Rough Caress

Rough Caress

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Lisabet Sarai

"B

e still!" he says softly. "I did not give you permission to move."

He continues to explore my well-lubricated folds. Meanwhile I press my lips together and tighten all my muscles, struggling to obey his directive of immobility. "What are you thinking, little slut?" he whispers in my ear. "Tell me." I can hardly speak, aroused and taut as I am. "That I'm yours," I gasp, finally. "That I would do anything for you." "Really? Well, we'll see about that, won't we?" His voice holds that familiar hint of mockery, but I can tell he is pleased. He pulls his hand abruptly from my sex, and I almost cry out in disappointment. "Now, let me think about this..." I can hear him rummaging among the dowels. My mind paints pictures of what he will do, what he will choose. I see him easing the fattest rod into my cunt. My sex spasms at the thought, and an electric thrill seizes my clit. But then, why would I think he'd prefer my cunt to my rear hole? He's told me, often, that taking me anally is the purest form of domination. What if he forces a dowel into my ass, presented so conveniently to him here in the aisle of this hardware store, where anyone could watch and observe my total degradation?

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Rough Caress Rough Caress © 2008 by Lisabet Sarai All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.  "Incurable Romantic" first appeared in Confessions: Admissions of Sexual Guilt, edited by Sage Vivant and M. Christian, Thunder's Mouth Press, 2005. "Poker Night" first appeared in Whipped: 20 Erotic Stories of Female Dominance, edited by Carol Queen, Chamberlain Brothers, 2005. "House of Shadows" is excerpted from Incognito, Blue Moon Books, 2002. "Ritual", "Wednesday Night at Rocky's Ace Hardware", "Bangkok Noir", and "Domestic Goddess" first appeared in Fire: Short Stories by Lisabet Sarai, Blue Moon Books, 2005. “Shades of Red” first appeared in She’s on Top: Erotic Stories of Female Dominance and Male Submission, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, Cleis Books, 2007. "Lessons in Leather" is excerpted from Raw Silk, Blue Moon Books, 2002. "Workout" is excerpted from Ruby's Rules, Blue Moon Books, 2003. "Higher Power" first appeared in Best S&M Erotica 2, edited by Sage Vivant and M. Christian, Venus Book Club, 2004. An Eternal Press Production Eternal Press 206 - 6059 Pandora St. Burnaby, British Columbia, Canada, V5B 1M4 To order additional copies of this book, contact: www.eternalpress.ca Cover Art © 2008 by Julie D’Arcy Edited by Lauren Gilbert Copyedited by Sherri Good Layout and Book Production by Ally Robertson eBook ISBN: 978-0-9804739-7-1 First Edition * April 2008 Production by Eternal Press Printed in Canada and The United States of America.

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Lisabet Sarai

Lisabet Sarai

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Rough Caress

Also by Lisabet Sarai Velvet

Visit Lisabet Sarai's Fantasy Factory http://www.lisabetsarai.com

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Lisabet Sarai

To GCS Who else?

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Rough Caress

Contents Introduction.........................................................

8

Incurable Romantic.............................................

11

Twister.................................................................

20

Trick or Treat.......................................................

27

Poker Night.........................................................

31

House of Shadows...............................................

40

Routine Maintenance..........................................

53

Ritual...................................................................

60

Shades of Red......................................................

62

Lessons in Leather..............................................

75

Wednesday Night at Rocky’s Ace Hardware Store

88

Workout...............................................................

92

Bangkok Noir......................................................

113

Domestic Goddess...............................................

145

High Power..........................................................

157

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Lisabet Sarai

Introduction by Kathleen Bradean

B

DSM - Bondage, discipline, domination and submission, sadism and masochism - has long been a staple of erotic stories. The Story of O, the writings of the Marquis de Sade, Anais Nin’s collections, and Sacher-Masoch’s

Venus in Furs still find audiences, while new classics such as the Beauty Series by A. N. Roquelaure (aka Anne Rice) arguably gave erotica visibility and acceptance it never enjoyed before. Suddenly, erotica is on bookshelves instead of behind the counter, on the night stand instead of stashed under the bed. While not all erotica is BDSM, elements of power exchange permeate the genre. The alpha male is dominant even if he’s never called Master. A little slap on the butt may be a playful exchange between lovers, but it is discipline. That silk necktie wrapped loosely around wrists is bondage. What is it about BDSM that appeals to our sensual nature? One answer is in many of Lisabet’s stories in this collection, but “Higher Power” addresses it head on. It’s trust. We’d all like to believe that we trust our lovers, but in the world of BDSM, trust endures trial by fire. It isn’t simply trust that the dom will inflict only the physical pain the sub can endure, but that the dom will also protect the sub from mental pain. In real life, lovers aren’t that aware of the ramifications of their actions and words. Another answer is the transformative nature of sex in BDSM. Many of these stories are internal journeys. In “Lessons in Leather”, an excerpt from the novel Raw Silk, Kate 8

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finds that submission allows her to claim her sexuality rather than diminishing her. In “Routine Maintenance”, a man discovers his inner dom. Likewise, in “Shades of Red”, Ruby learns about herself, and catches a glimpse of the spiritual nature of power exchange, from the handle end of the whip. While rich Masters with huge estates teeming with slaves are a recurring theme in many BDSM novels, most of Lisabet’s stories explore the domestic, everyday side of power exchange. In “Twister”, a couple rides out a storm in their cellar/dungeon. “House of Shadows” follows a Victorian lady into her fantasies come true and releases her from the confines of what is proper. The rollicking “Wednesday Night at Rocky’s Ace Hardware Store” exposes the hidden life of a suburban couple. The mantra of the BDSM community is Safe, Sane, and Consensual. It is the duty of the dom to control the scene while delivering the experience the submissive wants. Lisabet’s “Bangkok Noir” is a reminder that real life doesn’t come with that sort of guarantee. It’s far safer inside the dungeon than it is on the outside. In “Workout”, an excerpt from her novel Ruby’s Rules, Ruby wants to punish, but not harm, Rick. Through the punishment, she closely monitors his reactions and gets his permission before continuing the scene. Her solicitous care and whip are indeed a Rough Caress. People who are aghast at the idea of BDSM probably won’t ever be convinced of one of the enduring truths: that the submissive is in charge. It is one of the rare instances where a person can, without fear of rejection, openly admit sexual fantasies. The burden is on the dom to deliver that experience. When he doesn’t in the story “Domestic Goddess”, the submissive makes her dom see the error of his ways. While not all subs are female, it’s easy to see why a woman would want – for once - her needs to be the focus and for her orgasm to be the definition of a successful scene. It’s the stuff of fantasies. Lisabet Sarai delivers a solid collection of BDSM stories. Whether the point of view is the dominant or the submissive, male or female, the insight into power exchange is fascinating, hot reading. Enjoy these rough caresses.

Kathleen Bradean’s stories can be found in Best Women's Erotica 2007, Haunted Hearths, Blood Surrender, The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6, She's On Top 9

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and on Clean Sheets and the Erotica Readers and Writer's Association websites. She's a member of the Erotic Author's Association, Broad Universe, The Speculative Fiction Society, and the Bi Writers Association. She also reviews books for Erotica Revealed. Visit her blog at KathleenBradean.Blogspot.com.

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S

he is, without a doubt, the perfect slave.

I should know. I've trained half a dozen slaves over the last twenty years, and played with perhaps half a hundred more. In Minneapolis? you ask incredulously, the law-abiding, church-going, vanillaflavored heartland? Why would I lie? I'm past the point where I have to prove myself. We have our own kinky little community here, invisible to those who don't want to see, obvious to the initiates who know the signs. Like Ilsa's collar. If you weren't one of us, and you happened to notice it, you might think it's one of those choker necklaces so popular with the Britney Spears set. It's braided black leather, strung with tiny diamonds. You might expect a matching diamond stud piercing her navel.

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If you truly paid attention, though, you might recognize something unusual in the way Ilsa wears it. She holds her head exceptionally high, her back straight, her graceful neck extended, showing the collar off like a badge of honor. Which of course it is, my gift to her upon her completion of one year in my service. In truth, though, wearing it is her gift to me, a tangible and public statement of her total devotion. She never removes it. The candlelight makes it sparkle, now, as I gaze on her naked, bound beauty. Her wrists are roped together and fastened to the hook in the ceiling. A few red-gold locks have escaped from her barrette and trail down her back, contrasting with the darker red of the stripes my whip has carved in her tender flesh. Her creamy skin is flushed and damp with sweat. I kneel behind her and use my tongue to gather a salty drop that has run down her spine, just as it is about to disappear into the shadows between her swelling butt cheeks. Ilsa shivers in delight at my touch. I reward her by pulling her open and lapping at her anus. She is still loose and slick with lube and my come. She cannot help responding, pushing her hips back to invite me deeper into her dark recess. I draw away and land a rousing slap on one buttock. "Didn't I tell you to be still?" I growl. We both understand that my anger is feigned. "Yes, Master," she murmurs. "I'm sorry. When you touch me, it's so difficult." "A well-trained slave knows how to control herself." I don't tell her, of course, that she is perfect. "Clearly, you need more punishment. Turn around." On tiptoe―the spreader bar between her ankles making her movements awkward―she manages to maneuver her body to face me. Her eyes are cast down, those long sooty lashes of hers (so different from her spun-copper hair) making spiky shadows on her cheeks. Her lips are parted, her breath fast and shallow. I intend to apply my whip to those luscious breasts of hers, gleaming and still unmarked in the light of the candles. Instead, I find myself kissing her, sharing the funky flavors that I just sampled from her butthole. She opens to me, not only her mouth but her whole self, allowing me to feast upon her until I am sated. She keeps nothing back. Candlelight and kisses. I may be a nasty old Dom, but I'm still an incurable romantic. It's true that I've never known surrender as complete as what Ilsa offers. I find it a 12

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bit scary. She tells me that she will do anything for me, and I almost believe her. I'm sure that she has limits; everyone has limits, that's SM 101. But I haven't found them yet. I've used paddles and floggers of every description, clamps and clothespins, electricity and chili oil. I've staked her out, naked and in full view of the world, on the balcony of my condo in January. This is in Minnesota, remember. After ten minutes, her ivory skin turned blue. She never complained, never used her safe word. I hastened to bring her inside, wrap her in blankets and feed her hot tea and brandy. The clear light of adoration in her eyes never wavered. I was the one who felt chastened. I've shared her at play parties, watching as my friends buggered and beat her. Afterwards, she was more tender and attentive than ever. I'll never forget the night that I invited two rising stars in our community, Master Shark and Mistress Valentine, to come over and try her. They were far rougher on her than I could ever be. After an enema and a caning, being fisted by Shark and pissed on by Valentine, she was bruised and exhausted, but apparently in a state of bliss. "You know you could always stop them, Ilsa," I told her later. "They know your safe word, and they would honor it." "But Master," she murmured dreamily, on the edge of consciousness. "I wanted to please you." She does please me, of course. Sometimes I can't believe my good fortune, to have won the devotion of this angel/slave when she could have chosen a younger, more handsome, more energetic Dom. Often, though, I realize that there is something wrong in our relationship, something missing. Thinking about her brings on an unpleasant anxiety, vague but annoying. I'm thinking about her now, as I sit sipping Starbucks cappuccino and trying to read Murakami. Could any person truly be so pliant and submissive? What kind of childhood did she have, to make her this way? When I asked, she told me that her upbringing had been "normal", unexceptional. Do I believe her? Why would she choose a master so much older than she? Old enough to be her father? There must be some secret here, some story she won't, or perhaps can't, share, even with me. All at once, my thoughts are rudely interrupted. Something slams into my chair 13

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from behind. My coffee leaps out of the cup and onto my lap. My cock is scalded, even through my trousers and underwear. Anger rises in me as I turn to confront the culprit. "What do you think you're doing? You should be more careful!" I don't need to shout. My voice naturally carries the authority of long years of dominance. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" My first impressions are youth, plumpness, a certain disheveled quality that is not entirely unappealing. "Are you hurt?" She notices the coffee stain spreading over my crotch. "Oh, dear! I really am such a klutz!" Her eyes are a warm brown behind wire-rimmed glasses. As she gazes in dismay at the mess in my lap, I find, to my chagrin, that my half-boiled penis is hardening in response to her attention. She doesn't miss this sign. There's still concern in her voice, but I catch a hint of laughter as well. "I really apologize. I'll pay for the dry-cleaning, of course." "No need," I say, more gruffly than I intend. I pull my chair closer to the wrought iron cafe table, trying to hide my erection. "My housekeeper will get the stain out." An image flashes involuntarily through my mind: Ilsa on her knees, nude except for her collar, scrubbing at my pants on an old-fashioned washboard. Meanwhile, I tower over her, jerking off into her hair. This picture does nothing to reduce my arousal. I think that's the key to being a great dominant–a kinky imagination that is always at work, even at the most inappropriate moments. "Oh, please, let me do something to make it up to you! I'll buy you another coffee." Before I can stop her, she's at the counter conferring with the barrista. I pretend to read, but actually I'm surveying her, trying unsuccessfully for a dispassionate evaluation. She carries more weight than is fashionable, but it's all curves. Her soft olive sweater and jeans emphasize this. She has straight brown hair that she has tried to confine in a ponytail; wisps escape all over to hang untidily around her face. She moves with a determined energy, solid and confident. I contrast her headlong progress as she stumbles among the tables balancing two cups, with Ilsa's fragile grace. There's no comparison. Still, I find, I want her. She seats herself across from me. "Double cappuccino with skim milk, both cinnamon and chocolate, right?" She barely gives me the chance to nod my assent. "I guess you're a regular here, too. I'm surprised I haven't seen you before." "I'm pretty inconspicuous," I comment lamely, knowing that with my height and 14

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dominant presence, this is not at all true. "Hardly!" she says with a laugh. "Anyway, I'm glad to meet you now, though I'm sorry to have damaged you and your pants in the process." She tries to steal a glance under the table, to gauge my current state of tumescence.

