down again and again?

Before I can fully engross myself in a fantasy where you punish me before an audience of leering middle-aged businessmen, wanking the cocks that jut from their flies as you thrash me till I’m a panting, tearful mess, the train starts moving again. A recorded voice kicks in, announcing that the next station is Barbican, and it’s no illusion; we’re clattering over the points, the platform coming into view. Pushing my way through the knot of commuters clustered by the doors, I make sure I’m first off the train. Normally, I’d show more in the way of courtesy, but I’m all too aware you’re still waiting. My imagination can’t help but picture you pacing the floor of your apartment in your riding boots, tapping a crop against your jodhpured thigh, and my pussy quivers in anticipation.

Taking the steps two at a time, passing through the ticket barrier whose gate moves far too slowly for my liking, I’m out on the street. Rain falls, heavy enough to warrant me reaching for my umbrella, but that takes time I don’t have. For once, the traffic lights are kind, and I’m over the road, sprinting in the impractical heels I’d never have worn if I’d known I’d find myself racing to keep an appointment with you. But the point is I never know when you’re going to call; as you always say, you like to keep me on my toes, rather than falling into some cosy, regular arrangement that dulls the edge of our master/slave relationship.

No one is around to pay me any attention as I trot through the small courtyard leading to the looming towers of the Barbican Estate. I stab at the doorbell and hear your answer almost immediately. ‘Yes?’

‘Sir, I’m sorry, I –’

‘In the lift, girl. Now.’ So it’s not to be torture by stair-climbing this time, but that doesn’t mean you’re letting me off lightly. I know you too well to ever assume that.

As the lift ascends, I run my fingers through my dampened curls and glance at my reflection in the mirror of my compact. A pale, harassed face peers back at me and I take a couple of deep breaths, centring myself – something I learned in a long-ago relaxation class. It calms the anxious pumping of my heart, but does nothing to release the erotic tension coiled so tightly in my belly. Even after the best part of two years together, that reaction still begins before I’ve even set eyes on you.

You answer the door almost before my knuckles rap against it. With a curt ‘Inside’, you usher me over the threshold, a fly stepping willingly into the spider’s parlour.

‘I take it there’s a reason for your tardiness?’ you say, not even glancing at me as I follow you through into the hall.

‘Signal failure at Moorgate, sir. We were sitting outside Farringdon for ages.’ The words sound woefully inadequate, but they seem to satisfy you for the time being.

‘Can’t be helped, I suppose, girl, but there are still consequences for being late, and I intend to make sure you appreciate them. Now, strip.’

This part of the routine never changes. You like me to be naked from the moment I step inside your apartment to the moment I leave. As I shrug off my coat, I take my first subtle glance at you. As always, the sight of you melts something inside me, setting off a rush of fierce, liquid heat. Dressed in your trademark black T-shirt, jodhpurs and those delicious shiny black riding boots, you’re my every submissive dream made flesh. I might have been surrounded by dozens of better-looking men on the tube, but, though they might be taller than you, more athletically built, with thicker heads of hair and cheeks unmarked by the legacy of acne scars, they don’t possess a fraction of your presence. They couldn’t, as you do, issue an order that I’ll obey without question, whether that’s dropping any plans I might have made to be here before you, gradually peeling out of my boring work clothes, or inserting a pair of vibrating love balls into my cunt and wearing them throughout the course of an important meeting.

Jacket and skirt lie discarded on the polished floorboards, and now my attention turns to my cream chain-store blouse. Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, I’m stripping away the outer layers that mark me as an office drone, revealing the obedient submissive hidden within.

You don’t say a word as I ease down my tights, careful not to snag them with a fingernail. Standing before you in mismatched bra and panties, it registers somewhere in my brain, as it always does at this moment, that there’s something shameful about my eagerness to bare myself for you, to hand over just a little more control with every garment that comes off. We can’t be equals, not when you’re still fully dressed and I’m reaching behind me to unhook my bra, but it doesn’t stop me. I want you to take control, to make me do whatever will satisfy your desire to punish me – a desire only matched by mine to take that punishment, to leave this apartment with the marks of your crop, your cane, your paddle on my skin.

I can’t fight my instinct to delay the moment I expose my breasts as long as possible. They’re too big, out of proportion on my small frame, and they sag more than I’d like. Revealing them has always made me feel self-conscious, however many times you’ve assured me you love them. Love to clamp them, bind them, too, but I don’t think about that as I ease the straps off over my shoulders, holding the cups to my tits before finally dropping the bra on to the growing pile on the floor.

You say nothing, but your dark, intense gaze fixes on my nipples. Cool, uncritical scrutiny that makes the buds tighten, eager for the feel of fingers – or even those wicked bejewelled clamps – squeezing them to the point where pain and pleasure mesh.

