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HORS D’OEUVRES
The three stories in this
Selection are primarily written for the submissive male reader. Please note before
reading any further that they are mild, consensual and completely different to
my other work. Anybody thinking they’ll be getting another dollop of ‘After the
Pestilence’ may be sorely disappointed !
I found these titbits whilst
tidying up my PC and decided to post rather than delete them. They are not
short stories but are really just ‘first chapters’ (only hinting at the sex to
come). The sex quotient is minimal. If there is enough interest in any of the
three stories I may write and post further chapters.
Please note that I will also
shortly be posting another Selection of ‘first chapters’, entitled ‘Amuse-bouches’ that have a dominant viewpoint and stronger,
spicier flavour.
The three little hors
d’oeuvres that follow are:
‘The
‘Transfer of Powers’ which starts to explore the complicated triangle of emotions when a cuckold and his wife bite off more than they can chew (slow, job, consensual).
‘Beat of my Heart’ introducing a story of financial domination by an apparently ruthless but actually quite charming female (F/m, romantic, consensual).
The woman nodded as she buckled herself into Seat 2B next to Sam.
An airline steward appeared
in moments with a tray of glasses.
“
Sam smiled at her neighbour
to indicate she should choose first.
“Er … champagne, please.”
“A Bellini.”
Both women waited while the
steward placed the drinks on the little trays set into the arms of their First
Class recliners.
“Cheers,” Sam said, raising
her glass, “here’s to your first time.”
“Thank you.”
They clinked
glasses. Sam took in her neighbour’s peachy smooth skin and azure blue eyes. Probably late-twenties. Educated, not your
average.
“Samantha.” She said,
introducing herself. “But call me Sam.”
“
“Nice to meet you
Alice. So, how long have you booked for ?”
“Two weeks.”
“Husband in the back ? Or boyfriend ?”
“Husband. He’s in Row 67.”
“Mine’s in 73. They’ll both
be nice and cramped. Have you seen it back there ?”
“Take a wander after we’ve
taken off.” Sam continued. “The seats are those uncomfortable, hard wooden
slats with straight metal backs. Eight narrow seats each side of just one
central aisle, so 16 guys to each row in all. No legroom at all. They basically
have to sit up dead straight the entire nine hours of the flight. No food, no
drink, no entertainment, no visits to the toilet. They are left locked in their
seatbelts unless you care to go back and have them
released a while.”
Sam smiled. She wasn’t
lesbian but, if she were,
“Is that alright
? Isn’t it bad for them ? Cramp
? Or that air travel syndrome thing. I mean, what do you do ?”
Sam shrugged and smiled
kindly.
“First time
? I let mine out a while. But now, I only go back there to use the extra
First Class lavatories at the rear. I like him to see me but I studiously
ignore him. My advice ? Do the same.”
“Seven. In three years. But
this time is different. This time it’s for good.”
“What ?
You mean forever ? Can you do that
?”
“Sure. They have completely
different rates compared with short term vacations. It still costs. But nothing
like what you’d imagine. I sold my business a couple
of months ago and it’s taken another few weeks to let the house and tidy up my
affairs. But now we’re retired. Well, in a manner of speaking.”
Sam smiled inwardly and
watched the steward start running through the safety procedure for the First
Class cabin.
Sam was only 39 but she felt
as if she were decades older than the youthful woman next to her. Not physically.
Sam was in good shape too, thanks to her tennis pro, personal trainer, beauty
therapist and lifestyle. But mentally she was light years ahead of not just her
neighbour on this flight, but all the women of her own age that she was leaving
behind.
“Is it like what they say it
is ?”
“Better.”
“It’s a bit embarrassing.
I’ve just told everybody we’re going to a typical tropical island. If they only
knew the truth …”
Sam laughed.
“I remember feeling like
that. You’ll get over it. Now, I show my friends all the holiday photos and
they have a good chuckle. What have you booked your husband in for ?”
“One week of kitchens, room
service and waiting tables. The second week I’m not sure yet.”
“Good decision. The kitchens
are the best place to start. They work them really hard there. Eighteen hour days. Keeps them out of
mischief. Does yours live in chastity full time ?”
“No. We have a CB thingy but
it’s mainly just a toy. The most he’s done is a weekend.”
Sam chuckled. “Oh boy ! Is he in for a shock. The
chrome penis muzzles they use there are 100% proof. Most of the kitchen
supervisors are women. Some of them are pretty glamorous. They really know how
to torment the male staff. Your poor little hubster !”
“What about yours ?”
“Oh he’s completely trained.
24/7. If he’s good I allow him an orgasm, or at least a ruined orgasm, every 4
to 6 weeks. But now that we’re moving there full time it will be largely out of
my hands …,”
Sam smiled at her accidental
‘double entendre’,
“… so
to speak.”
“What do you mean ?”
“I’ve asked that he be
assigned to the area where my suite will be. He’ll be part of the team that
does my chambermaid service, valeting, room service,
that sort of thing. But he’ll do other rooms too. Eighteen hours a day, seven
days a week. I think he gets one half day off per month.
But he reports to the Female
Supervisor for his team. She’ll decide if he gets to orgasm at all or
not. Not me. I’ll only see him occasionally from now on. I’m just a client, not
his boss. Unless I want to be, of course.”
“Wow.”
Sam pouted and stared out of
the window momentarily. The plane had begun to taxi back from the stand out
towards the runway. Her pout was the equivalent of a shrug gesture, not so much
that she didn’t care, but that she genuinely didn’t know.
She caught the outline of
her own reflection in the glass.
Would she miss him ? It wasn’t a question she could answer.
“I might. That’s what these
vacations are for. You’re right to start with a few weeks and then build up.
For us the critical time was last Summer. By then my
husband’s company had been fully transferred into my name. I had registered us
to stay on the
Sam smiled at
“It’s hard to imagine what
it’s like until you’ve been there. The brochures and DVD don’t do it justice. I
always used to say I’d get bored. You know, a few weeks lying on a sun bed and
I go crazy. We all say that. But that’s because on most holidays like
that you go with one person and there’s only so much to do and say and, yes, it
does get monotonous.
But the
Sam looked
The plane’s engines roared
and they both looked out of the window as the buildings flashed by and the
plane quickly climbed into the cloudless sky.
“I’ve not slept with another
man since I got married.” Said
“Oh, don’t worry about that ! I’d barely done it before my first time on the
Sam patted
Another little
piece of advice. Live out your fantasies. If you’ve always fancied
deep down the idea of a big bronzed hunk with a really massive penis, try one.