I have foiled her by

transferring my book to my lap. "I'm Kate," she says holding out her hand. "And you are...?" "Riordan," I say, finally, when it's clear that I can't avoid answering. "What an unusual name!" "It's Celtic," I say. "Traditional in my family." "Well, it's very romantic." Her smile is infectious. "What do you do, Riordan?" "Officially, I'm retired. Early retirement," I hasten to add. "I was CEO for an industrial equipment distributor. Now I do a bit of this and a bit of that. Play the stock market. Do guest lectures for MBA programs. Write." Train slaves, I think privately. I try to imagine Kate shackled and on her knees and fail utterly. "I noticed you were reading Murakami and wondered if you were a writer. He's not exactly in the best-seller category." She sighs and stretches her arms over her head, causing her sweater to bulge delightfully, and my cock to follow suit. "I'm working on a novel, myself. In my spare time, of course. My day job is writing advertising copy." "Well, at least it's writing," I say. This girl confuses me, with her aggressive friendliness. "Yeah, well...it's not much fun, but it pays the rent." She has an idea; I can literally see it light up her face. "Speaking of apartments, why don't you come over to mine for dinner some time soon?" She places her hand casually on my thigh. "I'm an excellent cook; all my friends say so." She can see my hesitation. She turns up the pressure. "Please, Riordan, let me make up for my clumsiness by cooking you a nice dinner. How about tomorrow night?" It's strange to have a woman call me by name instead of "Master". Once again, I have a sense of disorientation. I know I should refuse, for my own sake as well as for Ilsa's. But somehow, I can't. Or at least, I don't. "All right. What time?" "How about seven?" She tears a sheet out of her notebook and scribbles something in a round, flowing script. "Here's my address and phone number." 15

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"Uh, thanks." Where did my usual eloquence go? Kate glances at her watch and stands up so suddenly that she nearly overturns her own coffee. "Oh, god, I've got to go! I'm really late. Is there anything you don't eat?" I shake my head, speechless in the face of her energy. "Great! Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then." She grabs my hand and squeezes it enthusiastically. "Thanks for being such a good sport, Riordan." My hand and my cock are both throbbing in the wake of her whirlwind departure. I'm puzzled by my own reactions. My well-honed instincts tell me that Kate has no interest in kinky games. She's young, fresh, horny, and 100% vanilla. Whereas I have had dominant fantasies since I was in grade school. I really can't understand why the prospect of ordinary, unadorned sex, without any paraphernalia or power exchange, suddenly seems so intoxicating. Ilsa is waiting for me at the door when I return home. She is completely charming in her French maid costume: translucent black organdy top, frilly lace apron, and bare buttocks. And her collar, of course. "Good evening, Master. Would you like a cocktail before dinner?" "Scotch on the rocks. Please." I feel awkward with my sweet slave, in the aftermath of my encounter with Kate. "But I think we will go out for dinner tonight. Wear the green silk sheath. Without any underwear." "Of course." Ilsa is trying to smother her smile and remain serious and respectful. She loves it when I take her out and show her off. She is already imagining the clinging softness of the silk against her bare skin. The sting of my palm on her exposed behind brings her out of her reverie. "What about my drink, slave? Do I have to teach you how to provide such a simple service?" "No, of course not, Master. Right away, sir." She hurries off, swaying on her spike heels. I admire the reddening image of my hand on her white flesh as she disappears into the kitchen. Perfection indeed. The next evening, I chain Ilsa to the foot of our bed. "I have to go out," I tell her, as I hand her the water bottle and the chamber pot. "I have some business. I may be quite late." Why am I lying to her? We both know that I am the Master. I am free to do as I wish. She has chosen to accept that. If I want to see another woman, isn't that my 16

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prerogative? I realize that if I were going to a play party tonight, or to help break in another Dom's slave, I'd be telling Ilsa the truth. I have no illusions about tonight's dinner engagement. I can see very clearly what Kate wants, long before she opens the door wearing a tight red jersey dress that showcases her ample cleavage and plump, freckled thighs. We don't even get past the second glass of wine. With dizzying speed, Kate propels me into her bedroom and sucks me into a hot, wet kiss. She tears off my clothes with such abandon that I worry, briefly, about damage. Then she sits me on the bed and does a slow, delicious strip tease in front of me. She slips one strap off her shoulder and I catch a glimpse of the black lace cradling her lush breasts. The other strap slides down and they're revealed in all their glory. No padding needed here. In fact, the lace is so delicate that her rigid nipples visibly distort it. Next she gradually raises her hem to just below her pubis. "Want more?" she whispers. My swollen cock bobs in my lap. I suppress the urge to grab her, rip her dress open and ravage her, and simply nod. She pulls the dress over her head, displaying her black satin thong. Her breasts rise and tighten at the motion. My cock aches. I can't take much more of this. Kate seems to be losing patience, too. She slips the thong down her thighs and kicks it away, then unhooks the brassiere in front. Twin globes of ripe flesh spill out. I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly flooded with saliva. With a half smile, Kate takes a step closer and feeds me her abundant tits, one at a time. Before I can understand how it happens, I am on my back, with Kate astride me, riding me hard. She's wild, bucking and squirming, all her monumental energy focused on that spot where our bodies join. She rubs at her clit with one hand, pinches her nipple with the other. I grab her hips and arch up into her, trying to give her what she needs to push her over the edge. I'm enjoying myself, of course, but I am somehow removed from the scene. I watch our bodies writhing with the same sense of detachment that I feel observing a couple fucking at a play party. I am simultaneously aroused and distant. I'm as hard as I have ever been, but it feels as though I am a long way from coming. 17

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Her orgasm is a noisy cataclysm, that, to my surprise, sweeps me away with it. Afterwards, Kate feeds me quiche and salad in bed, washed down with two bottles of white wine. Then she snuggles up to me, trapping me in her arms, feathering my cheeks with kisses. "Thank you, Riordan," she sighs, half asleep already. "That was wonderful. You're a fabulous lover." I don't respond. What can I say? If you think that was good, you should try me when I've got a flogger and some nipple clamps? Kate sleeps. I don't. I'm turning the whole experience over in my head, wondering what I have done, and why. I think about Ilsa, waiting for me in chains, and tears prick my eyes. Near dawn, Kate rolls over, releasing me from her embrace. I tiptoe around the bedroom, gathering and donning my scattered clothes. I notice my shirt is missing two buttons, and that Kate snores. I should kiss her goodbye, I know, but I'm afraid that I'll wake her. So I sneak out of her apartment like a thief, ashamed and guilty that I am abandoning her. I haven't smoked in fifteen years, but now I buy a pack of cigarettes at a 7-11 and prowl the empty sidewalks of the city, lighting one after another, shivering in the October chill. I've already forgotten Kate; it's Ilsa that I'm worried about now. In some strange way, it seems, I've betrayed her trust. She asks nothing more from me than to be her Master, to train her and mold her, to guide her towards more complete submission. To perfect her. And what do I do? I leave her alone while I chase some juicy vanilla morsel who just wants me for my hard and willing cock. I'm lazy, that's the plain truth of it. But that's not all. I'm afraid. I tell myself that I can't fathom Ilsa's limits, but have I really tried? Have I accepted the fact that I might need to give her more, push her harder, go deeper with her than I've ever gone with a slave? Perhaps it's really my limits that need to be expanded. There are things I could do, implements I could use, that I've never tried. To be honest, they make me uncomfortable. If this is what Ilsa requires, though, can I deny her? I understand, suddenly, that it is not only Ilsa who needs to be perfected. 18

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When I tiptoe into the bedroom, she’s asleep, curled up on the carpet. A stray beam of early morning sunlight filters through the drapes and gilds her coppery curls. She looks like an angel, but what angel ever displayed the fading pink marks of a caning on her unblemished skin? A pang of guilt and regret lances through me that is as excruciating as physical pain. I don't deserve her. I should set her free. I am about to turn away and slink out of the room, when she stirs. "Master," she says, not trying to hide her smile. "You're home." She raises herself onto her knees, thighs spread, wrists clasped at the small of her back, as I taught her. She dares to look up at me. "I missed you." I need to be stern with her, I remind myself. I need to offer her extremes of pleasure and pain that far surpass anything we've yet experienced together. I must be willing to bring her to the point where she trusts me enough to utter her safe word, without fearing my displeasure. No matter what it takes. I must be fierce and implacable, cruel and merciless, immune to any doubt or fear, in order to be the Dom that she needs. Incurable romantic that I am, I can only kneel beside her and take her in my arms.

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T

he tractor was acting up again. I was on my knees in the straw, surrounded by greasy parts, when Sally came running into the barn.

"There's a tornado coming, Joe. Heard it just now on the North Platte radio station." I looked her over. Her hair had half-escaped from her barrette and was floating in

red-brown wisps around her ears. Her apron was damp; she must have been washing the lunch dishes. She was breathing hard from her run, ample breasts rising and falling under her print dress. I saw worry in her eyes, justifiable worry. Twisters are no joke. When one comes roaring across the cornfields, all you can do is hide. In '96 we lost a barn and two horses, while we shivered together in the crawl space, holding each other tight and listening to the wind scream. After that, I built a proper cellar. I might not be able to save our property, but our lives were a different story. I nodded to her, already covering the parts with a tarp and weighting it down. "Open the house windows, lock the door, and meet me in the cellar. I'll just be a few minutes." Without another word she went to follow my instructions. Already I could feel that weird electricity in the air, that heaviness that makes it hard to draw breath. The horses were restless. I opened their stalls, so that they would 20

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have a chance if the building collapsed. They huddled nervously in the corners. Leaving the upper windows open wide to equalize the pressure, I locked the doors and headed for the bulkhead. The sky was a sickly green. A mass of inky thunderheads sat ominously on the horizon. It was perfectly still, no hint of a breeze stirring the July afternoon, as I swung open the doors and headed down the concrete stairs. I was mighty proud of the storm cellar. It stood some distance from the house, just east of Sally's kitchen garden. I had heard of folks who survived a twister in their cellar but who were trapped when the house collapsed on top of it. My cellar was spacious, twelve feet by fourteen, with a ceiling high enough to accommodate my six-foot frame. It was well-equipped. It had a little refrigerator (which I kept stocked with beer) that ran off a car battery, a good supply of canned goods and fresh water, a comfortable double mattress and some director’s chairs, and plenty of battery-powered lights and candles. Not to mention the flogging bench and the bondage frame that I had built in my spare time, and a reasonable assortment of home-crafted floggers, paddles and dildos. Sally waited for me, sitting in one of the chairs with her hands folded in her lap. She had lit several of the candles and they cast a kind light on her weathered face. I was amazed, as always, how we changed when we entered this space together. Her practical, bossy ways slipped from her and she became hesitant and needy. Meanwhile, my farmer's drawl faded, replaced by the arrogant, intellectual voice of my college years, when I wrote poetry and thought that I would rule the world. Those years in Lincoln, majoring in literature and bridge, had shaped me in ways I was still discovering. That was when I first read de Sade and Reage; that was when I realized the desires that filled me with shame were common and even accepted in some society. Her eyes followed me anxiously. I ducked to avoid banging my head on the doorframe and then stood tall. I was an imposing presence, I knew, especially in this confined space. It did not matter that I was wearing greasy overalls and work boots. Dominance begins in the mind. "Stand up, Sally," I said quietly. "Remove your dress." Immediately she moved to obey me, fluid and graceful as she pulled the cotton garment over her head. I was somewhat surprised to discover that she was naked 21

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underneath. Clearly she had made some preparations before running out to warn me about the twister. I would make the most of this. "You are not wearing any underclothes, Sally. What a sluttish thing to do!" She hung her head, but I knew she could tell that I was not really angry. "Well, what have you to say for yourself, miss?" Her voice was nearly inaudible. "Nothing." "What? You know better than to address me improperly." "Nothing, sir. I have no excuse, except that I thought it might please you." It did please me. Though Sally is closer to fifty then forty, she still has a fine body, full but not flabby. Her breasts are luxurious, capped with tawny nipples big as pencil erasers. Her belly and thighs curve invitingly, and though there are streaks of gray on her head, a lively mass of pure auburn curls adorns her mound. Her legs are nicely sculpted from all the physical work she does around the farm. "Come here, girl, and kneel in front of me." I admired her promptness in responding to this command as much as the grace with which she executed it. "You are a nasty girl, aren't you, Sally?" She nodded, inwardly delighted to know that I found her sexually appealing. "You know what I do with nasty girls?" "You punish them, sir." "Yes, indeed I do." I reached behind me and picked up a pair of clamps from the shelf. One advantage of this enclosed space was that everything was close at hand. "Place your hands behind your head." Almost before the words were out of my mouth, she had complied. Her position elevated her breasts, offering her gorgeous tits to my attention. I resisted the urge to sink down and suckle them. Instead, I pressed open the spring-loaded jaws of one of the clamps and positioned it around her swollen left nipple. For long moments, I held it there, surrounding but not touching her delicate flesh while she watched me anxiously. "Breathe," I murmured, finally, and let the jaws close on her. She moaned softly as the pain shot through her body. Her eyes fluttered shut. I reached down and quickly swept one finger through her slit. She was drenched already. "How's that, my sweet slut?" She nodded, her eyes still closed. "Can you bear more?" She nodded again. I swiftly fastened the other clamp on her right tit. She gasped, and 22