Without a word, I hook my fingers in the waistband of my panties and take them down slowly, legs together, so that again you only get a flash of my pussy at the last possible moment. None of this shyness is feigned for your benefit; a little voice at the back of my head keeps up a running commentary, asking why it turns me on to be placed in such an embarrassing position. If I ever found the perfect answer to that question, this scene would lose much of its potency.

As it is, my underwear, soaked through at the crotch, joins the rest of my clothes, and you nod in satisfaction.

‘Hands on your head, girl, and turn round slowly. Let me see everything.’

This is far from the most demeaning thing you could ask of me at this point. It’s not unknown for you to order me to bend over and pull apart my arse cheeks, showing you the puckered hole hidden between them, and as I make a slow pirouette I’m still wondering when my real punishment for arriving half an hour late will kick in. Your next words make that a little clearer.

‘Down on the floor. Crawl to the kitchen.’

Now you’ll be able to see everything, as I shuffle on hands and knees through to the small kitchen, which is dominated by a huge American-style fridge. From the freezer compartment of that fridge, you order me to take out the bottle of vanilla vodka you store there. I’d hardly class it as the discerning dominant’s drink of choice, but who am I to argue with your incongruous tastes?

As I pull open the freezer door, a blast of frigid air hits me, stiffening my nipples even further. I shiver as I reach for the bottle, and, though I can’t see the amusement on your face, I know how much it entertains you to put me through this most subtle of torments. Once I’ve retrieved the vodka, I’m told to pour you a shot. You keep the glasses on a high shelf, and my breasts and bottom wobble as I reach up in ungainly fashion to bring one down. In normal circumstances, you’d offer me the use of a step stool to make the job easier, but these are hardly normal circumstances.

I hand the glass to you and wait for your approval. It comes in the form of a curt nod. Watching you drain the shot, I can almost taste its fiery bite, tempered by the sweetness of vanilla, but I won’t be allowed a drink until the scene is over, and maybe not even then. You don’t like anything to dull my reaction times, or my sensitivity to punishment.

Bottle stowed in the freezer once more, you order me to crawl to the guest room, following behind so you can savour the way my hanging breasts sway and slap together as I move.

You’ve told me so many times before how lucky you were to buy here at just the right time, before property prices skyrocketed and placed a two-bedroom apartment in this iconic development out of your reach. If anyone wondered why a single man might find it so necessary to have that extra space, they’d receive their answer the moment they stepped into this low-ceilinged, black-painted bedroom.

The picture window should offer a breathtaking view out over the City of London, but thick black-out curtains are pulled tight, completing the feeling of being utterly enclosed, cut off from the rest of the world. You told me, the first time I walked into this playroom, you’d had it extensively soundproofed. ‘So scream as much as you like, girl. The neighbours will never hear you.’

Even though I’ve been in here so many times before, I can’t help admiring the exquisite fittings that make it the perfect home dungeon. Now there’s an idea for a magazine, I think, giggling despite the gravity of the situation. Ideal Dungeon. This issue, Master X invites us to admire his lovely selection of antique tawses, and we let you know about the craftsman who’ll build you a fully functional spit, no questions asked …

Not that you have anything quite so outlandish here. Only the basics, but what beautiful basics they are: whipping stool, pillory and St Andrew’s cross, all custom-made to your specifications. And on the far wall, neatly arranged, your extensive collection of punishment implements, from the lightest suede flogger to the heaviest Malacca cane. My back, my thighs, my bottom must have felt the impact of every single one.

‘So, girl,’ you murmur, half to yourself, ‘what’s it to be tonight?’

There’s only one possible response to that question. ‘Whatever you choose, sir.’

‘Very good. The pillory, then.’

I hope you don’t catch my quick smile. Of the three, it’s the most comfortable to be placed in for any length of time, though all things are relative, naturally. You unlock it, raising the top part so I can place my wrists and head in the padded holes, before fastening it in place. The pillory forces me to stand with my rump thrust out, and I suspect that’s the part of my body which will receive most attention tonight.

Almost sensing my train of thought, you say, ‘So, you might be wondering why I chose the pillory? Well, I thought I’d teach you what happens when you’re happy to simply sit on your backside, rather than making the effort to reach me on time.’

That’s hardly a fair accusation, I want to reply, but nothing is fair in this game of punishment and reward. As my master, you can bend any rule, twist any statement to suit your perceptions. My next thought is that I’m glad I didn’t confess to strap-hanging while I waited, or you’d have me straining on tiptoes to receive my punishment, wrists connected by a chain looped through one of the hooks screwed into the ceiling for exactly that purpose.

‘As you were thirty minutes late, you’re going to get thirty strokes, but I haven’t yet decided on the implement. Your next answer is going to help me decide that. Tell me, girl, did anything that I might find significant happen to you on your way here?’

I think back, mentally retracing my journey. Nothing comes to mind at first, then the words tumble out, an unstoppable confession of the one thing you love above all else to punish me for.

‘I – I started having a fantasy while I was waiting.’

‘Really? Tell me more.’