Or two hunks at once ! White, Asian,
Black, Muscle-bound, Geeky, Tall, Short, Medium,
Young, Well preserved, Sporty, Bookish, Great at Cunnilingus, Dominant, An
Expert Kisser, A Comedian. Hung like a Donkey or even Bald as a Coot. Whatever
takes your fancy, my dear.”
Both women laughed and
clinked empty glasses.
An air steward appeared with
a tray of refills.
“But,” Sam continued, “if I were you, do what I did. Stick with the same guy for
the first week. It will help you relax. But it will also drive your husband mad
too. He’ll usually be scheduled to serve at your table every meal, wherever you
eat. So he’ll see you with the same guy taking his place and it will worry him.
It’s up to you, but I like to introduce them to each other. The studs are
expert at subtle humiliations. Remember that your husband’s muzzled penis will
be fully on display in his serving uniform. Inevitably it will be limp and
small. You can both stare at it, comment on it, and
obviously contrast it with your stud’s.”
The steward had served them
fresh glasses of champagne and Bellini.
Both women silently gestured
a second toast to each other.
“You need to make him think
you’ve found a new soul mate, not just a new dick. Besides it’s easier to be
intimate with the same guy your first week.
Another tip. Order room
service at breakfast and then start having sex. With a bit of luck your husband
will arrive with your tray in about ten to fifteen minutes, just as you are
reaching a noisy climax. Make that ‘very noisy’ !”
“Call out ‘enter’, so that
he walks in with the tray and you just carry on having sex as if he wasn’t
there. Or if you’ve finished, be lying there on the bed oozing come between
your legs. The men are all disease-free, by the way. If you want to push
things, get your stud to order the waiter to clean up the mess before he
leaves.”
“My husband says he’s not
sure about doing that.”
“Hah !”
Sam exclaimed. “That’s the purpose of the
*** *** ***
TRANSFER OF
POWERS
September 1997
Our first day at work is probably one of those days, like our first day at school, our wedding and certain funerals, that we remember forever.
I was 21. Nearly 22. Although I had done five years’ worth of casual jobs in my holidays and evenings, this was my first real employment after graduating and so my initial step on a career ladder.
Now, almost a decade later, I can still recall vividly many moments of those first few hours “in a job”.
‘Powers & Vine’ was one of the
premier wine merchants in
Modern open plan offices with large windows occupied the three upper storeys above the oaky, musty tasting hall on the ground floor and the various directors’ hushed, panelled suites on the first floor.
In all, Powers & Vine employed two hundred people; directors, buyers, salesmen, marketers, accountants, warehousemen, back office clerks. And, now, one graduate trainee. Their first ever. Me.
Mid morning, after I had been ‘processed’ by the Personnel Manager and introduced to the salesmen and buyers who would train me, I was taken to a mahogany panelled suite on the first floor, for my 11.00 appointment with the Managing Director.
There was a brass nameplate with ‘David Powers’ on the door. I knocked and, moments later, it was opened.
After a couple of hundred years of joint control, the Powers family now controlled the entire company. There were rumours about a shareholding coup and the terrible revenge sworn on the Powers family by the Vine descendants who had been forced out a generation ago.
Although I had obviously done a bit of research on him, I had been interviewed and recruited by the Sales Director and had not, until that moment, ever met David Powers.
He shook my hand. His grip was fleshy and soft.
I knew that he was forty years old. Ruddy, cheerful face, slightly plump, about six feet tall. The looks of a man who enjoyed a First Growth more than the gym or a tennis court.
I looked him in the eye. I’m 6’1”, and at 21 I was as fit and muscular as he was soft and past his ‘best before’ date. His eyes were a watery blue.
“Joe Brown ?” He said. “Welcome Joe. Take a seat.”
He sat back at his desk and I took one of the two chairs opposite.
Looking back, it was one of those mundane conversations between boss and new recruit.
There was no clue as to the future.
He told me a bit about the company that I already knew, about how interested he was in the “trainee experiment”. I smiled back and mouthed the usual platitudes to be expected of any new employee. I guess it lasted about 15 minutes.
But the thing that intrigued me throughout the interview was on the side table behind his desk.
It stood in an expensive looking silver frame.
A photo.
A facial close up of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I had heard the description ‘a perfect English rose’ many times but I never thought, up until that moment, I had ever seen one, if indeed such a species existed.
I was mesmerised by it and kept taking glances whenever I thought I could get away with it. David didn’t seem to notice.
Later that afternoon, I managed to bring the conversation round to the photograph. The hard-bitten old salesman, Tom, who had been entrusted with giving me an introduction to the wine wholesale business, smiled knowingly and told me she was Mrs Powers.
David’s wife of seven years.
Something about the way he chewed over the word ‘seven’ – like it was a tart wine that hadn’t shaken off its tannin – ought to have given me a clue, but I didn’t pick up on it at the time, young and naďve as I was.
He was hinting at the seven years
itch.
October 1997
That’s what people thought.
That Mrs Tess Powers was flirtatious and perhaps more, because she was only 33, beautiful, and had been married to her plump, older husband too long for their sex life to be exciting any more, even if she still loved him.
But within a month, I knew better.
The first time I saw her, she had stopped off at our offices to see her husband. We craned our necks at the windows and I saw their Rolls Royce and her chauffeur rearranging a pile of shopping bags in the back while she came into the building briefly. I didn’t get a good look but I got enough to see that her stocking clad legs were every bit as perfect as her face.
A week later, I saw her a second time in the corridor.
She looked at me, her expression quizzical, as if to say ‘you’re new here’, but she didn’t actually open her mouth. I kept my cool and ignored her. I was proud of myself for days afterwards. To have drooled over her could have seriously jeopardised my plan. I felt her eyes on my back after we had walked passed each other.
And then came the dinner invitation.
Just the three of us. David and Tess Powers.
And me. Oh, sure, they dressed it up as ‘getting to
know the new boy’ but I’d asked around and nobody before had been
invited to their palatial
Maybe they had plans of their own ?
And they did. We had pre-dinner drinks. Roederer Crystal champagne.
I noticed that she drank Vodka and Slimline instead. Served by a butler
while the dinner was cooked by a chef. We made small talk, about the new
Labour Government in
Dinner was served, salmon and then grouse, Puligny Montrachet and then a 1990 Claret. A bit young, but opening up and a privilege to taste what would undoubtedly become a great wine in a few more years. She and I passed on the dessert but David had a slice of torte and then we all took coffee in the next room while the dinner table was cleared.
Tess took her leave briefly and I was left alone with David Powers. He offered me a cigar but I declined. He lit one and puffed on it.
It was clear he had something important to say.
Something embarrassing.
“Joe …” he began.
I had always called him David, unlike the many sycophants who addressed him as ‘Sir’.