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her body slumped for a moment. Then she straightened her back, and opened her eyes, looking up at me in expectant adoration. "You look lovely, my little one." Despite the pain that I knew she was feeling, her face brightened at my praise. "I have something new for you today," I continued, "an innovation that I think you will enjoy. I copied it from something that I saw on the Internet." I rummaged in one of the built-in drawers and came up with a harness of leather straps reminiscent of a horse's tack. "Fortunate that the weather has been so cooperative. I have been looking for an opportunity to try this out." At my slight gesture, she rose and stood before me. Gently, I removed the nipple clamps. Her flesh looked raw. I pulled each nipple in turn into my mouth, laving it with soothing saliva. Sally writhed in spite of herself, spreading her thighs in invitation. "Still acting the slut? Turn around!" I landed a hard spank on each of her butt cheeks, and watch the pink imprint of my hand bloom. Sally was having a hard time stifling her grin. We both knew that she loved to be spanked. "Spread your legs," I ordered. When she complied, I slipped one wide stretch of leather around each thigh, and buckled it. I had carefully lined the straps with soft felt, so that the edges would not chafe her. "Now, hands over head." The next item was a network of leather strips about one inch wide that encased her torso. One wrapped around her chest just above her breasts, below her armpits. The other encircled her ribs just below, so that her breasts spilled over the leather. Crosswise strips, affixed every four inches or so, attached these two main straps. Two of these subsidiary pieces of leather ran between her tits, separating them nicely. Next I fastened a broad band, also felt-lined, around her waist, suppressing my immediate desire to dabble my fingers in her moist curls. "Wrists." That was all I needed to say. She held them out to me, watching me with anxious excitement in her eyes. I snapped on the homemade cuffs (tooled leather lined with rabbit fur from our own hutch), and then clipped them together. I stood back for a moment to admire my handiwork. Sally stood proudly, adorned in the bonds I had fashioned for her. My heart was full of love. There were sturdy rings fixed to the thigh cuffs, waist belt, and breast band. Now I took two plastic-covered steel cables. I clipped the ends to the bands on her thighs, ran 23

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them through the rings at her waist and chest and on her cuffs. Finally, I twisted the two cables together and ran them through the pulley that I had installed in the main ceiling beam, using a heavy-duty swivel bolt. "Are you ready?" I asked her. She nodded, her eyes wide and her lips half-open, beginning to understand how the contraption worked. I was about to begin hauling on the cables, when I had an inspiration. Why not increase her disorientation? I pulled a black silk scarf from the drawer behind me, and blindfolded her. The jet silk was, I found, a delightful contrast against her auburn hair. "How are you?" "Very well, sir." Without warning I reached down between her legs and sank two fingers deep into her pussy. She moaned as I pulled them out, dripping with her juices. I waved my hand just below her nose, and she opened her mouth, seeking my fingers with her tongue. "Such a perverted little girl! You like to be tied up, you like to taste your own pussy... whatever shall I do with you?" "Whatever you wish, sir," she answered, with complete sincerity. She did not have to answer; we both knew that she was mine, without reservation. But her offering made it doubly sweet. I began to pull the cables through the pulley. Her arms were quickly stretched above her head. Then the bands around her thighs began to move upward. She was on tiptoe, struggling to maintain her position as the harness settled around her limbs, trying to lift her. "Relax into your bonds, Sally. Don't struggle. You won't fall." Immediately she did as I recommended. Her feet left the floor and her thighs swung wide, exposing her rosy, glistening folds. Excellent! Just as I had imagined. The harness was designed to hold her basically upright, with both front and rear accessible, and legs spread. I was impressed at how well my ad hoc engineering had succeeded. The cables hung more or less vertically, aligning her wrists, chest, waist, and hips. Most of her weight rested comfortably on the broad thigh supports, as if she were in a swing. When she was suspended about six inches above the concrete floor of the cellar, I clipped the cables firmly to the eyebolt in the wall. Now I could turn my full attention to 24

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her charms. It was just then that the twister hit. Even through four feet of dirt and concrete, we could hear the shriek of the wind. The whole place trembled, as if from an earthquake. Sally gave a little whimper, whether of fear or excitement I couldn't tell. I brushed the stray locks away from her blindfold and lightly tongued her earlobe. "Don't worry, baby. I won't let anything or anyone hurt you. Except me." I gave her body a little push. She began to swing back and forth. I added a hint of torque, and her trussed form began to rotate slowly. Picking up the flogger I had pulled out of storage, I snapped it through the air two or three times. Sally cringed at each report, knowing what was coming. Her body swung round so that her back was to me. I landed two quick strokes, one on each butt cheek, and was rewarded by her cries and the symmetric scarlet trails across her tender flesh. When the course of her rotation presented her breasts, I flicked the leather tongues across their fullness, careful to avoid her already-punished nipples. As she turned again, exposing her ass, I lashed her once more, this time at the sensitive crease where her cheeks met her thighs. Each time my whip kissed her skin, she moaned a little louder, in a voice increasingly husky with arousal. The volume of the wind swelled suddenly. I wondered if the tornado was stripping away the protective layers of earth above us. Pushing the thought away, I returned my attention to my helpless darling. She was breathing heavily, very close, I knew, to her climax. Meanwhile, my cock was straining in my boxers, pressing uncomfortably against the stiff denim of my overalls. I stripped as quickly as I could. Then I reached out and caught hold of her arm, stilling the movement of her body. She gasped when I touched her. Standing between her splayed thighs, my penis jutting toward the ceiling, I ran my tongue over her lips. When she blindly tried to return my caress, I pulled away, teasing her. "How are you, my love?" "Dizzy," she replied softly. "Sore. Horny." "Horny, are you? Well, I think we can do something about that." With this, I grabbed her buttocks and pulled her towards me, onto my swollen cock. She was hotter and wetter than I could remember her being, in all our twenty-six years of marriage. It took every iota of my control not to come immediately. Even in her 25

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bonds, she writhed like a serpent around me, clutching my cock with her inner muscles, hooking her legs behind my back and holding fast despite the contrary pull of the harness. All the while the earth vibrated around us, trembling with the force of the storm. Our own quiverings and throbbings seemed like echoes of those primal tremors. Within seconds of my entrance, my Sally-slut climaxed, screaming so loudly that, for a moment, she drowned out the din of the twister. She came again when I emptied myself into her depths, but this time, it was my voice that obliterated the screaming wind. Later, we lay holding each other on the mattress. The candles had burned low. The wind had died and all was quiet. "Sounds like the twister's passed, Sally," I said, stroking her sweat-damp hair tenderly. "Maybe we should go up soon." Sally lay back on the mattress and stretched provocatively. She arched her back and spread her thighs, deliberately displaying herself. "I don't know, Joe. Twisters often come in bunches. I think we should stay down here awhile longer." Knowing her as I do, I could hardly disagree.

26

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ʺW

hich would you prefer, Sarah, the cane or the feather duster?"

"Is that a trick question?" "Why do you ask? Don't you trust me?" "Of course I do. But you do have a way of twisting things around in unexpected directions." "I thought you liked surprises. In any case, as your Master, it's my responsibility to add a certain - ambiguity - to our interactions. To keep you on your toes." "These ridiculous spike heels do that well enough." "If I hear any more complaints or excuses, Sarah, I will make you very sorry. And I don't mean something you'd enjoy like a spanking or nipple clamps." "I..." "Sarah! Just answer my question. Now." "Well... I choose the cane." "Really? Why is that? You're blushing, you know. Tell me why you prefer the cane." 27

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"Well - um - I think it will hurt more. And that it will please you more, to see me enduring that pain." "But I asked what you wanted. Not what you think I'd want." "Mm..." "What was that?" "There's no difference, Master. What I want is to please you, to fulfill your every lust, to satisfy your desires before you are even aware of them." "Silly, romantic girl. You sound like a novel." "It's the truth. I can't help it." "So—"(Swish!), "you want the cane, do you?" "Yes, Master." "Last time, you remember, you couldn't sit down for two days." (Swish!) "I remember." "Very well. Bend over and hold on to the edge of the table. Good." (Swish!) "Ow—oh! Oh!!" "You're awfully slick, Sarah. The cane slides back and forth in your cunt as though it was greased." "Uh... ooh..." "Spread your legs a bit more. That's right. Now I can rub the bamboo right up against your clit." "Oh, Master! Oh...!" "I think that talking about the pain makes you hot. But what about the pain itself?" "Uh... ooh... I don't know." "We should do some experiments in that area, don't you think? Oh, there's the doorbell. Some urchins come to extort their candy from us, no doubt. Get up and answer it, Sarah." "What? Like this?" "Naked, in high heels, with a cane wedged in your crotch? Why not?" "Please, the neighbors are already suspicious about us. All the screams and so on. If I expose myself to their kids, they're going to report us. These days, especially, anything involving children is dangerous." "Hey, you'd probably like it in prison. All those rough, nasty guards...Come on, 28

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Sarah, I'm only teasing you. Here, throw this over your head. Then go answer the door." "But..." "I'll give you butt! Don't argue. I swear, for someone who claims to be my slave, you give me a lot of lip." "I'm sorry, Master. But I must look like Casper with an erection." "You do, rather. Never mind. Go give the grubby little devils what they deserve, then get back here." "Yes, Master." ... "So, who was it?" "Two Darth Vaders, one Power Ranger, one Harry Potter and a most convincing Elvira, Mistress of the Dark." "Hmm, sounds appealing. Should have invited her in." "Master... ow!" "Your nipples are like marbles, little Sarah. And how's that cane doing? Walk around a bit for me. Very fetching. But I think you're having a bit too much fun. Let me have it." "Are you going to beat me now?" "Perhaps. Would you like that?" "Whatever you'd like, Master." "Hmm. Is that so? So many possibilities...Go back to the table and bend over again. Thighs wide. That's right. Now, reach back and pull open your cheeks. Yes, very nice. So sensitive and vulnerable. I really should cane you, Sarah. You deserve it, for your insolence and your questions.

But..."(Zip!), "I'm just too indulgent to train you

properly..." "Oh...Master!" *** "Master?" "Yes?" "Can I ask you a question?" 29

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"You just did." "The cane was delicious, a real treat. I was wondering what you planned to do if I had chosen the feather duster." "Actually, I was going to break off the feathers and use the sharp quills to pierce the flesh around your nipples." "No! Not really! You wouldn't do that! Would you?" "You can never be sure, Sarah, can you? That's why you love me." "Only one of the reasons, Master. One of many."

30

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I

t was just an ordinary door. Solid core, Yale lock, standard peephole—identical to all the other doors on the fourth floor of this unexceptional building on the corner of West 14th and B Street.

So why was he sweating and trembling as though he stood before the gates of hell?

No, that wasn't quite right. He knew the door led through damnation, to salvation. He craved the peace, needed to be redeemed. But he was, as always, afraid to take that first step. His cock was already an iron bar in his worn jeans. His heart jack-hammered against his ribs. Don't be a pussy, he told himself. Get on with it. His work-reddened knuckles hesitated, inches from the door. Without warning, it swung open. His heartbeat raced into overdrive. He could hardly breath. "Evening, Jack. I thought I heard you shuffling around out in the hall. Come on in, before I shock all my neighbors." She was decent enough, with her miniskirt and the black lace bra that cradled her ample breasts. But Jack scurried into the apartment. He didn't want to be seen, though everyone else in the apartment building was probably parked in front of the tube. Helen stood with her back to the closed door, surveying him. He blushed and stared 31

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down at his work boots. "It's been a while, Jack. I was beginning to think you didn't want to see me anymore." "Seven weeks, Ma'am. I tried—tried to stay away. But I couldn't stand it." He was appalled to feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "I needed to see you." Perceptive as always, she saw his distress. "Hey, don't cry!" She enfolded him in a brawny embrace, burying his face in her bosom. "It's ok. I understand." She smelled of Ivory soap and talcum powder. His swollen cock throbbed painfully, and for a moment he thought he'd come right there. She released him in the nick of time. He stepped away from her, head bowed in embarrassment. "How's Maude?" "Fine," he mumbled. "Does she know you're here?" He gazed at his mistress, eyes full of pain. "Of course not. She thinks I'm over at the Moose Club, playing poker with the boys. Hey, I was, for more than two hours, before I came here." He stared at his hands, fighting the guilt. "I don't like to lie to her." "Why don't you tell her the truth?" "I can't. She wouldn't understand. She's the church organist, for heaven's sake. She teaches Sunday school." "You told me that she likes sex." "Sure she does, but only normal sex. Healthy, ordinary sex, insert tab A into slot B. You know what I mean." "There's nothing unhealthy about what you and I do." "Yeah, right." He gave a bitter laugh. "Well, I suppose there's no law against it. It's not like I'm a homo or anything." "Nothing unhealthy about that either." "Look, I don't want to talk about it. Ok? Let's just get on with it." Jack dug his wallet out of his pocket with difficulty, wincing as the denim stimulated his bulging prick. He pulled out a wad of bills and laid them on the television table. "Here. I was lucky tonight. Won more than a hundred bucks." Helen looked at him, some unreadable expression on her broad features. Then she rearranged her face into a mask of authority. He could see 32