‘There was a businessman sitting opposite me on the train.’ I don’t mention my initial assessment of the man as a fellow sub; that isn’t what you want to hear. ‘I was thinking what it would be like if you punished me in front of him. In my mind, he had his cock out and was wanking it while you caned me.’ Sensing your excitement, I pick up the scenario and run with it. ‘You’d get my arse all red and sore, then you’d encourage him to shoot his come over the marks you’d left, so I could feel it running down my crack. Or maybe you’d make me suck him off. He’d have a big cock, so big it stretched my mouth, and you’d encourage him to thrust hard down my throat, so he was fucking my face, and he wouldn’t stop till he’d shot every drop of his spunk and I’d had to swallow it all down.’

You’re standing behind me, so I can’t see your face – or your cock, though I’m sure it’s hard in your tight-fitting jodhpurs. I’ve never yet been punished in front of an audience, but you keep telling me one day it will happen, and now I barely have a fantasy where there isn’t some third party, male or female, watching and joining in my subjugation. Just thinking about it now has my juices flooding from me, wetting the tops of my thighs.

‘Interesting,’ you say at length. ‘Well, that’s made up my mind for me. I’d been torn between using three implements – the crop, the flogger and the rubber paddle. That little confession has convinced me I don’t need to choose. You’re getting ten strokes of each.’

That sounds bearable. Then you decide to raise the stakes a little higher.

‘You’re deciding the order in which I use them. Give me the numbers one to three, in any order.’

Without thinking about it, I reply, ‘Two, three, one.’

‘Very good. You’ve chosen the paddle first, then the crop, then the flogger.’

I should have known you’d rank them from lightest to most severe. As it is, I’ll have to endure ten with the paddle. It’s not the most painful thing you could use, but repeated blows build a sustained, dull ache, impossible to ignore. Follow that with the sharp sting of the crop and – well, I’ll deal with that when it happens.

‘Are you ready, girl?’

‘Yes, sir.’

That’s the last word you speak before my punishment begins. You don’t ask me to count the strokes, or thank you between them; that part of the ritual has never appealed. My gasps and cries are more than enough acknowledgement that your blows are having the desired effect.

A light tap on each cheek with the paddle gives me a moment to get used to its weight, to anticipate how it will feel when it slams down hard. My mouth dries; even the slow, measured breathing that calmed me on the way up to your apartment is ineffective now.

You space the ten strokes out, letting me almost but not quite recover from each before dishing out the next. At first, I bear the pain almost in silence, but, as the brutal, bruising blows continue to fall, that becomes impossible. By eight, I’m whimpering and, by ten, I’m responding with a full-throated yell.

‘Very good, girl.’

Your hand smoothes over my arse, which already feels hot and swollen, and we’re barely a third of the way through. The pillory, like all the other pieces of furniture in the room, is positioned so I’m staring at the rack of punishment implements. It gives me the perfect view as you replace the paddle and take down the crop.

This is your signature implement, the one you wield with the greatest relish. It slashes down against my exposed flanks, leaving a burning stripe of pain in its wake, and I give in to my urge to shriek and stamp my feet, begging you to stop. But you show me no mercy, and once the crop has done its wicked work there’s still the flogger to come.

Now your truly sadistic side comes to the fore. The ten lashes of the flogger are directed at the soft, delicate flesh of my inner thighs. The soft suede tails flail in unison, moving closer to my pussy lips, and I fear you’ll actually aim the last strokes at my most tender places, striking my clit. You spare me that torment but, by the time you finish, my face is as blotchy as my backside, streaked with tears, and I know I’ve been on the receiving end of a thorough beating.

‘Well done, girl,’ you croon, as you free me from the pillory, taking me in your arms and cradling me so you can brush the wet strands of hair from my face and rain soft kisses on my cheeks.

Your finger pushes its way between my legs, parting the soft folds of my sex and burrowing into my core. As I cling to you, thanking you for punishing me so beautifully, you circle my clit, teasing caresses that have my thighs lolling apart, offering you easier access. After the pain you’ve inflicted, the pleasure of your touch is all the sweeter, and I close my eyes, giving in to the orgasm that pulses through me.

I could take more of this treatment, letting peak rise on peak till I’m spent, but there’ll be time for that later. Now, you urge me down to my knees, letting your cock free from the constricting embrace of your jodhpurs.

My tongue flicks over the smooth, salty crown, striking the cold metal of your Prince Albert piercing. This is how I love to thank you for punishing me, and I gradually take more of you in my mouth.

‘So, now you know what happens when you’re late, girl,’ you say, grunting with the satisfaction of being lodged securely in my throat, ‘I trust you’ll be punctual in future?’

In all honesty, it’s not a promise I can give; after all, I thought I’d be on time today and the transport system conspired to prevent that happening. All I can tell you is that I’ll try, and if I happen to be late again – well, I’ll trust you to deal with me in the stern, authoritarian, loving way only you can.