I let him continue. We were sat opposite each other in big armchairs.
“You’ve made a good start, Joe.”
“Thank you, David. I’m glad you think so.”
“Tess likes you too.”
I shrugged. But politely. And smiled. I was careful not to smirk.
“Joe, there’s no easy way to say this. I am one of those men … well, what I mean is, Joe, that I would be pleased if you were to take an interest in Tess. Can I ask, er … do you like her ?”
I’d been praying for this delicious moment. Hoping all evening it might happen in some way. But I feigned innocence and slight shock.
“Er … yes, of course, David. She’s a very nice person. You’re a very lucky man.”
He puffed on his cigar, thinking.
“I mean ‘like’ as in, fancy, Joe. Do you find Tess attractive ?”
“Yes. She’s a beautiful woman.”
He nodded. “Yes, she is. Can I ask, do you have a girlfriend, Joe ?”
“Well, no, actually, as it happens. Not at present.” I lied. “Why do you ask ?”
He blushed, flustered. “I’m sorry. It’s just … well, dammit, I wonder if you would like to have Tess as a … secret … er … girlfriend ?”
I smiled, relishing his discomfort.
“Is that what she wants ?”
He nodded.
“As I said, she likes you.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.
“And you. It’s what you want ?”
He nodded again. He seemed to have shrunk into his chair. He looked like a character from a Star Wars movie; round but shrunken, wizened.
I decided to encourage him.
“Sure.” I said brightly. “But I need to know more. I don’t really understand.”
He visibly brightened, his body grew again, perceptibly less tense.
“Do you know what a wife watcher is, Joe ? A cuckold ?”
It was my turn to nod. I’d done English Literature. Sure I knew what a cuckold was.
“That is what I am, Joe.” He continued. “Not a choice I would have actually made, if I had any say in the matter.”
“You mean it’s Tess’s choice.”
He shook his head from side to side, silent for a full ten seconds.
“No.” He sighed. “I mean fate dealt me this hand. We don’t ask to be cuckolds any more than transvestites ask to be TVs, or rubber mac wearers request a bloody rubber mac fetish in their DNA ! Some people cope with just the fantasy. For many years, so did I. But for some of us, the fantasy is not enough.”
“And Tess ?” I asked, controlling my breathing.
“She does it for me.” He said, opening his palms in a gesture of ‘what have I done to deserve such a woman ?’.
“Well, at least, she did. I pestered her for about five years. Since before we married in fact. It was in jest, you know, the truth dressed up as a joke. We played the fantasy game occasionally. Then, out of the blue, she agreed to do it, just over two years ago. All very discreet. Hush hush. An affair really. But I knew about it. The man didn’t know that I knew. Went on for about three months.
A year or so ago, there was a second one. A French wine grower. He knew I knew, but I wasn’t allowed to watch or participate in any way.” He shrugged. “That’s it … so far.”
“And ?” I took a cautious sip of my brandy.
He looked at me.
“I feel like a man who has been shown a great bottle of wine, Joe. He’s seen the year, admired the label. But he hasn’t tasted it yet.”
I smiled encouragingly at the crude analogy.
“Meaning ?”
He sighed, replenishing his glass. The alcohol had loosened his tongue.
“I want more, Joe. I shouldn’t really be telling you this now, but I don’t want you just to have an affair with her. I want you to rub my face in it. Humiliate me. Whatever. I’m not just a cuckold, Joe, I’m a serious … er … submissive. Tess has spanked me. Even caned me once. She’s tried other stuff. But it is not the same for me without … another man involved.”
It was my turn to stay silent a few seconds.
“And Tess ? She … gets off on all this ?”
He thought for a while, swirling the contents of his glass.
“I’m not sure, Joe, being honest. I think she likes the lifestyle, being married to me. And I think she still loves me. But you’ve seen her. She deserves better. At least in bed she does. I think she now even prefers kinky sex with me to er … normal sex with me, Joe. But I believe she would still rather have a triangle involving me than leave me for another man. I hope so.”
His voice petered out.
I let the silence linger as we both organised our own jumble of thoughts.
“And you’re sure about me ? There’s a big age difference.”
“To be honest, it excites me. That you’re barely half my age.”
“But what about Tess ?” I asked.
He looked apologetic. “Joe, she’s excited about it too. She’s looking for fun, Joe. Sex ! With all due respect, she’s not after your brain. Or your wallet.”
I showed no emotion. “So you’ve discussed all this with her ? Me.”
He nodded.
“You’re a good looking young man. She says you have an aura. I’m not saying she’s all yours, just like that, Joe. Tess wants to be wooed. Admired.” He paused. “Lusted after. But she’ll be receptive.”
There was another long silence between us.
“Is she coming back ?”
“Not tonight.” He replied. “She’s gone to bed. But I’d like you to take her to dinner tomorrow night. Joe. She’s free if you’re keen. My credit card.”
It was time to establish the nature of
our relationship.
“Let me mull it over.” I said, in the most nonchalant tone I could muster.
His expression changed; shock, nerves, disappointment.
“I’ll let you know in the morning.” I said, with finality.
November 1997
I lay back in bed, my head on the pillow, idly trailing her hair in my right hand. Her head was on my stomach, bobbing on my cock, her lips and tongue performing some early morning worship.
I glanced at the clock. My mind was far far away. I snapped into the moment and let myself enjoy her soft warm velveteen mouth, her teasing left hand gently tickling the hairs on my scrotum.
Eventually I felt myself reach that ecstatic point of no return. I gripped her hair and pulled her head a couple of inches off my cock. Her hand slid up to grip me and pump, as I started spewing my breakfast load all over her face.
I lay there and let her have it. Eventually I felt her little tongue flitting over the tip of my cock, licking up the last of the salty porridge.
Slowly, she raised her head, twisted and looked up at me. I smiled at the rivulets of pearly come running across her pretty face, the remainder in a puddle in and around my belly button. She blew me a soggy kiss.
While she lapped and licked up every drop from my skin, I pondered again the best way to tell her.
She and I had known each other since childhood. But we had only been going out together for two years. I was her first, last and hopefully everything, as that Barry White song goes. I had absolutely no intention of losing Emily while carrying out my plan.
The situation with Tess just made it all the sweeter.
Emily was my ‘number one’ and she always would be. And although she was submissive she was definitely the monogamous sort.
How could I explain to her the opportunity I had been presented with ? The transfer of Tess Powers from her rich husband to me. And everything that came with her. A dish best eaten cold.
Emily smiled up at me. “Penny for your thoughts.”
I shrugged. “Oh, just how much I adore you.”