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it happen, the shift to her professional mode. He could hear it in her voice. "All right, then. Into the dungeon, little boy." She opened the door into what would have been the kids' bedroom, if Helen had kids. The non-traditional decor, familiar as it was, still shocked him. Heavy black curtains hid the walls and cloaked the one window, which faced onto the alley running between B and C streets. The yards of fabric muffled noise, making the room into a dark cocoon. The light was indirect and soothing, coming from several track fixtures installed in the ceiling. The furnishings were home-made, but effective enough. In the center of the room was a punishment bench fashioned from two heavy-duty sawhorses—he knew the brand, popular with local contractors—and a plank padded with gardener's foam knee pads. Opposite the door stood a bondage rack made of steel conduit. In one corner was a sturdy old armchair she must have picked up from Salvation Army, augmented by leather wrist and ankle restraints. Arrayed on the pegboard along the left wall (just like the one in his garage, where he stored his tools) were coils of hemp and cotton rope, clamps and turnbuckles, a rattan cane, several paddles of wood and rubber, and a vicious bullwhip. He knew that it was vicious—from experience. The plastic storage bins under the pegboard, spray-painted black to fit in with the decor, held more implements and supplies. Jack hovered on the threshold of the dungeon, temporarily paralyzed by fear and excitement. She gave him a little push. "Get going. Or I'll send you home to Maude." He stumbled in and stood, slightly dizzy, in the middle of the room. Helen went over to rummage in the storage boxes. "Strip, boy," she called over her shoulder. "Now." Jack kicked off his boots and unzipped his jeans. His heart was pounding again, so hard that it hurt. His cock surged as he dragged his pants off. His fingers fumbled at the buttons on his flannel shirt. He was down to his underwear when she turned back to him, her arms full of paraphernalia. 33

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"What? Not naked yet? Get a move on, boy!" Hurriedly, he pulled the undershirt over his head, exposing his broad, hairy torso. The stretchy cotton underwear snagged on his swollen prick as he wrestled them off. "Get over to the rack." Her palm landed on his pale butt cheek with a resounding smack. That single hot, sharp blow nearly sent him off. He tightened his muscles in alarm, struggling for control. If he shot his wad without her permission, she'd beat him till he couldn't sit for days. That always made Maude suspicious. Helen secured his wrists to the upper crossbar, but left his ankles free. She circled his stretched body, appraising his state of arousal, making her plans. "So, you were playing poker tonight?" "Yes, Ma'am." "Did you drink a lot of beer?" He knew right then what her nasty game was going to be. His cheeks burned with the understanding. "Some, Ma'am." "How much, boy?" "Three cans of Bud, Ma'am." "Not enough. Drink this." She poured a big glass of water and held it to his lips. He realized that he actually was parched, and drank greedily. She refilled the glass. "Again." He could feel the liquid settling in his gut. "I can't..." "What did you say, boy? Why are you here, if you're not going to obey me?" Her anger melted him, then brought him to a boil. He drank two more glasses. "Good. Now, my little boy, I know that sometimes you can't control yourself. But I have what you need." She picked up something white. It was an old-fashioned cloth diaper, but on a giant scale, big enough to fit a six-footer like Jack. He wondered briefly where she had found it. Unlike most of her equipment, this wasn't something they sold at Home Depot. "Spread your legs, baby." The soft cotton caressed his rigid prick, making him moan. Her fingers were cool on his sweating flesh as she pinned the thing at each hip. She stood back to admire her handiwork. He blushed again, aware that he must look ridiculous, embarrassed to realize that this simply made him hornier. "Very good. But I'll need something pretty strong, won't I, for you to feel it through that thick diaper?" 34

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She retrieved the cane from the wall. "This should do the trick." The flexible rattan rod whistled through the air as she warmed up. The hair at the back of his neck stood on end at the sound. His balls tightened into aching knots. "Open your thighs wider. And bend over so the fabric's stretched tight across your butt. That's good." Jack trembled, off-balance, waiting for the first stroke. Leaning forward, he found that the padded cuffs around his wrists supported most of his weight. Then again, he felt as though the lump of granite jutting from his crotch would be heavy enough to drag him to the floor. He had been hard half an hour before he left the game, knowing that this would be his final destination. He hoped nobody had noticed his hard-on when he got up to leave. Early delivery at the store, he had told them. Need to get my sleep. All the last week he'd been harried by anxious dreams, but he'd sleep soundly tonight. He always did, after a session. "Ready, baby?" "Yes, Ma'am," he murmured. Still the pain surprised, biting into his flesh as though his ass was totally bare. "Ow!" he yelled. He had time for two deep breaths before she slashed at him again. His cock jerked against the cotton that bound it against his belly, threatening to explode. The cane left tracks of fire burning across his buttocks. The agony spread and mutated, merging with the awful pressure in his bladder. Each searing stroke hurt more than the last. He was shaking, near tears, from the excruciating pain and the effort of staying in control. Yet, when she paused to get her breath, he craved another stroke. The pain was almost unbearable, but its loss was worse still. She might have read his mind. "Enough, baby?" Jack was silent, overwhelmed with shame. He didn't want to admit it, his weakness, his sickness. "Answer me, boy. Have you had enough of my cane? Or do you want more?" The authority in her voice sent a delicious chill up his spine. Did it even matter what he wanted? He was in her power. Everything was up to her. 35

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"No answer. I guess that means you're done, that you can't take anymore..." "No...more..." The croaking voice seemed to belong to someone else. "What was that?" "More. Please, Ma'am. Give me more." Her mocking laugh shriveled him. It hurt more than the cane. Yet strangely, even though his erection sagged, he was still excited. His balls were still tight. His bladder was as swollen as his cock had been, and somehow that turned him on, too. "It's hard to admit that you're such a kinky little baby, isn't it? That you like it when I beat you. But it's ok. That's what I'm here for, to give you what you're afraid to ask for from anyone else. "Let's check your marks. See if I think you can take any more. We can't send you back to Maude with your butt looking like barbecued chicken." The mention of his wife's name made him squirm. She knew that, Helen did. It was all part of the performance. Just because he understood didn't mean that he failed to react. She stood behind him, close to his suspended bulk. He could feel the heat coming off her body, smell her talc and a hint of oceany woman-scent. She barely touched the edge of the diaper covering his ass. The welts on his butt screamed as the cloth moved against them. He sucked in his breath, struggling once again for control. The urge to pee was unbearable. Gently, Helen peeled the cotton away from his wounded skin. "Hmm. Very dramatic. I know you're a tough guy, but I think you've had enough for tonight." Jack was about to protest, to swear that he could endure another dozen strokes. She cupped his butt cheeks in her cool palms, and squeezed lightly. Echoes of the cane's agony raced through him. He screamed. His back arched. His legs turned to rubber. For a moment, he forgot to tighten the muscles controlling his bladder. The pungent odor of urine filled the dungeon. Jack began to cry. He flinched as Helen landed a vicious slap on his lacerated ass. "Oh, you naughty baby! You've wet yourself again. Naughty, naughty! Now I'm going to have to change you. Then, I'm going to punish you." 36

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She unbuckled the wrist restraints and massaged his shoulders to stimulate the blood flow. Her touch brought the blood back to his cock as well. The soaked cloth clung to the growing bulk of his erection, a guilty pleasure that made him harder still. "But for now, I'm going to let you stand there in your wet diaper and think about what a bad baby you are." Helen stepped out of her skirt and unfastened her bra. She wore no panties. Jack watched from under lowered eyelids, admiring her fair, freckled skin and ripe body. A bushy tangle of red-gold curls decorated the place where her solid thighs met. Fat, juicy-looking nipples crowned her pendulous breasts. She seated herself in the armchair, spreading her thighs a bit. Subtle musk mingled with the sharp stink of his pee. "Come here, boy," she ordered. He was at her feet in a moment. After fumbling with the safety pins for a while, she gave up and yanked the soaked diaper down to his knees. He groaned as the cloth rasped over his welts. His cock sprang out, fully hard again. Helen reached out to pinch the purple skin stretched over the knob with her lacquered fingernails. "What a nasty boy you are! Well, I know how to handle nasty boys." She patted her thighs. "Over my knee. Now." Trying to hide his eagerness, Jack draped himself across her lap. Helen was a big woman. His feet reached the floor, but just barely. He spread his legs to brace himself, and she trapped his erection between her thighs. "Like that, do you? Well, let's see whether you like this." Her cupped palm landed solidly on his ass, directly on top of one of his stripes. He yelled and jerked his hips away. His captured cock rubbed against the silky skin of her inner thighs. Pain and pleasure twisted together, racing through his body, and leaving him helpless. "Breathe," murmured Helen. "This is going to hurt." She spanked him, hard, first with one hand, then the other. The sting of her slaps was bad enough, but she deliberately aimed her strokes so that they'd reawaken the agony of his caning. Jack writhed against her, trying without success to escape the pain. She gripped him around his waist and rained furious blows on the tenderized skin of his butt cheeks. 37

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"You should see your ass, boy," she gasped, breathless from her exertion. "You're red as a lobster. Can't even see the marks of the cane anymore. Everything's a nice, even scarlet." She aimed a few more slaps at his punished flesh, then stopped. She was clearly getting tired. His skin burned and his muscles ached, but to be free from her blows was still a blissful relief. He lay in her lap, panting, more and more conscious of his swollen cock poking between her thighs. He moved a little, stealthily trying to increase the contact with her firm body, and was rewarded with another slap. "Oh, you evil little boy! Trying to get off, are you?" "Yes, Ma'am." He couldn't hide anything from Helen. She knew him, better than anyone did. "Get up. Let me see you." Awkwardly, he worked his bulk backwards, off her lap, gritting his teeth as his cock repeatedly brushed against her body. Finally he was kneeling at her side, his rigid prick swaying and pointing up at the ceiling. She reached down and squeezed it, hard. He closed his eyes and held his breath, struggling for control. "Well, you've managed to hold on through some heavy stuff. Maybe you deserve to come. Would you like that?" He didn't dare raise his eyes, but he knew she could see his smile. "Oh yes, Ma'am. Please, let me come." "Ok, you can come. But you have to jerk yourself off using your wet diaper." "Oh, no, please, Ma'am! Not that! I can't! That's disgusting!" Disgusting or not, his cock ratcheted up another few degrees toward the vertical at the thought. "It's that, or I'll send you and that proud erection home right now." It was no good pleading. He knew that. "Come on, Jack." Her voice held a new hint of intimacy and complicity. "Don't disappoint me. We both know you want it." He crawled on over to the crumpled pile of fabric that lay near her feet. The smell was strong. He raised himself onto his knees, spreading his thighs for balance. Mastering his revulsion, he grabbed the diaper and wrapped it around his cock. The damp cloth clung to his flesh, cool against his fevered skin. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the odor and all the shameful memories that it awakened, and 38

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gripped his cock in strong fingers. The diaper wouldn't slide. There was too much friction. It hardly mattered. Helen was watching him, leaning forward eagerly, lips parted, nipples taut, thighs open. One more squeeze was all it took. Pleasure, untainted by pain, overwhelmed him. His whole body convulsed. Milky fluid spurted from his spasming cock, showering Helen's toes. He closed his eyes and felt all the tension, the rage, the fear, the shame and the self-disgust flow out of him, leaving him empty and at peace. "Clean me off." Helen's voice, gentle despite its message of command, broke his reverie. As though in a trance, he bent and began to lick his come off her white feet. He didn't mind the bitter taste. Long after he had consumed every drop, he continued to lap at her warm, fragrant flesh, dipping his tongue into the crevices between her toes, tracing the smooth arch of her instep. "Enough." Helen raised him up until his face was level with hers. "Enough." She bent and kissed him with closed lips. "Get dressed. I'll wait in the living room." Then she was gone. Jack groaned as he clambered to his feet and looked around for his clothes. The muscles in his thighs and shoulders were sore. His buttocks were on fire. He couldn't stand the tightness of his BVDs, though the rough denim created its own special agony against his punished flesh. Every step reminded him of Helen and his own degradation. He smiled when he saw her, sitting in front of the TV watching the late news. She had put on a flowered housecoat, exactly like something Maude would wear. His heart swelled with something, something that actually felt quite a bit like love. He fished another twenty out of his pocket and added it to the pile of cash. "Thank you, Helen. I really appreciate it." She laughed. "Wait till tomorrow, Jack, when the pain really kicks in and you might not be so grateful!" "No," he said softly. "I will." She stood up to see him to the door. She patted his shoulder and kissed his cheek. "So, Jack. What will you tell Maude?" A smile lit his middle-aged features, making him suddenly handsome. "I'll just tell her that I had a lucky night." 39

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August 4, 1886

I

fear that I am unmasked, undone. Someone has plundered my secrets. Yesterday evening I found this journal lying on my dressing table, the lock forced, the pages spread blankly before me. Normally, I keep it at the bottom of my large jewel case.

I am quite certain that I replaced it in its hiding place after penning my last entry. Yet there it lay open among my combs and ointments, as if silently accusing me of wantonness and infidelity. My disappearing ink should keep me safe. The blank pages should tell no tales. Yet I am hardly confident of this. There might, perhaps, be methods that would force this volume to yield up its contents to its ravisher. The fact that it was locked and hidden would suggest that it held things valuable and private. To breach its defenses and find only bare parchment would surely excite suspicion. The most likely agent of this invasion is my husband. He would have the motivation, the opportunity, and indeed the right to penetrate my secrets. At least, this is how he would perceive the matter. All day today I scrutinized his demeanor, searched his face or his voice for some indication that he has discovered my corruption. I found no such evidence, however. Thomas behaved toward me as he always does, courteous, considerate, respectful and a little distant. When he left for his club this evening, he

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kissed my forehead as usual, and bade me not wait up for him. But if not Thomas, who is responsible for this trespass? I exonerate Pauline; she already knows much of my adventures and has made it plain that she does not wish to know any more. Bridget, the downstairs maid, is hardly a more likely candidate. To be honest, she lacks the imagination to even consider such an act. I have never seen her read anything other than her Bible. A fearful thought flashes through my mind. Could it possibly be my son Daniel? He is approaching an age where the flesh begins to fascinate. How horrible if he were to discover his mother’s lascivious nature and lustful behavior! A child, though, would not have left the violated diary in the open. The implied accusation is far too subtle for his mind. He would be furtive, returning the volume to its hiding place, or perhaps bearing it away with him. My head aches from considering the puzzle, and I am no closer to a solution than I was in that first moment of shock. I am nervous, expecting consequences, fearing reprisals from an unknown source. One might think that in this state of consternation, carnal interests would be far from my mind. But alas, this near-exposure appears to have inflamed me to new extremes. I find myself imagining punishments appropriate to my crimes. My husband orders Pauline to strip me of my garments and then he binds me between the posts in the summerhouse. He invites our friends and neighbors for tea in the garden. As they amble along the paths or sit conversing, he flogs me fiercely, painting my creamy skin with angry stripes. He is calm and methodical as always. The guests watch in polite interest as I writhe obscenely under his lash. I beg for mercy, yet what I really want is his stout member, deep in my cunny, beating me inside as well as out. As these images parade through my mind, I drive the handle of my hairbrush into my depths, pretending that it is my husband’s swollen rod. Each time the fantasy recurs, I embellish it with additional detail. My blond curls tumble disheveled over my scored back, damp with sweat. My husband offers the whip to our guests, requesting their assistance in chastising me. The men in the crowd expose themselves and before long I am bathed in their spunk. My deserved punishment endures for so long that I wet myself, while the audience jeers. The lurid, perverse images fuel my lust further. Four times today, I retreated to 41

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my room to relieve myself. Four times I had to don new drawers, replacing ones sopping with my arousal. My fingers are inside my cunny even as I write this. My imagined punishment is not the only source of my excitement. Pauline has brought me word of an establishment that caters to men and women such as I, people who crave anonymous erotic thrills. It is known as the House of Shadows. One can enter the House as either an Offering or a Seeker. Those who act as Offerings are displayed, in silhouette, to the assembled Seekers. Each Seeker may choose an Offering, but must do so without seeing his or her face. The Offering must accept the choice. Once the Seeker and the Offering are paired, they retire together to a private room to indulge in whatever carnal acts they mutually desire. Even in private, however, darkness and shadows prevail, to preserve the anonymity even in the midst of intimacy. My heart beats faster at this description. The possibilities were dizzying. I could seek another woman, to explore further the delights I had glimpsed with Madeleine. I could choose a virile man, someone who would not be shocked to feel me writhe under him and hear me scream obscenities. Perhaps most tantalizing of all, I could offer myself, and let fate determine who would take and use me. I questioned Pauline closely, but she could provide no further details. She had heard this tale from someone else’s maid, she told me. For all she knew, it might be total fabrication. However, her informant had mentioned an address in the South End. If I wished, she would make further inquiries. The clock is striking two. Moonlight streams through the lace curtains, making intricate patterns on the floor. Thomas will be arriving home soon. I should hide this volume away and take to my bed. I am sleepless with this fever, though, this fleshly heat that I cannot assuage no matter how many times I plunge the brush handle into my sex. If I do not find relief soon, I shall go mad with lust. I shall be discovered running naked through the street, grabbing strangers and begging them to take my body. I will be bound so that I cannot touch myself, confined in a solitary asylum where I see no flesh, only the eyes of my keepers. Lost as I am, even that image excites me, pulling me deeper into this maelstrom of lust. 42

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Miranda paused in her reading. Mark was watching her intently, his lips halfopen and his eyes shining. She became aware, suddenly, of his hand resting lightly on her naked thigh. Heat spread from that point of contact. Her cheeks burned and her sex melted. She took a deep breath, inhaling his scent of soap and sweat. “Should I continue?” she asked, her voice a little shaky with lust. “Oh, definitely! We’re just getting to the good part.” August 5, 1886 Everything has changed. The world has been turned upon its head, and all that I thought I knew, I now question. I am overflowing with confusion and joy. At midday today, Pauline sought me out in the downstairs parlor, where I was at my desk attending to correspondence. She had completed her researches on the House of Shadows. Such a place did indeed exist, at the rumored address. Gentleman and ladies wishing to gain entrance must present themselves at the entrance, masked or veiled, after ten in the evening, and supply a secret code phrase to the doorman. “And did you discover this phrase that will allow me passage, Pauline?” “Yes, Madame. It is in Latin. ‘Quod mens sibi proponere, caro efficere potest’.” She stumbled a bit over the unfamiliar syllables. All that the mind can imagine, the flesh can accomplish. I thought this extremely apt, given the reported nature of the place. I had no choice but to put aside my letters after she left. My thoughts were too full of sensual images. I was determined to enter the House of Shadows. This evening, however, would be impossible. Thomas was at home, and as far as I knew, did not intend to go out later. I felt a strange mingling of frustration and relief. Eager as I was to explore what the House offered, I had a premonition of change that left me uneasy. During the rest of the long day, I tried to busy myself with useful activities. The children and I went out walking. We encountered my friend and neighbor Marie Fairchild, who was strolling with her twin girls. She invited us for tea, and she and I passed several pleasant hours in conversation while the children romped upstairs in the nursery. Thus it was late afternoon when we returned to the house. Thomas met us at the door, a strange look in his eyes. He was wearing his travel 43

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clothes. “Beatrice, my dear, I am glad that you are finally home. I just received word that a boiler has exploded at the Lowell mill. No one has been hurt, it appears, but I must go up there tonight to survey the damage. I did not want to leave without seeing you.” I smiled at him, thinking how kind and considerate he always was to me. “Thank you, Thomas. Do not concern yourself with us. We will manage as we always do. When do you expect to return?” “Not before tomorrow midday,” he said. “I have retained a coach, rather than travel by train. It should be here shortly.” Even as the words left his lips, we heard the clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside our door. Thomas moved to pick up his leather portmanteau, then stopped. Instead, he pulled me into his arms, crushing my breasts to his chest and kissing me deeply on the mouth. His unaccustomed passion left me breathless. I felt his hands roaming over my torso, tracing the lines of my stays and lightly brushing my nipples, which pushed themselves out boldly even through the many layers of my clothing. For a moment, I forgot myself and writhed in his embrace like some cheap strumpet. Then I became more composed, adopting a demeanor more seemly for someone of my position. When he released me, however, the throbbing hunger between my thighs did not abate. He looked at me with eyes full of affection. “Take care of yourself and the children, my dear. I will see you tomorrow.” Retrieving his bag, he swung open the door and was gone. I stood bemused in the foyer, wondering at his odd behavior. My earlier suspicions regarding the rape of my diary roused themselves again. However, I could not imagine that a man as upright and proper as Thomas would condone the activities that I have chronicled here. He would react with sad condemnation, not affection. He would repudiate me, forcing me to live away from my children. He might sully my name by publicly airing my misdeeds. He would not, despite my fantasies, punish me physically. The emotional pain that he could inflict would last far longer than the effects of any beating. As I stood there in my walking costume pondering these questions, a new realization dawned, hot as the summer sun. With Thomas away, I was now free to visit the House of Shadows, if I dared. 44

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The cab left me off in front of the building at ten exactly. This neighborhood had been fashionable a decade before. Now the substantial houses looked somewhat worn; the fine stone was stained with moisture, the gardens a bit overgrown. Gaslight shone through the curtains of most of the homes, but the building before me was totally dark. A wave of fear swept over me. I resolutely ignored it, drowned it out by focusing on the hungry ache between my thighs. I rang the bell. The door was opened by a figure clad in a hooded black robe. I could see nothing of his face; his hands were starkly white. “Who wishes to enter the House of Shadows?” “An Offering on the altars of flesh,” I repeated the words of the formula Pauline had imparted to me. “The password?” “Quod mens sibi proponere, caro efficere potest.” He opened the door wide. I entered a spacious foyer lit by a single candle, in the hands of another robed figure. Although I could not see the face of this entity any more than the other, I sensed that it was a woman. Silently, she beckoned for me to follow her down a dark corridor. Behind me I heard the bell ring again, and male voices. “Who wishes to enter the House of Shadows?” “A Seeker of the truth in flesh.” My guide led me up a flight of stairs to a second corridor lined along one side with closed doors. She gestured at one of the doors. I entered a room, simply but luxuriously furnished with silk brocade upholstery, matching draperies along one wall and a canopied bed in the corner. I blinked, for the room was brightly lit by several electric sconces. The robed woman extinguished her candle. Without a word, she began to undress me. Her pale hands were quick and skillful, but completely impersonal. She unbuttoned my cuirass waist, untied my petticoats and unlaced my corset. I found myself aching, in vain, for a touch from her. As she unfastened my drawers, I grabbed her fingers and placed them suggestively upon my furry mound. Without a sound, she calmly extricated herself from my grasp and continued her tasks. She might have been a clockwork automaton. I was burning with frustrated desire, but I could do nothing to sway her. Soon, her work was complete. I stood naked save for my stockings and slippers. She pointed to a 45

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chair near the draped window. When I had seated myself there, she pulled back the curtains to reveal, not a window, but a partition of oiled paper that stretched nearly from floor to ceiling. Then, without ever speaking a word, she left me alone. Recalling Pauline’s description of the ways of this place, I suddenly understood the use of the paper and the bright light. Together, they would create an image of my seated form, a silhouette that could be viewed from the other side. I remembered the stairs we had climbed, and guessed that there was a gallery of such rooms as mine along the second floor. The Seekers could gather at ground level, surveying and comparing the Offerings displayed above. For a long while I sat quietly in the chair, resting my hands on the armrests, wondering what would happen next. My body hummed with lust, yet I felt completely passive, willing to wait. Somehow I was simultaneously relaxed and aroused. The ticking of the clock on the table and the beating of my heart seemed equally loud. Moisture trickled from between my thighs, staining the fine brocade. I became aware of my breathing, slow and even like the flow of the tides. I wondered at myself, at this strange suspension of will in the midst of desire. Idle thoughts momentarily disturbed my peace. Perhaps no one would choose me. How could anyone judge my beauty from my silent, seated form? I contemplated the possibility of standing, of dancing and writhing in front of the partition, trying to attract the attention of the one who would take me. I dismissed these thoughts. Nothing was necessary but to wait, still, patient and open. To offer myself to him, or to her. That was enough. The lurid imaginings that had haunted me for the last few days had vanished. My mind was empty of everything but the sensations of the immediate present. The silk against my buttocks felt delightfully cool and smooth. The curves of the carved mahogany under my hand seemed unutterably sensuous. The blonde curls spilling over my shoulders glittered like spun gold in the electric brightness. I remained in this trance-like state, motionless but for the rise and fall of my breath, for what seemed like hours. Then, suddenly, the lights were extinguished. The moment had come. Darkness and silence enclosed me for several minutes. My heart hammered against my ribs. My former peaceful equilibrium dissolved into fearful anticipation. As my eyes 46

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adjusted to the dark, I realized that some faint light filtered in through the translucent paper. The room became gray as opposed to black. Then the door creaked, and a tall figure entered the room. I would have risen and gone to meet him, but his low, melodious voice transfixed me in my place. “Stay where you are, Lady. I will come to you.” He glided over to the chair and sank onto his knees before me. I could see little of him. He was powerfully but gracefully built, that I could sense from his movements. From his brow to just above his lips, his face was hidden behind a mask of black fabric. Those lips attracted me. They were firm and full, the lips of a man accustomed to command, but willing to bend to enjoy life’s pleasures. I was seized with a fierce desire to feel those lips upon my own. However, I was not in control here, and he had other intentions. I felt his hands on my thighs, hands encased in supple leather gloves. He opened me wide and without preamble, applied his mouth to my sex. The first sweep of his tongue along my slippery cleft was enough to wring screams from my throat. Stimulated by days of feverish fantasy and self-abuse, my cunny was sensitized and sore. He licked up my juices and nibbled at the hard little button buried in my folds, each touch waking pleasures so intense that they were almost pain. My womb throbbed in rhythm with his tongue thrusts. My nipples contracted into aching centers of hunger. I thrashed around on the smooth silk, moaning and begging him for more. Dimly, I realized that he was exquisitely skilled at the art of oral service, but like all coherent thoughts, this one was quickly consumed in the rising fires of my arousal. I buried my fingers in his soft, thick hair and tried to pull his head deeper between my thighs. At my touch, he froze and pulled back, abandoning my aching sex. “Do not touch me, Lady, unless I give you permission,” he said quietly. “Do you understand?” I nodded, ready to agree to anything if only he would return his lips to my quim. I gripped the arms of the chair as he bent once again to his ministrations. I could not touch him, but I could not help arching my back, forcing my hips toward his busy mouth, seeking release and relief. In response, he removed his face from my sex, but replaced it with his leather-clad fingers. They danced nimbly over my slick, swollen tissues, probing my depths, pinching the pleasure nodule at the apex, conveying me with the grace of an expert to the edge of the precipice. 47