She made a face as if I’d let off a bad smell. “Poo. Don’t lie to me, Joe Vine. I can tell when you’re maturing some plan. Tell me.”
She was the only person who used my real name. Everybody else knew me as plain old Joe Brown.
How could I make Emily see how much
fun this could all be ?
For both of us.
*** *** ***
THE BEAT OF MY HEART
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Like you, dear reader, probably are now, I was sat alone at my PC. I had logged on as usual, more in hope than expectation, one Friday evening, trawling my favourite contact sites, as I did a couple of times a week.
A new advert hit me right between the eyes:
‘American She-Wolf in London’
This is a special offer for
the right sort of submissive male. I am seeking a dedicated man for a 24/7
relationship (not marriage, but a live-in partnership). You must be able to fit
in with my social and business lifestyle so I will only consider people who fit
the following ten criteria:
1.
Gender/Inclination: Male and Hetero (not bi or
effeminate)
2.
Age Guideline: 35-45 (but may consider a slight
variance)
3.
Nationality: British (but will consider other
English speaking)
4.
Employment: Currently in professional employment
5.
Location: London (or able to relocate within
existing career)
6.
Height: At least 5’ 9” tall to maximum 6’ 3” tall
7.
Build: Not overweight and not scrawny (but fit and healthy)
8.
Looks: Attractive (should have full head hair and no
facial hair)
9.
Status: Single (and no dependents, eg. children, ex-wives)
10.
Non-smoking and no-drugs (I will modify any other
bad habits)
The above are
non-negotiable.
You should also have an
appealing and mature personality, a sense of humour and the intangible
‘something’ that makes me want to have you in my home and my life. If you have
all of the above attributes, your other subservient ‘qualities’ will be taken
into account.
To the outside world, you
will be my ‘boyfriend’ who lives with me, does things for me, escorts me to
parties and events, drives me, takes me out, etc. A small number of people may
become aware of our arrangement but, to the public at large, we will appear a
normal couple, albeit with a 10-20 year age gap between us. Hence your ability
to be a 100% discreet and honest partner is also paramount.
To the right man, I offer a
commitment to be a strict but caring, non-professional Mistress on a full time
24/7/52 basis (actually harder work than it sounds). I have some experience and
I know what I enjoy and what I don’t like. I am now looking to take my
domination to a new level. I am American, 25 years old (having lived in UK 4
years), an Anglophile, with a good career, a beautiful apartment, 5’ 7” tall,
very attractive (strawberry blonde, blue eyes, freckles, curves) and single.
I do not trust photos so do
not send them at this stage.
I do not intend to leap
straight into a phone call with anybody either.
I do not wish to read long
missives about your amazing qualities or your loneliness.
I will not bother to reply
to anybody I do not believe is genuine.
If you wish to make a start,
send me a concise and polite email with some basic and accurate information.
Allow up to 14 days for a response. Please take note that I am only interested
in finding the right man, as described, and I do not have any interest in other
offers or proposals of whatever sort.
I stared at the screen in
silence, reading and re-reading each word.
Of course, I knew the odds.
I mean the likelihood that ‘she’ was really female was probably no better than
10%. Maybe 20% tops.
And, if she was
female, the likelihood that she was actually looking to recruit a male
submissive as opposed to a bit of cyber-fantasy was probably 10-20 % again.
And if she was female, and
was genuinely looking, what were the odds that she would choose me ?
All in all, I had a less
than 1% chance of this advert leading anywhere.
And yet ?
The old phrase ‘nothing
ventured, nothing gained’, summed it up. There was something about the wording
of the advert that made it sound genuine to me.
And if I didn’t reply,
then I had a 0% chance for sure.
A big fat zero per cent !
What else was I going to do
that Friday evening ? Watch a DVD, drink some beer, eat pizza. Wow.
And so I composed my email
and, three hours later, this is what I sent.
Dear ‘She-Wolf’,
I am writing in response to
your advert. I believe that I fit all of your criteria and more. I am taking
you at your word and am sending a concise email, although I will willingly
respond to any further questions you may have.
Firstly, your ten ‘non-negotiables’:
I am male and hetero.
I am 43, although people say
I look younger.
I am British (English), in
full professional employment Monday-Friday, living in west London.
I am exactly 6 feet tall and
weigh 180 pounds.
I would describe myself as
medium build, fit and healthy, in good shape for my age. I would not exaggerate
and describe myself as Hollywood handsome but I am considered good looking. I
have a full head of brown wavy hair, brown eyes and an easy smile.
I am single, divorced with
no children and an ex-wife who has remarried and moved to France.
I have smoked socially but
gave up recently.
I have never done drugs and
do not drink to excess.
I have a wide range of
interests ranging from a love of good food and decent wine, to all sports
(especially skiing, diving and soccer), to art and movies. I trust that over an
interview I could convince you of my ready wit, sense of humour and respect for
women and other people. I hope there would be a spark between us. I can assure
you of my discretion, honesty and sincerity. I think I could make a credible
partner for you.
It would be my dream to
serve a strict, caring Mistress as you describe yourself on a 24/7/52 basis. I
would not presume to set any parameters to the arrangement and would agree to
whatever type of domination you propose.
My wishes are not important.
Please know that I am prepared to be exploited physically, mentally,
sexually and financially by the right person. If you are as you say you
are, I offer myself to you without reservations or limits.
I am respecting your wishes
not to send photos or numbers at this stage. I check this email address daily
and await your response eagerly. I note that I may have to wait up to 14 days.
Yours respectfully,
sam
You can only imagine what
the following days were like. Each evening and most mornings I would
frantically check my in box. Nothing.
And then, on the lucky
thirteenth day after I had sent my email, I saw it; ‘one new message’.
Hi sammy
boy,
you passed. At least, you
got thru to the next round. Along with two hundred others ! Only kidding ! In
fact there are 13 of you. How much do you want it sammy
boy ? Are you prepared to fight for it ?
First, I don’t expect that
you believe I’m for real.
Do you ? Admit it.
So I want you to email back
a phone number that I can call you on. I’ll call sometime between 8.00 and
10.00 p.m. tomorrow (Friday) evening. It won’t be a long conversation because I
have 12 other guys to call and I have a party to go to as well. But it will be
enough to let you know I’m for real and, more importantly, for me to know how
your voice sounds. A nice English accent is pretty much another
‘non-negotiable’ for me.
Next, you email two photos
of you to me by tomorrow 7.00 p.m. That is a firm deadline. One, facial,
front-on, the other, full length, totally naked. You should buy a copy of
tomorrow’s Times newspaper and be standing on the front page to prove to me
that the photo is totally current. Oh yes, and make sure your penis is erect before
you take the photograph.