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Finally, I hovered there, my eyes closed, while he worked at my sex with both hands. Any moment, I felt, I would plunge forward into the sweet abyss. He gave me the final push when he unexpectedly slid a well-greased finger into my rear orifice. Perverse images flooded my mind as my body convulsed in his hands, flooding them with my spend. When I recovered slightly and opened my eyes, I could see that those inviting lips of his were curved in a slight smile. He held his gloved hand under my nose. The leather was saturated with my essence. I breathed deeply. “The Lady seems to enjoy entry via her back passage,” he observed dryly. “Perhaps I shall take you that way, later.” A hot blush suffused my face at the realization that I should like this very much indeed. Of course, in the dimness, he could not see my reaction. Nevertheless, he had an uncanny sense of my desires. Although I had just been rent by an incredible climax, I found that I was more aroused than ever. I desperately craved the sight, and even more, the taste, of his manhood. As if reading my mind, he began to unbutton his trousers. Soon his erect member jutted toward me, shining pale in the faint light. It bobbed with his pulse, obscene and inviting. “You may take me with your mouth, Lady,” he said, “but do not touch me with your hands. In fact, I will make it easier for you to control your impulses.” Before I understood his intent, he gathered my hands behind my back and bound them with a length of grosgrain ribbon he pulled from his waistcoat pocket. I recalled being trussed up in the stables. This had something of the same delicious quality, the sense of being powerless and vulnerable to any license. Here, though, there was no fear. I found that I trusted this stranger, without reservation. Gratitude and devotion surged through me as I knelt at his feet. “Thank you, Sir, for choosing me,” I murmured. “Thank you for allowing me to serve you.” “Suck me now,” he said, and I did. His cock was glorious, the skin tender as a baby’s, the flesh beneath like a bar of iron. I used all the skill I could summon to bring him pleasure, alternating deep strokes that nearly choked me with delicate tongue-teasing along the length of him. I felt him stiffen further in my mouth, and in response I sucked harder, abandoning all pretense of lightness. He thrust himself into me, again and again, so deeply that the knobby end of his rod grazed the back of my throat. My sex contracted sympathetically each time he 48

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pushed into me. I opened myself to him, willed him to spend himself in my worshipping mouth. My Seeker was perilously close to climax, as was I, when he laid a hand on my head, silently bidding me to stop. I did so immediately, disappointed at not tasting his spend, but anxious to satisfy his demands in any way that I could. He was breathing heavily, but his voice was steady when he addressed me. I marveled at his self-control. “Now that I am quite solid, Lady, let us pursue the question of your buggery.” I blushed again, more deeply than before, for I suddenly realized I had an urgent need to urinate. If he entered me by either door, surely I would disgrace myself. There was no help for it. I would have to tell him. “Sir,” I said shyly, “I must answer the call of nature before we can proceed.” He looked at me with interest. “You have a need to piss, Lady?” I nodded silently, overcome with embarrassment. He gave a soft laugh. “If I were a cruel master, I would require you to continue, even so, and await the consequences.” Shame and lust flamed in me at these words. Was he truly so perverse? “However, I am far kinder than you realize. You may relieve yourself before we continue.” I glanced around and discovered a chamber pot, ewer and basin on the bedside table. I waited for him to untie my hands and turn his back to allow me some decency. Instead, he retrieved the porcelain tub, brought it over to where I stood, and positioned it between my legs. “Here you are, my Lady. Go on and piss.” I was aghast. Did he really expect me to make water in this manner, standing bound in the middle of the room, under his amused scrutiny? Nevertheless, the discomfort in my bladder brooked no argument. I bent my knees, squatting slightly, and tried to release my flow. It was impossible for me. With him watching in this way, I could not expel a single drop. I was frantic, wondering what to do, discomfort quickly becoming actual pain. “Are you having difficulty, Lady? Allow me to assist you.” He circled and stood behind me. I felt leather-clad fingers twisting my nipple. A spasm seized my sex, and one or two drops of fluid tinkled into the china bowl. “Perhaps you need more aggressive stimulation,” he said softly, and thrust two fingers deep into my cunny. I climaxed 49

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immediately. To my horror, a hot stream of urine gushed from me, over his hands and into the chamber pot. I was horrified, yes, mortified, to have my privacy and decency so compromised by this stranger. However, I would be lying if I did not admit the intense pleasure that came with this dual release. My knees grew weak and I would have fallen had not my stranger held me close. When I came back to myself, he had one arm around my waist, and was nuzzling at my ear. “Do not fret, my sweet Lady. You need have no secrets from me. No shame. Can you stand now?” I nodded, still overcome by the experience. He released his hold and went off to the bed, returning with a basin full of water and a napkin. Gently, he washed my thighs and my sex. I noticed that he had removed his gloves. He had strong, wellgroomed hands, with long, blunt-tipped fingers. Every touch of those fingers made me sing inside. Noticing my scrutiny, he laughed. “I fear that my gloves will require some serious cleaning after this evening. No matter. Are you well?” “Oh, yes,” I said. “Thank you for your kindness.” “Well, you may wish to save your gratitude for later. I am far from finished with you yet.” The slight menace in his tone sent delicious shivers down my spine. He untied my wrists and led me to the bed. His organ was still exposed, harder, if possible, than before. I realized that my uncontrolled voiding had stimulated him as much as it had me. The stranger extricated a pillow from underneath the coverlet and placed it on the edge of the bed. “Lie down on your belly,” he instructed, “with your hips against the cushion, your feet on the floor, and your legs spread wide.” I followed his instructions as quickly as I could. The position made me feel exquisitely exposed. My hindquarters were elevated. My sex and my puckered rear entrance must have been clearly visible, even in the dimness. Meanwhile, the cushion pressed against my pubis, so that every movement sent shocks through my body. I lay in this vulnerable pose for a long time. I craved his touch, or his voice, but he was silent. I heard rustling noises, and conjectured that he was disrobing. I rejoiced at this thought; I desperately longed to see him naked. 50

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Finally, I felt his fingers, playing around the gateway to my bowels. He stroked lightly over the sensitive spot, circling closer, then moving away. I felt myself loosening, twitching, inviting him closer. Next I felt him reach into my sex. I could not help but writhe in response. I was rewarded with a sharp slap on my buttock. “Be still, Lady! One would think that you are a wanton!” There was humor in his voice, but nevertheless I tried to obey him. The skin on my hind cheek glowed pleasantly warm where his palm has struck me. I considered whether, if I wriggled some more, he might spank me again. He was dabbling his fingers in my wettest parts. I understood that he was gathering lubrication to smooth his entrance. He smeared wet fingers back and forth over my sphincter, and then, at last, inserted a digit into that tight ring of muscle. A shock ran through my spine. I arched my back, forcing him deeper. “You seem to be quite ready, Lady,” he whispered. Without further play he positioned his knob at my rear gate and, with a jerk of his hips, plunged himself inside. Oh, it was perfect, pleasure so extreme that all my other adventures seemed pale in comparison. He pushed deep into my bowels, and I pushed in return, wanting to be filled completely. He pulled back until the bulb at his tip just grazed the entrance, and I mourned, empty and lost. Then he came crashing in again, impaling me, penetrating my body and my soul. He began to spank me in time with his thrusts, until my whole bottom burned bright with the lovely sting of his bare flesh on mine. We did not speak. He voiced only grunts; I could manage only moans and whimpers. Yet I felt a connection with this stranger, wordless communication that transcended our physical coupling. His power, my trust, his tenderness, my shame: these flowed between us, a river of sensation and emotion. As his excitement grew, he thrust harder, so that the pleasure was tinged with pain. I welcomed his force, completely open to him. I offered myself to him, in a new and pure way, and he accepted my offering. We climbed together toward the pinnacle of lust. In the midst of my frenzied pleasure, I was strangely lucid. Somehow, my clarity did not diminish the ecstasy. When he exploded within me, searing my entrails with his burning seed, my own climax answered his with waves of fire. Still, even as my entire self dissolved into his, I heard him crying out my name: “Beatrice!” 51

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At that moment, I admitted to myself what some part of me had known since the moment he had first spoken. This stranger, this seeker after the truth in flesh, was my restrained, upright, proper husband, Thomas.

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C

arlos had never dared to dream that he'd see one in real life. He recognized it right away from all the clips he'd downloaded, but what was it doing here, in the high-ceilinged bedroom of this ritzy Murray Hill brownstone?

Criss-crossed, black-enameled planks, tall as he was, mounted on a sturdy base.

Leather cuffs at the ends of the X, apparently adjustable to accommodate different heights and body types. Carlos swallowed hard as he noted a penis-shaped rod jutting out just below the spot where the arms of the cross met. It was cleverly designed to slide vertically, with several stops, so that it could be aligned with the victim's various orifices. A St. John's cross! Ignoring the instructions of the housekeeper who had let him in, Carlos drew open the heavy drapes so he could see better. The sun poured in. It began to get hotter almost immediately. But Carlos was already sweating with excitement. If they had a cross, then they'd need other things, wouldn't they? Whips and crops, tawses and scourges, gags of unyielding rubber and stainless steel nipple clamps. Carlos knew all about such things, in theory at least. He looked around the room, furnished sparsely but luxuriously. Aside from the bed (antique brass with a silk spread), a wingbacked armchair and the cross, there was a wooden chest against the wall opposite the window. He expected it to be locked, but only a simple latch kept it closed. Hardly daring to breath, Carlos raised the lid. The sight of the paraphernalia heaped up inside

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nearly made him come in his coveralls. He picked up a rubber paddle studded with silvery nailheads. He remembered the squeals of the blonde girl in that video, when the master used a similar paddle on her ample butt, and the marks it left, a hot pink background with crimson accents. A neatly crafted cat caught his eye. The braided handle felt obscenely good in his palm. He whipped the thongs through the air, enjoying the swishing sound, recalling the snap that the supple leather tails made when they landed on bare flesh. Of course, the sound tracks on all the porn he watched could be fake. He had a feeling a lot of it was fake—the loud smacks of bare palms on bare asses, the wails and the moans of the girls as they begged for mercy, their expressions of climactic ecstasy when the master spurted come all over their faces. It turned him on anyway. Fake or not, it was better than nothing. This place, though; this was the real thing. He heard a sound downstairs and started guiltily. He'd better get back to work. He had already serviced the compressor on the roof, draining and replacing the coolant and lubricating the motor. There were filters to clean and vents to check in each room. He'd done the fourth and the third floors already, but there were still two more floors, plus, according to the housekeeper, a finished rec room in the basement. This was a big job. He should have had help, but Jorge was swamped, with this May heat wave. Temps had been in the nineties for the past week, and every stockbroker and gallery owner and mafioso in the city wanted his aircon annual maintenance right away, if not sooner. Every one of Jorge's techs was working overtime this week; there was no way he could spare two guys for a routine residential call. Carlos sighed. He arranged the sex toys back in the chest and shut it reluctantly. Tonight he could think about what he had found, could jerk off to fantasies of what masters and their subs really did. He picked up his tools and began unfastening the vent plate from the wall, trying to ignore the bondage frame looming over him. His practiced hands did their work almost automatically. His mind kept wandering off, trying to imagine what it would be like to actually see a woman bound and helpless on the cross. Damn, it was hot in here! He stripped down to his jeans, stuffing his coveralls, with their "Vargas HVAC" logo, into his toolbox. Sweat matted the thick black hair on his chest. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he tried to seat the plate screws back into their 54

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holes. Finally, he was successful. He carefully replaced his tools, ready to move to the other bedroom on this floor. He figured that he'd better close the drapes, though. He didn't want that sour old housekeeper making complaints. "Master? Here I am." Carlos whirled around, completely disoriented. There was a girl in the room, on her knees just inside the doorway. No, not a girl, a woman; her delicate build made her seem young and vulnerable, but when Carlos looked closer, he noted small but well-rounded breasts and hips that swelled gracefully from a tiny waist. Her head was bowed and her sun-streaked hair fell over her eyes, so he couldn't see her face. She kneeled with her thighs apart, however, and it was clear that she was naked underneath her black miniskirt. Her hands clasped at the small of her back, in a position Carlos recognized from all his BDSM videos. The humble attitude of a slave. "What—who are you?" "I'm sorry, Master. Mistress Liza sent me to you for a spanking. She said that she was at her wit's end with me, but that you'd know how to punish me as I deserve." The woman dared a quick look at him through her bangs. "Didn't she call you, sir?" "I, um, I don't remember hearing anything for her." "Oh, sir! Please excuse me for intruding. If you'd like me to come back at a more convenient time..." "No, no, never mind." Carlos' thoughts stumbled over themselves. He didn't want the girl to leave. But what was he supposed to do with her? Should he tell her that she'd made a mistake? "What did your mistress say about me?" "Ah, well, she said that you were stronger and stricter than she is, cruel and without mercy. That you'd tan my bottom crimson and make me beg you to stop. That you'd spank me so hard that I truly wouldn't be able to bear it. That it would be a week before I could sit down." Carlos' cock twitched at her graphic description. She sounded surprisingly enthusiastic, not frightened the way she should be, if he really were the fearsome Dom that she took him for. She was offering herself to him, he realized. She wanted him to spank her. How could he turn down this opportunity? But she was so petite. She looked so fragile. Sure, he knew the basics, but he'd never 55

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actually practiced any of the techniques that he studied every night on the Internet. What if he hurt her, really damaged her, not just spanked her butt raw that way he imagined? "What did you do, slave, to deserve this punishment?" He tried to make himself sound gruff and severe, to disguise his own excitement. To hear the word—slave— coming from his own lips sent a hot sizzle down his spine. "I—um—I came without the Mistress' permission. While she was paddling me." "I see. You're an undisciplined slut, are you?" "Yes, sir. I couldn't help myself." "Well, I know how to teach you a lesson." He only hoped that he did. He settled himself in the armchair. "Crawl to me, slave. Now." She was kneeling at his feet before he could count to three, once more in position, eyes on the gap between her thighs. "Look at me," Carlos ordered. She had violet eyes and a ripe mouth that cried out for kisses or bruises. Her flushed cheeks and quick breathing told him that she was aroused already. "On my lap. And no wiggling or rubbing against me. If you come while I spank you, I'll hang you up on the cross for the rest of the day." Holy mother, he was scaring himself! She scrambled up and flopped onto his knees. She was obviously familiar with this position as well. She parted her legs and pressed her toes against the floor to stabilize her body. Her pelvis rested on his right thigh, her chest on his left. Her arms dangled awkwardly; she didn't dare hold onto him without permission. "Hands at the back of your neck. Arch your back." The shift pressed her cushiony tits against his leg. He wished that she was naked, that they both were, so he could feel her pebbly nipples against his bare skin. But he didn't want to break the momentum by telling her to strip. Instead, he peeled her skirt back towards her waist, exposing her ass. Two half-moons, pale and creamy, with a shadowed crevice between them. Perfect. Unblemished. If she was accustomed to being spanked, there was certainly no sign on those virginal buttocks. Her scent rose from the half-hidden pocket of her sex, musky and feral, much darker than he would have expected. She's a slut, Carlos thought, a pain slut who gets off on being beaten. He raised his arm and brought his open palm down hard on that milky flesh. Her 56

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gasp sent a bolt of electricity straight to his groin. "Nasty little whore! No underwear, and with such a short skirt." He slapped her again. "You like pain? I'll give you real pain." His palm stung as he smacked her butt as hard as he could, first one cheek and then the other. Each stroke kindled a pink bloom on the woman's bottom, with rosy streaks marking the path of his fingers. Each stroke made her whimper and writhe against him. He could feel himself hardening, unable to control his reactions. He spanked her harder, aiming for the sensitive spot at the crease where her bottom and thighs met. She yelped at the sudden increment in pain. "Be still! I told you, none of your tricks. If you come, believe me, I'll make you sorry." Carlos laid into her, doubling the speed and force of his blows. He wasn't exactly angry, but he was determined to give the girl the walloping that she deserved. She was a minx, no question; he could understand why Mistress Liza was so annoyed. The skin of his palm was tingling, almost numb. His cock was taut, trapped in his jeans. Sweat poured down his face and soaked his hair. But Carlos didn't stop. The slave was quieter now, moaning breathily each time he lashed at her. Her bottom and the backs of her thighs were a virulent, blotchy red. Heat rose from her battered behind. The perfume of her sex filled the room. His right leg was wet with her juices; his left, with her tears. "Have you had enough, slave? Have you learned your lesson?" Still swatting her with his right hand, he slid his left between her thighs and into her slick cunt. Her muscles contracted and for a moment her whole body trembled. Then she regained control. "Well done, slave," he murmured, landing one last slap on a crimson cheek. "Don't come until I say." He dabbled his fingers in her wetness. Meanwhile he used the other hand to comfort the flesh he had so thoroughly scourged. Her skin burned under his palm. She shivered and pressed against him, forcing his fingers deeper into her body. He was very close himself. His dick was throbbing, aching for sweet release. His victim shifted on his lap, and the swollen rod jumped. The girl felt it, felt his weakness. "Master? Would you like for me to suck you?" Carlos wrenched his fingers out of her cunt and began spanking her with new force. "I—didn't—say—that you—could speak." His heart was pounding in his chest. His whole hand hurt but he didn't stop. He wouldn't stop until this slave had learned her place. 57

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The girl was crying in earnest now, jerking around on his lap and trying to avoid his blows. Carlos felt suddenly guilty. "Enough? Have you learned your lesson?" "Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, Master." "And you'll obey your Mistress, follow her instructions, caring only for her pleasure and not your own?" "Yes, yes... I will, I promise."

Carlos moved his hands away from the lovely form

sprawled in his lap. She was so vulnerable, and so strong. He wanted to lean over and bury his face in her tangled hair, to breath in her tidal scent, to plant gentle kisses on her ravaged ass. But Masters, he knew, didn't do such things. "Come now, slave," he commanded gruffly, trying to ignore his own hunger. She arched briefly against him, using the denim of his jeans for the final friction she needed, and tumbled over into her climax. Her whole body shook as if with a palsy. Fresh liquid from her cunt soaked his pants. Yet she was nearly silent. Not at all like the women on the videos. When it was over, she lay quietly. He realized that she was waiting for his instructions. "Get up, slave. Make yourself presentable." She rose and pulled her skirt down, wincing as the fabric rasped against her abraded skin. Then she stood before him, hands clasped behind her and eyes downcast. Carlos stood. He towered over her. A sense of power swept through him. "So, slave. What do you have to say?" "Thank you. Thank you, Master, for disciplining me." She peeked up at him through her bangs, and for a moment, he thought that she had winked. But that couldn't be, could it? "Go home to your Mistress now, and behave yourself." Regret tore at his heart. Lust raged in his groin. But she was not for him. He couldn't pretend forever to be someone else. "Yes, sir." She began to back deferentially out the door, but stopped halfway. "But Master—what if I'm disobedient again? Will you punish me again?" Carlos nearly creamed in his jeans. She wanted more from him, another scene, another day. Another spanking, or perhaps a whipping, another climax that would drive them both into ecstasy. He wasn't the Master she thought he was, but perhaps he could 58

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be, with practice, and a willing slave. "Insolent slut." Carlos remembered that line from "Bondage Babes", one of his alltime favorite flicks. "You want more?" She blushed fiercely, and looked younger than ever. "If you could, sir..." Carlos pulled himself up to his full 5 foot 11 inches, and tried his damnedest to look stern despite his aching erection. "Meet me next Saturday, at noon, then—" "Here, sir?" she interrupted. "Definitely not. I see that you have flasher tendencies; I intend to punish you for that. Meet me at the Vanderbilt Avenue entrance of Grand Central. We'll see how well you take a more public spanking." "Oh, sir!" The woman looked as though she might have another orgasm just from the thought. "Be there, and be on time. Or you know what will happen." "Yes, Master." She adopted a demure expression that didn't fool Carlos one bit. "Now off with you," Carlos growled. He had to get rid of her and get his cock out of his pants before he collapsed. "Goodbye, and thank you again." "Wait a minute, slave. What's your name?" In the videos, names didn't seem to matter, but if he was going to get to know this woman better, he just couldn't keep calling her "slave". "It's Heidi, Master." "I'll give you another spanking on Saturday, Heidi. From what I can see, you need regular punishment to keep you obedient." Heidi just smiled, on her way out the door. Carlos came all over his hands even before his zipper was fully open. Saturday. He had a lot of research to do, before Saturday.

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hey meet, infrequently, to perform the ritual. She waits for him to arrive, heart slamming against her ribs, stomach twisted with nervousness. When he enters, they embrace, awkwardly. It has been so long. She attempts lightness,

a joke, a jibe, pretending that she does not know why he is here. Then he gives the sign— a mere eyebrow, arched in a question—and her protective humor slips from her along with her clothing. The ritual demands much of them, the steps choreographed, but always with room for improvisation. First he binds her, with rope, or silk, or leather, ceiling-hung with thighs spread, or splayed across the bed, or bent double over a hassock. Sometimes he will position her limbs and bind her to stillness with his command alone. Then he teases her, dabbles his fingers in her wetness, lovingly mocks her sluttishness. She melts at his slightest touch, sinks liquid and helpless into the ritual spirit, moaning just as he intends. She could drown in his rich voice, nuanced and full of power. He pinches her nipples into aching peaks, captures them in clothespins, or cinches them with rubber bands. All the while he strokes her pussy, calls her his pet, muddles the pains and the pleasures besieging her. Next, he beats her. Here the ritual has many variants, but all with a single purpose: 60

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to invoke the purity of her surrender. She writhes under the lash, twists away from the hairbrush, whimpers as his bare palm reddens her buttocks. She does not wish to resist him; her only thought now is to please. But the pain is difficult to endure. Breathe, he says, soothing, encouraging, even as he scourges her. Open yourself. Yield yourself to me once again. His voice is the key that unlocks her. Some barrier shatters and she floats free, each stroke of the whip an ecstatic kiss. His mind moves with hers now, sharing her agony and her joy. His breath comes in gasps like hers. His organ is granite. Now, come to me, my love, he whispers, entering her front or rear or spraying her marked thighs with his burning seed. She obeys, sliding into climax as he slides inside her, white hot fringed with red streaks of the pain. Transcendence. Communion. Completion. They do not speak of it as they dress. There is no need for speech when the ritual is complete. They meet infrequently. Sitting alone, on the plane or the bus taking her homeward, she savors the gaping, twitching sensations in her rear hole, the sharp echo of her stripes as she shifts in her seat, the slickness, still, in her sex. His voice echoes in her mind. Theirs is an old love. She thinks of him daily, imagines his life, her chest swollen with bittersweet aching. He thinks of her less frequently, but when he does, he gnashes his teeth, driven almost to madness because he cannot possess her. Then he recalls her sweet pliancy, her willing debasement, and his lips curve in a smile as he strums on his cock. The ritual renews them. When she lies in a dentist's chair, or on the surgeon's table, when she wakes in fear in the night, she remembers him. Breathe. Open. Surrender. She relaxes into the fear, trusting as she trusts him. She is sure that she will think of him, that way, when she surrenders herself into the arms of death. And then, perhaps, their meetings will be more frequent, and the ritual will be perfected.

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ʺS

ex with strangers? For money? You've got to be insane, Ruby!"

Jane's Delft-blue eyes are wide with disbelief. Her horrified protest is loud enough to trigger tolerant smiles at neighboring tables. This is, after all, worldly and decadent Amsterdam. "I've already hired the window. For tonight." "But it's dangerous..." "Oh, please! There's 24 hour video surveillance. The police practically outnumber the tourists strolling around the district at night. Every cubicle has an alarm in case things get dicey. The landlord showed me how it worked." "But it's so degrading! Once a man pays you, you're obliged to do whatever he says. You've got no choice." I sip my cappuccino. My lipstick leaves a crimson crescent on the china cup. "Nonsense. I'll be the one in control. I was watching the women last night. Anyone whose looks they don't like, they send away. The men are the ones who are desperate, 62

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vulnerable. They want us so much, they're willing to pay to satisfy their desires." Jane shakes her head. "If your father finds out, he'll be furious." "How would he find out? You wouldn't tell him, would you?" I put on a stern face, not too different from his. Cowed, she lowers her eyes. "Of course not. Still, you know how he is. It was tough to get him to agree to this trip at all. We had to really lean on the culture aspect." "I'm old enough to make up my own mind." My friend's red-gold ringlets, backlit by the afternoon sun, make her look like a Botticelli angel. I relish the thought of corrupting her. "Come on, Jane, we've been doing nothing but dreary museums and libraries and concerts for the past three days. I just want some fun." "I'm afraid you'll get more than you bargain for." "I certainly hope so. Look, why don't you join me? Last night I noticed quite a few windows with more than one girl. The cubicle has a double bed, and you're so gorgeous, I'm sure you'll be popular." "Not a chance. Freddie would break up with me in a second." "What Freddie doesn't know won't hurt him." Jane looks insulted. "Freddie and I have a relationship based on honesty and trust. I'm not going to do something sordid and risky like that behind his back." I wonder if Freddie has shared with my poor friend the fact that he has propositioned me, under pretense of being drunk, at more than one party. Innocence, I decide, is bliss, at least for sweet, loyal Jane. "At least come around with me to the sex shops, to help pick out a costume and some toys." "I've got a miserable headache." Jane sounds peevish. I worry briefly that she somehow caught my thoughts about her beau. "I'm going back to the hotel to lie down. Will I see you tonight, before...I mean, are you going to have dinner, or what?" "I think I'm too excited to eat. But I've got to take a shower and do my makeup, and that will be easier in our room." "Okay, see you later. Be careful." "You know me. The coolest of the cool." But I'm not. In fact I've been obsessed ever since last night, when Jane and I wandered through the red light district, staring at the women who waited behind the 63

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glass in their rose-tinted rooms. We wove our way through clumps of nervous, intoxicated men who were all staring, too. I could smell their sweat, underneath the beer and the pot smoke. I could feel their lust. It infected me. They barely noticed us, two teenagers in jeans, although the tight denim in my crotch was so wet, I half-expected they'd catch my scent and turn to me. They had eyes only for the bodies displayed in the rows of windows lining the canals. Some of the women were ripe, blond, Slavic-looking, their breasts exploding out of their lace brassieres. Others were slight, deliberately child-like in Gidget-inspired bikinis or brief plaid kilts. There was a Brazilian beauty with golden skin and coffee-colored eyes; a voluptuous African princess with strings of ruby-hued beads dangling in her ebony cleavage; a serious-looking brunette wearing dark-framed glasses who sat, shapely legs crossed, like a secretary waiting to take dictation. Some of the women posed. Others danced suggestively, or made lewd gestures at their prospective customers. There were masked women in leather, snapping riding crops against their boots. There were women whose pierced nipples and labia showed clearly through their translucent garments. Men clustered around the dimly-lit windows like moths hovering by a candle. Mostly they'd just look, inflamed by the mere thought of all this available flesh. Sometimes I'd see a hushed conversation through a half open glass door. Such conversations might end with the man turning away, disappointed, rejected, or perhaps simply unwilling to pay the asking price. Other times the door would open wider, just enough to admit the supplicant. Then it would close and the red velvet curtains would be drawn, hiding the rest of the dance. Those curtained windows drew me. I couldn't stop imagining what might be going on behind them. I knew it was a straight commercial transaction in most cases, a workman-like blowjob, or a quick, bored fuck. Still, I imagined occasional revelations, epiphanies, ecstasies—meetings of strangers pre-destined to be lovers, brief but unbearably intense conflagrations of lust, lewd and mystical connections that would live in his memory, or hers, long after the curtains were flung open again. I'm nineteen. I've had enjoyable but ultimately frustrating sex with two boys my age. I know that, practical as I am, I'm a bit of a romantic. Otherwise, I would not have continued to roam the red-lit alleys long after Jane gave up and went back to the hotel in 64