Finally, you also email a
summary of your financial position with your full real name and the contact
phone number with the attached photos. Firstly, your annual salary, any bonuses
or other gross income, with monthly net income and expenditure, then your total
current savings and investments, and total current mortgage, loans or debts.
Yes, sam,
that’s your first test !
I am not out to blackmail
you I assure you.
But I might be.
I am not a professional
dominatrix just after your money but I might be. Are you prepared to
take the risk ? That’s one way for me to sort out the real guys from the posers
and wannabes.
Are you committed enough ?
Maybe I won’t have 13 calls
to make tomorrow evening after all ?
Will you be one of those who
ducks out, sam ?
Over to you.
She-Wolf
Shit !
I got up from the computer
and paced the room, cracked open a beer.
This was something else.
I mean, how could anybody be
so dumb as to take this guy at face value ?
Real name, phone number,
embarrassing photos, financial details ?
I mean, come on.
I logged off in disgust.
And yet, that night, as I
tossed and turned, I kept repeating to myself the phrase I had two weeks
earlier; ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’. If I didn’t take a risk, then I
had a zero per cent chance of finding out if this person really was the
dominant Mistress I sought. It was unlikely. Sure.
But it was still possible.
And if not, how much harm
could somebody really do me with just my real name and photos ?
I am a 43 year old guy with
no kids, no wife, no girlfriend, no close family.
Yeah, I have a few friends
and colleagues I’d be embarrassed if they knew my kinky desires, but not enough
to pay money to a blackmailer. And I could always go to the police if
absolutely necessary. The more I thought about it, the more possible … just …
that this woman was for real. It was a test.
So, the next morning, I
typed out a summary of my financial position. At lunchtime, I bought a copy of
the Times newspaper and also a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile phone. The one
precaution I’d decided to take was to give out a different number to my main
one. That way I could always identify the caller if She was real, or dump the
phone if She was not.
I left work slightly early,
set up my digital camera on a tripod, took some photos of me standing on the
newspaper with the headline facing the lens, selected the best shots and
emailed the whole package to ‘Her’ under my real name at 18.35 hrs precisely.
Then I made myself some
supper and switched on the TV.
The next three and a half
hours crawled by. I felt nauseous. Light-headed with worry about being
blackmailed and sick with excitement that maybe, just maybe, a young American
woman would ring me.
At five past ten I
reluctantly accepted that it had all been somebody’s fantasy game.
The phone rang. The new
phone, not my landline or existing cellphone.
I stared at it, fumbled and
picked it up like a hot coal.
The caller display said
number withheld.
“Hallo ?”
“Is that Sam ?” It was a
female voice.
“Um … yes.” My voice
croaked.
“Hi, Sam.” Her accent was
American. She chuckled. “Didn’t think I was real, did you ?”
“Um … not really … I mean …”
“Don’t waffle Sam. It’s
okay. I might still be a fake you know. Maybe an actress being paid to fool
you. Or a hooker after your cash, Sam. Or perhaps just some sicko
couple who enjoy cyber fantasies, whatever.”
There was a long pause. I
didn’t know what to say.
“You believe me, Sam ?” she
asked.
I swallowed. “You know I
think I do.”
She giggled, sounding
genuinely like a 20-something year old.
“Good.” She said. “That’s
one of the things I liked about you. You’ve got balls, Sam Atkinson.”
“Thanks.” I replied, still
struggling to find anything to say, desperate she might conclude I was dull as
ditchwater.
“Can I ask something … er … Mistress.”
She giggled again. “I like
that name. Sure, Sam, shoot.”
“What happens next ? Now
that we’ve spoken.”
Her voice changed. “Now
don’t get pushy on me, Sam. This goes at my pace. I’m a busy girl. You’ve made
the shortlist Sam but that’s all.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her voice changed. “Gotta go, Sam, my date’s here. I’ll be in touch over the
weekend by email or on this number. Keep it near you. Bye.”
The line went dead before I
had even replied.
I stared at the plastic in
my hand.
There was only one way to
react to such a call. I unbuckled my belt, shucked down my jeans and underpants
and took my cock into my hand. Only moments later, I was shooting all over my
stomach.
At two thirty the next
afternoon, I was watching sport on the TV. I had already checked my email
twice. Nothing. Then my new phone rang.
“Hallo Mistress.” I
answered, lowering the volume on the TV with the remote.
“So this is not your normal
cell ?” she asked.
I flushed. “No … Mistress,
it is dedicated to you.”
She chuckled. A lovely,
intoxicating sound.
“You doing your chores ?”
“Er
… I’m watching sport, Mistress.”
“This time next week you
could be doing my chores. How’s that sound, Sam ? Would you like that ?”
I paused. “Yes, Mistress.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“Sorry. Yes, I would like
that very much, Mistress.”
“You want to make a start
now ?”
My heart leaped.
“Yes please, Mistress.”
“Good boy.” Her voice was
softer, seductive, but firm. “You are going shopping, Sam. I will email through
a list. Buy everything on it. I’ll call you on this number at around
seven tonight. Gotta dash, I’ve got a Spa appointment
booked. Bye.”
The line went dead.
Ten minutes later, an email
pinged into my inbox.
The list was very specific,
very detailed, and very long.
Butterflies filled my
stomach. I was suddenly worried that this was all some financial piss-take
again. I didn’t mind if this stuff was really for my Mistress. Far from it. But
if I was just being taken for a ride by some idiot, then I wanted to get off
right now.
I stared at the screen.
Everything was to be bought
at Harrods, central London’s famous department store and emporium.
Famous and expensive.
There was a long list of
food items first. A few basics, normal weekend shopping like milk, eggs,
butter, bread, salad.
Then lots of luxury items,
like caviar, smoked salmon, asparagus, fillet steaks, foie
gras, champagne, white burgundy, praline chocolates.
Next there were some
household goods like toilet tissue and cleaning materials, toothpaste,
mouthwash and trash bin liners. The Store had to be one of the most expensive
places in the world to buy toothpaste !
After that, the list was
split by department.
First Toiletries. Very
specific products by brand, type and size: Chanel, Guerlain, Clarins, perfume, eau
de toilette, body lotion, soap, 100 mls, 50 mls, large size, etc.
Next came Ladies Fashion.
Again very specific instructions.
A black dress by Chloe, UK
Size 10, the style code number.
A cashmere sweater.
A pair of jeans by a brand
even I’d heard of.
A belt. Two bags. A pair of
shoes and a pair of boots.
Everything branded, sized
and number coded.
Mistress had clearly done
her research and tried everything on before making the list. I’m no fashion
expert but I guessed I was looking at a four figures sum in the Fashion
Department alone.
Next came Lingerie. The same
bra – 34C – in three colours, black, cream and burgundy, and matching thongs in
the same colour, plus two pairs of black lace stockings of a specific size,
code and brand.
And finally, Electronic
Goods.
The latest MP3
And a very specific Mobile
Communications Center.
The total list had to be at
least two, and probably over three, thousand Pounds worth !
I was not poor, but I wasn’t
a rich man either. My ex-wife had taken the home we owned. I rented an
apartment in west London and had about twenty thousand pounds saved towards
buying my own place. After tax, I netted just over two and a half grand a month
which bought me a decent life but only left a couple of hundred a month for my
savings pot.
This shopping spree was
going to make a big dent in my hard earned savings.
But She knew my financial
position. I could hardly claim I couldn’t afford everything on the list. And I
figured that she had to make contact in order to get everything from me. So I
was still in control – sort of. I grabbed the list, my car keys and wallet, and
set off for Harrods in central London.
My phone rang at six
o’clock. I was just finishing paying for the last two items in the Electronics
Department.
“Hallo M’strss.”
I mumbled, just out of earshot of the sales clerk.
“All those bags look heavy
Sam.” She giggled.
My head whirled round,
looking.
“No…” her voice said, “I’m
not there Sam. I’m drinking tea nearby. But I’ve been watching you. Up to a few
moments ago. You’re a nice looking boy for your age Sam. You’re in my final
three.”
My head reeled, half-excited
by her comment and half worried by what I was going to do with all my purchases
if she chose somebody else.
“Thank you.”
“Look towards the Elevators,
Sam.” Her tone had changed.
I looked around. And I saw a
woman holding a phone to her ear. She was standing next to another woman.
Both were smiling straight
at me.
“Behold, Sam, your
Mistress.”
I stared, my heart thumping
like a drum. She was just as she’d said. No. Better than she’d said. A
nice height, with pale skin, a mass of reddish blonde curls, a divine figure,
dressed immaculately.
The woman next to her was brunette, tanned, wearing shades.
“She’s a friend.” My
Mistress said over the phone, reading my mind. “You can’t be too careful
meeting strangers. You think I may be a fake. For all I know,
you’re a serial killer, Sam.”
I nodded my understanding
and acceptance without speaking.
“You finished paying ?” She asked, still standing by the elevators.
“Yes.” I said, looking back
at the clerk, taking the receipt and my card back in my left hand, my phone in
the other.
“Follow us out.” She said.
“Don’t try to catch up. Just get in the taxi line out front and wait for my
call.”
The line went dead.
Shaking, I pocketed my phone
and struggled with the six green bags of shopping down the escalators and out
into the street. It was peak time and there was a long line of people waiting.
It took fifteen minutes for me to get to the front.
My phone rang.
“Get in with the bags.”
I did as instructed and
moments later there was a hustle and bustle in the crowd and two women
clambered into the cab with me.
“Hi Sam !” They both
exclaimed excitedly as if they knew me. “Give us a lift.”
The brunette showed a piece
of paper to the taxi driver. “Could we go there, please ?”
The cab driver looked round
at me.
“This okay with you, guv’ ?” he asked.
“Sure.” I nodded. He turned
back to the wheel and our taxi lurched forward.
We sat in silence for ten
agonising seconds.
“So, Sam.” She finally said.
“These all for me ?”
I looked down at the bags.
“Yes.” I croaked.
Her sparkling, blue eyes
looked at me. “You’re serious aren’t you Sam ? You really are one hundred per
cent the real deal ?”
I nodded slowly. “Yes. Are
you ?”
She looked over my shoulder
at her friend and smiled smugly.
“I ask the questions Sam.
Okay ?”
“Okay.” I whispered.
“Sorry.”
“How much was all this ?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t
counted exactly. Over three grand.”
The brunette whistled, rustling in a bag behind me. I realised she was English, not another American.
“And it’s worth that
much to you, Sam ? Three thousand pounds to a stranger. To do heaven knows what
to you. Is it worth that much ?”
I couldn’t tell if she was
taunting me. She was making it sound as if this was one Saturday afternoon game
for her.
I wanted to beg, scream.
“Yes. Please, Mistress.”
Her expression suddenly
softened. She lifted a finger to trace my jaw line.
“Don’t worry Sam. I’m for
real too. Believe it or not. You will get your money’s worth. I’m not after
your cash anyway. It’s just a perk. It’s you I’m after Sam. You.”
The cab hung a right at that
moment and we all tipped against each other in the back seat.
“Get down on the floor Sam.
Kneel and shut your eyes.”
We drove another ten minutes
or so like that. If he noticed, the taxi driver didn’t comment. The only sound
was the two women rustling in the bags.
“We’re here.” The brunette
said.
“Up.” Said my Mistress.
She paid the taxi driver
while the brunette and I gathered up all the bags.
I glanced round the street.
It was April and still light. The houses were red brick, smart, I’d say
Kensington area. The cars were all flash and pricey.
We went up an old fashioned,
sliding gate lift to the third floor.
“Welcome.” She said.
The apartment was amazing. A
huge open plan living space, with kitchen, dining and seating areas, and then a
long corridor with bedrooms, bathrooms off it.
“Okay, Sam, before we go any
further,” She said, “a few rules. I am Cressida. Yes,
that’s my real name. You’ll hear other people use it, or call me Cress.
But to you I’m ‘Mistress’, unless we are out and I tell you to call me ‘Cress’.
Understood ?”
I nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Good. And my best friend in
the world is called Karen. But you will call her Miss K. She’s not into this
stuff in a major way but she’s broadminded aren’t you darling ?”
Miss K shrugged and blew us
both a friendly kiss. “Sure.”
“We have no secrets from
each other.” Said Mistress. “Next rule. Unless I tell you otherwise, you live
naked in this apartment. So take your clothes off, right there. Strip !”
I shut my eyes. This was it.
The moment I’d dreamed of all my life.
It was beginning.
Could I go through with it ?
I began to unbutton my shirt.
The women didn’t even look
at me or watch. Miss K wandered off down the corridor to a bathroom and
Mistress lifted the food bags onto the wooden block in the kitchen area. She
unpacked them slowly.
I stood, totally naked, my
clothes folded in a pile by my feet on the wooden floor. I forced my hands to
my sides, not covering my groin.
Miss K appeared coming back
along the corridor. She was less attractive than Mistress but still striking,
with almost black hair, cut in a fringe and worn like a helmet, and dark eyes,
and heavy red lipstick. She looked like a character out of a gothic vampire
film.
She came straight up to me,
wearing a smirk, and handled my penis. It was soft and shrunken. Fear flowed
thicker in my blood at that moment than excitement. She squeezed the tip
between her thumb and forefinger.
“Not the biggest boy in the
toy shop.” She called out.
“No ?” Mistress queried,
slamming the fridge door. “His photo was okay. Kind of average.”
Her fingers were teasing,
flicking under my balls. I jerked to life.
She smiled knowingly. Soon I
was lengthening in her palm.
“Age forty three, eh ?” This
time she spoke to me.
“Yes … Miss K.”
She pinched a piece of flab
from the side of my stomach. Mistress came wandering over bearing two flutes of
champagne. She passed one to her friend then both of them stared at me, up and
down, appraising.
They toasted silently and
drank.
“I think at least ten
pounds, maybe twenty, safely.” Miss K. opined.
“He certainly needs to lose
some.” Mistress replied, prodding my stomach. She ignored my erection jutting
straight out as if it wasn’t there. “There’s muscle underneath. Anyway,” she
looked into my eyes, “I love controlling a man’s diet and exercise. We’ll have
you fighting fit in no time !”
Both women laughed, clinking
their champagne glasses together.
“Come,” Mistress continued,
“let’s cover that thing up. Put on an apron.”
She marched me over to the
kitchen area and thrust a bright pink, plastic apron into my hands. I put my
neck through the loop and tied the strings round my waist. The front of the
apron stuck out due to my erection.
“Here’s a list.” She said.
“Make us supper.”
And so it began.
The first, mild – very mild
– evening I spent at my Mistress’s beck and call. I made her and her friend a
delicious supper of caviar, blinis and vodka,
followed by fillet steaks, baked potatoes and salad, with a good bottle of red,
and then chocolate ice cream. They laughed, gossiped, ordered, criticised and
otherwise completely ignored me.
At 9.45 p.m., I’d finished
clearing and washing up. My Mistress clicked her fingers.
“Okay. You can go.”
I stared at her, with a mix
of hunger, thirst, relief and disappointment.
She chuckled at my open
mouth.
“You passed Sam. The big
test ! Now it’s decision time. I have two more interviews tomorrow. I will
email or call you during the week. Who knows, by next weekend, this could place
be your new home ?”
It was an agonising wait.
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and most of Wednesday all crawled by at a snail’s pace.
But I suspect you know that this would not be much of a story if my new phone
had never rung again.
“Sam ?”
“Yes, Mistress ?” My voice
almost squeaking with tension.
“Any commitments this
weekend ?”
“I’m meeting somebody at the
cinema on Fri …”
“Cancel.” She snapped.
“Of course,” I replied,
“Mistress.”
“And find an ExoBelt.”
“What … I…”
“Find one and buy one.”
“Yes Mistress.”
“I’ll call you on Friday. Be
ready.”
The line went dead before I
could start to reply.
I was in a meeting at my
office on Friday afternoon.
“Be outside Harrods again at
seven thirty exactly. Same place. Wait.”
I blushed at my clients and
tried to regain my composure.
“Wrong number.” I said to
them, snapping the phone shut.
I stood in the cab line
until eight fifteen.
She breezed up to me with no
mention of being forty five minutes late.
Her breath stank of wine,
garlic and good fun.
“Ready ?” she asked, blue
eyes sparkling.
“Yes.” I couldn’t bring
myself to say ‘Mistress’ in the crowd waiting for taxis. I had let fifty people
pass me while I’d been waiting. Fortunately, an older guy ushered us into his
place.
We climbed in and she gave
the driver an address in Kensington.
“Fuck I’m pissed.” She
exclaimed, lounging back into the seat. “And horny.” She was dressed in a
demure, charcoal-grey, office suit of knee-length skirt and jacket, with a silk
blouse underneath.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Oh Sam,” she laughed, “you
really are the weak silent type aren’t you ?”
“I’m not … usually …” I
mumbled, “it’s just … I …”
“Quiet.” She said, turning
to stare out of the window.
The taxi drove us in silence
for several minutes.
“Did you buy the ExoBelt ?” she suddenly asked.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Strip !” she ordered, the
moment we had entered her apartment.
I undressed while she
disappeared into her suite. I heard the tinkle of urine, a flush, and two
minutes later she emerged wearing just a silk robe.
I stood to attention, arms
by my side, my dick at half mast.
“Do you enjoy oral sex, Sam
?”
“I …er
…”
“Giving, not receiving.” She
snapped.
“Yes, Mistress.”
Suddenly, without warning,
she slapped me right across the face.
I steeled my arms by my side
and blinked back the pain and shock.
By the look in her eyes, she
had shocked herself too. Her hand came up again, this time to caress my cheek
where she had hit me.
“Good boy. That was another
test. I need to know I’m safe to do whatever I like to you. Put this on.”
She thrust a black, velvet
blindfold into my hands.
I nervously held it to my
eyes and felt her knotting the ties tight behind my head. Then I felt her snap
some serious steel handcuffs round my wrists.
“Lie down, Sam, on the
floor, face up.”
She steadied my shoulder
while I knelt and then lay down.
Moments later, I sensed her
poised above me, felt the swish of her gown.
“Your last test, Sam.”
I smelt her aroma; an
intoxicating blend of perfume, femininity and sexuality. Her wetness enveloped
my lower face in a sloppy muzzle.
I used my lips to welcome
and my tongue to kiss her, probing her slit.
I felt her fingers grasp my
erection like the pommel of a saddle.
She rode my face like a
bucking bronco. I did nothing except keep my face, lips and tongue steady as
she bounced and hissed, steeling myself against the awkward pain in my spine
from the handcuffs.
In what cannot have been
more than thirty seconds, she climaxed, with a distinctive staccato of ‘aaa’, ‘aaaa’, ‘aaaaammm’ gasps.
Her weight was heavy on my
head as she slowly relaxed.
Eventually, I heard a giggle
and felt her rise up. Her fingers left my dick stranded in mid-air and she
pushed off my hips.
“Phew !” she said. “I’d give
you an A-grade, Sam, but I don’t think you did much. That was all my own work.
Maybe in a while, we’ll see if you can get me off instead.”
I blinked upwards as she
wrenched the blindfold off my face.
She was tying her robe tight
across her front, covering herself.
“Get up.”
I rose up into a kneeling
and then standing position.
“Oh shit.” She said. “How
old were you when I was born, Sam ?”
Her evil fingers tickled
under my swollen, sensitive balls.
It was a calculation I’d
already done. “Eighteen, Mistress.”
She smiled. “Where’s the ExoBelt ?”
I pointed to my jacket. “In
the pocket, Mistress.”
She whirled me round and
unlocked the handcuffs.
“Go shave your face Sam. And then your groin. From there, to your arse. Shave everything real close. And hurry. There’s a razor and soap by the basin.”
She pointed to the first door on the right side of the corridor.
The guest bathroom was also a cloakroom; a row of coat hooks, a shower, large basin and lavatory, with a side table of various soaps, scents and sprays.
I shaved my chin carefully. I cut my pubic hair with scissors and then began scything all the remainder all with the razor, from my stomach to my scrotum, and then underneath to my anus.
She eventually appeared at the doorway, sipping a glass of something.
“I want the truth, Sam.” She said, studying me. “When was the last time you had sex with a woman. You know, the penetrative kind.”
I carried on shaving down below.
“About six months ago. The relationship ended.”
“And how long since you last masturbated ?”
I paused.
“The truth.” She said.
“This morning, Mistress.”
She let out a ‘ttch’ sound of disapproval. “How often do you wank, Sam. Daily ? Every other day ? Twice a day ?”
My cock was rock hard from the humiliation of standing there answering her questions. My groin was totally bald and I laid down the razor.
“I guess most days, Mistress.” I looked into her eyes apologetically.
“But you’re interested in chastity ?”
I nodded.
She smiled.
“Get in the shower.”
I stood there. The controls were outside the glass door. A pump whirred into life and then freezing cold needle jets slammed into my body. I gasped for breath and heard Her shout over the noise of the water.
“Wash yourself all over.”
By the time I had soaped everywhere and rinsed off, my teeth were chattering and my erection had shrivelled to the size of a gherkin.
She turned off the water. “Get out.”
She patted my front with a towel and then brandished the Exobelt tube.
“Let’s get this on you, little boy.”
In moments, she had slid the clear tube over my cock and locked it.
“My !” she laughed, “you don’t even fill its three and a half inches.”
I looked down at the reinforced plastic, totally secure device.
She thrust the towel into my hands. “Dry yourself.”
I joined her in the living room a minute later.
“Put the apron on over that thing.” She barked.
I obeyed and stood at the kitchen counter. She lay down on the sofa.
“I’m not taking this slowly, Sam. Twenty four seven is what we said. You’re gonna wear that thing all day, every day, here and at work, and your daily wank days are over. You got that ?”
I looked at the floor. “Yes, Mistress.”
“You will never mention your … thing in my presence. You will never ask for an orgasm, complain, moan, sulk or give any hint of frustration. Is that understood ?”
“Y … yes, Mistress.”
“I make no promises, but once in a while it may amuse me to allow you some … relief, in some way. But it may not. It is quite possible that for as long as you are my slave you may never have any orgasm. That’s the deal.”
She smiled at my expression.
“Unless you want to call it a day right now ? I have several candidates.”
“No.” I replied, “please, Mistress.”
“You may find the reality … kind of tougher than the fantasy.”
I drew myself up to my full height. “I will do my utmost, Mistress.”
She crooked her little finger. “Come here.”
I walked over to the sofa and she pulled an envelope from under a cushion, holding it out to me.
“Here’s a list of your duties. Your job description and terms of employment.”
Twenty four hours later, I was hanging by my wrists from a steel beam in my new ‘bedroom’.
It was a converted box cupboard, just 4 feet wide by 3 feet deep and 9 feet high, with wooden floorboards and no heating or lighting, just an electric socket in the corner.
I had spent the previous evening emptying out her battered suitcases and old files, sorting and relocating them to make room for my body. I slept my first night in her apartment curled on the 4 x 3 floor, with just an old sheet to cover me.
But she said I would spend my entire second night, Saturday night, standing up. She fastened my wrists into steel manacles above and grinned at my sweaty body, naked but for the Exobelt on my genitals. I had spent the morning doing chores round her apartment and the afternoon cooking a delicious meal for eight.
In return, I had been given nothing to eat or drink all day.
“Crash diet.” She called it. She said I’d get no food but needed fluid.
“Here,” She said, producing a plastic bottle. “Drink.”
She tipped it to my parched lips. I smelt what it was before I tasted it.
“Your Mistress’s champagne !”
I swallowed, gagged and swallowed, gulped and swallowed.
“I’d always wanted to do that.” She giggled excitedly. “How was it ?”
I told the truth. “Not as bad as I feared, Mistress.”
She pouted. “Dear. Well I must work on ways to make it worse ! Now, we wouldn’t want you to feel left out this evening.”
She leaned down and plugged a white plastic gadget in the electric socket. I recognised it as one of those baby listening devices.
“You can listen to the conversation. I’ll see you in the morning. But I may have a lie in. You keep very quiet until I open up, okay ?”
With that, she pushed the door closed and plunged me into darkness. Only a tiny green light glowed around my ankles from the baby monitor. I heard the lock turn and her high heels clicking back down the corridor.
Music. Doorbells. Greetings. Laughter. Mens voices. Female voices. Champagne pops and wine bottle corks. You all know the sounds of a party as it gets into swing. I hung there on tiptoe and listened to the meal I’d prepared being eaten as the hours dragged by. Voices were almost indistinguishable. There were usually two or three conversations going on at once. Only occasionally would there be one voice telling a joke or giving a loud, strident opinion. Eventually, I guess around one in the morning, people started to leave in pairs, until I could hear only Mistress and one male voice. English, educated, confident.
The CD finished and there was silence apart from them talking.
Suddenly I heard a kiss. Not a goodnight kiss, but an amorous lingering kiss. A long ‘mmmm’ sound followed in female and male stereo.
“You want me to help you clear up ?” His voice asked. Something in his tone told me that his offer was polite more than sincere.
Another, shorter kiss.
“This will get done in the morning.” She replied. “I’d rather you … help me make a mess.”
His snigger told me this wasn’t the first time they’d done this.
“I can’t stay the night.” He said. “I’ve got a flight at eleven.”
“Who said anything about staying the night ?”
For the next twenty minutes or so, I listened to them having sex in the living room. My cock strained against the ExoBelt. I was jealous. Unreasonably so. What right did I have ? And yet I was jealous of him in so many ways, and jealous of Her too for being who she was.
It is amazing how much you can tell from sound. I knew she was taking him in her mouth, and then he reciprocated. A plate fell to the floor and they laughed. And then he was banging away on top of her, until first she came with her distinctive staccato of gasps, and then he let out a short pig-like grunt, followed by a long male groan.
Ten minutes later, she showed him out. I heard light switches, the sound of the tap, teeth brushing and then her steps walking right past my cupboard door, without even slowing. That was the last thing I heard all night, but for the beat of my heart.
THE END OF A SELECTION OF
HORS D’OEUVRES
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