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disgust. As the Oude Kerk chimed two AM, I wandered up Molensteeg and down Monnikenstraat like some horny ghost. The crowds had thinned. The curtains were mostly drawn. Some of open windows were empty. Next to them were the signs: KAMERS TE HUUR. Windows for rent. Back in my own bed at the Hotel de l'Europe, I tore off my jeans and sank the fingers of both hands into my aching pussy. I imagined myself lounging in an armchair behind one of the windows, displaying my swollen, soaked sex to the crowd gathered outside. In my fantasy, the men unzipped and pulled out their cocks, stroking themselves in time with my frantic fingering. Just before I came, I remembered Jane sleeping in the other bed. I swallowed my moans as pleasure surged over me in bloodcolored waves. The men outside my window came along with me, spattering the window with their semen. The notion sent another climax rolling through me, leaving me limp but still unsatisfied. I let sleep take me, without showering or even undressing. My dreams were incoherent but lit in shades of red. In the Chickita Sex Shop, I find the ideal costume: a scarlet leather corset and thong, with fake silver chains looping from the half-cups down through the crotch. I don't feel embarrassed when I drop the stainless steel vibrator into my basket, but I admit that the wrist and ankle restraints make me blush a little. The clerk, a buxom forty-year old in a tight black tee, with magenta hair and multiple tattoos, convinces me to purchase a neat little whip as well. I really don't have a clue how to use it, but when she trails the leather strands over my bare arm, electric arousal whizzes up my spine. "Just follow your instincts," she advises, "I think you'll find that power comes naturally." Jane watches, torn between horror and admiration, as I lace up the front of the corset, tight enough that my breasts nearly spill out over the top. "I can't believe that you're doing this, Ruby. I just hope you won't regret it." "I won't. I never regret anything I do." My bravado sounds a bit hollow to my own ears, but Jane's convinced. "But why?" "I need to know what it's like. The whole idea turns me on so much—I've just got to try it." The minimalist leather triangle covering my crotch is already slick with my juices. 65

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Every time I move, the chains sway against the skin of my inner thighs, making me long for more definite caresses. I paint my eyebrows into sooty arches, my eyelids purple, and my lips crimson. The effect is a caricature of a Chinese porcelain doll. My waist-length hair I fasten at the top of my head with a silver clasp. It cascades in waves of jet down my back. My own pointy-toed high heels complete the costume. I examine my face in the mirror. My eyes are luminous, my cheeks flushed. "How do I look, Jane?" "Glamorous. Wicked. Dangerous." "Perfect." I throw my coat over the costume and grab the bag with my other paraphernalia, without showing the contents to Jane. I figure she's having enough trouble dealing with the situation. "I'm off. Don't wait up for me." "Please, be careful, Ruby." She looks so young, sitting cross-legged on the bed, her brow knotted with concern. "I'll be fine. And don't worry—I'll tell you all the details tomorrow." She groans and shakes her head as I let myself into the corridor. On the way to the elevator, I pass a waiter delivering room service. "Good evening, Madame." He mostly manages to suppress his reaction to my extreme make-up. I wonder what he'd think if he could see under my coat. From the hotel to the district is barely a kilometer. My heels sound crisp and determined on the cobbled pavements. My heart slams against my tightly-bound ribs, almost loud enough to drown them out. It's September, and at seven, already dark. The narrow merchants' houses loom over black, rippling canals. Rose-colored lights are on in many of the tall windows. Scantily-clad women smile and beckon to the thickening crowds. Somehow, I can't meet their eyes. I hurry along to my own cubicle on Oudekerksplein, unlock the curtained door, and quickly shut it behind me. I sink into my rented armchair, breathing hard. My nipples are taut and aching, pressed against the leather that constrains them. The chains swinging between my thighs are wet. The room is dark except for light that filters in from the street along the edges of the curtain. I flip the switch and the space is suffused by a rosy glow. It's tiny, maybe three meters deep by two wide, but somehow it manages to contain a double bed, an upholstered arm chair, and a circular three-legged table. A fire hose is coiled high on the 66

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wall, with an old-fashioned cast-iron radiator below it. At the front is the curtained glass window/door. At the rear, there's access to an airplane-sized bathroom. Clearly visible, within reach of the bed, is the red alarm button. The radiator is pumping out heat. I shrug off my coat and hang it on a hook on the bathroom door. My bare skin is damp with sweat. I dump the contents of the sex shop bag on the bed. I'm tempted to turn on the vibrator and slip it into my cunt, but instead I arrange it, and the restraints, on the little table. Last night I noticed some of the women casually displaying dildos or butt plugs or rubber gags, advertising their specialties. Of course, I'm hardly a specialist. What if my john is disappointed? I push away my doubts. This is my game. I'm going to be the one in control. My satisfaction is what counts. I'm the one paying for the window. I'm so nervous that I need to pee. The hot liquid flowing over my swollen tissues feels exquisite. My clit throbs, begging for my attention, but I manage to resist. Soon, I promise myself. Soon I'll have a thick, hard cock between my legs. I seat myself in the chair, one heel up on the seat so that my juice-smeared thighs are spread. I drape the whip over the other thigh. Then I lean forward and open the curtain hiding me from the hungry eyes outside. It's show time. At first, I can't see anything in the relative darkness outside. Then I begin to sense movement, and the shapes of bodies. Three men with shaved heads pass close by the window. They pause, leering at me. I run the thongs of the whip through my fingers and give them what I hope is a superior smile. Two of them look embarrassed and avert their eyes. The third licks his lips. Then they're gone, and there's a new group, older, Teutonic-looking with grizzled hair and thick mustaches. They huddle together, point at my toys, and laugh raucously. I rub my exposed, leather-covered crotch with the whip handle, before swishing the tails through the air. One of them raises his hand to the doorbell. I hold my breath. His companions stop him, point further down the lane. My window is empty. Damn. I'm so horny I'd be willing to screw a smelly old German old enough to be my grandfather. That's what I think, anyway, until a beefy young man with a crew cut rings my bell. "Good evening." I summon all my charm, but remain cautious. "Looking for some 67

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fun?" "How much, Suzie Wong?" He leans close, trying to worm his way into my space. There's so much alcohol on his breath that I feel dizzy. "Well, that depends on what you want." I back away, and narrow the gap between door and frame. "I want to fuck your little chink cunt. How much?" "I charge a hundred fifty for the first half hour." He doesn't look like he's that flush. His sweatshirt is grimy and he's got a day-old beard. Still, I don't want to antagonize him by refusing him outright. "A hundred fifty euros? For your skinny yellow ass? Forget it!" He glares at me, then spits on the sidewalk and strides away. I sink back into my chair, shaking a bit. This isn't as easy as I thought it would be. I pick up the vibrator, turn it on, and hold it between my palms. The buzz travels through my body. My nipples tighten to points of pure pleasure. My clit throbs slowly in counterpoint to the rapid beat of the toy. A new figure stops and stares. He looks like a college student: jeans and a corded jumper that shows off his nice body, long hair falling over a high forehead, gold-framed glasses, sensitive mouth. There's raw desire in his face. His hands are folded over his crotch; he can't hide the hard-on I know is there. I smile at him, encouraging, set the toy down on the table and beckon to him. Come in. I know what you need. I can give you what you want. He half-smiles, charmingly shy. Please, I silently beg him, be brave. Ring the bell. But he just stands there, watching me. I scoop my breasts out of the corset and thumb the nipples. I have to close my eyes at the overwhelming sensation. He's still there when I open them again. I cup my tits in my palms, offering them to him. My creamy skin is stained ruddy by the light. His lips part. I think that he will give in. Instead, he shakes his head, sadly, and walks out of the frame. I slump in my chair, fuming. This is just a waste of my time and money. I slap the whip against my palm, relishing the sting, wanting to punish all the miserable creatures roaming the red light district and ignoring me. The bell rings. I throw the whip on the bed and open the door. 68

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"Yes?" He's slender, forty-ish, with dark hair and a pale complexion. He's wearing a black turtleneck and a leather jacket. "I want—I want to know about that." He points to the flogger. His hand is shaking. Lust races through my body like a fever. "Would you like to come in and discuss it?" "Ah... I'd like... how much do I have to pay?" He has an accent, maybe French. I get the feeling that he is as much a novice at this as I am. "I'll charge you thirty euros." His look of relief confirms that this is within his budget. "How long...?" "Until I say you can leave." For a moment I think that he will faint at these words, but then his somber face breaks into a weak smile. "Is that agreeable to you?" "Yes... yes, of course." I open the door wider. "Well, get in here then." He slips into the cubicle, which immediately seems even tinier than before. I slide the curtains over the rod, shutting out the world, then turn to my first customer. He's wedged between the bed and the wall, fists clenched, breathing hard. "Should I pay you now?" "Later. Right now, I want you to strip." He's awkward, in the constrained space. "Hurry up. I want to see you naked." "Yes...Mistress." The unsolicited title sends a thrill through my body that settles in my cunt. Perhaps he's not as inexperienced as I thought. Or maybe it's just that he's played this scene out many times in his fantasies. He's down to his boxers when he hesitates. Sudden shyness? The stretchy cotton does nothing to hide the bulk of his hard-on. "I said naked. Do I have to punish you for disobeying me?" "No, Mistress... it's just..." I pull out the waistband of his shorts and let the elastic snap back hard against his swollen cock. He shudders and gives a low moan. "No excuses." I yank the garment down to his ankles. His cock springs out and bobs eagerly. The pleasingly curved shaft is as pale as his complexion. The bulging knob is fiery red. "That's better." I wish I could 69

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circle slowly around him, staring at his body until he blushes, but there's no room. In any case, I like what I see. His slender body has the strength of someone who walks a lot, not someone who spends hours in the gym. His chest is furred with dark curls, with a similar tangle at the root of his cock. Most of all, I like the expression on his face: desire and fear battling for supremacy. I get the whip and dangle its thongs over his cock. His engorged flesh seems to swell further, to strain for more contact with the supple leather. "So you're interested in my little whip, are you?" I really don't know where this dialogue is coming from, but it feels right. "What would you like me to do with it?" He stares down at his feet, where his underpantss are still tangled around his ankles. I suddenly have a clear sense of his emotions, confusion and shame struggling with lust. I understand how hard it must be, to admit a desire for humiliation, for pain. "I asked you a question. If you don't answer me, I'll send you away." "No, please, don't." "Well then, what do you want? You're paying for this, after all." He mumbles something incomprehensible. "Speak up!" I snap the whip down on the bed for emphasis. His cock jumps. "Beat me. Please, Mistress. Whip me." He looks me in the eye, his honesty frightening and arousing. "That's what I want. What I need." Turning my back on him, I pick up the restraints from the table. His eyes widen. "Kneel on the bed, with your back to me. No, leave the shorts on. They'll save me from having to bind your ankles." In the confined space, encumbered by his underwear, he struggles to obey. His trials would be comic in some other situation, but at the moment they're an amazing turn-on. I'm generally pretty bossy, but I've never before had a man willing to comply with my every order. It's intoxicating. His cocks sways as he positions himself according to my directions. His thighs are lean and tanned with a sprinkling of hair. The pale moons of his ass are completely hairless. I can see that the skin there is sensitive. My cunt is overflowing. The thong is so soaked that it's beginning to chafe. I consider changing the scenario, flipping him over, straddling him, and riding that sweet, hard cock until I'm satisfied. 70

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But that's not what he's paying for. Meanwhile, that vulnerable, baby-soft ass of his is waking new and different desires. My cunt's on fire; I want to make his ass burn just as hotly. "Lean forward, chest against the bed. You can turn your head to one side. Spread your legs; I want to see your balls dangle." He almost loses his balance but manages to obey. "Good." I stroke his butt gently. My touch makes him shiver. "Now put your arms behind you—hands at the small of your back." The restraints are leather, lined with soft felt and fastened with velcro. I wrap one around each wrist, then clip them together. "Too tight?" "No, Mistress." "Tight enough? Try and move." He wriggles around, making his cock and balls vibrate appealingly. I lean over the bed so I can see his face. His eyes are half-closed; his lips are parted. "I have a feeling that you'd prefer tighter, more painful bonds, but this will have to do for tonight." The whip handle feels surprisingly comfortable in my grip. I experiment, whisking the thongs through the air, trying to get a sense of the balance. Then I bring them down hard on the bed beside my victim. He jumps. "Are you ready?" "Yes, Mistress." "Ready for me to whip your ass raw? To beat you so hard that you won't be able to sit down for a week? Are you ready to show me what a pain slut you are, how much you can stand, in order to please your mistress?" "Yes," he whimpers. "Yes, yes..." I swish the whip above my head and his ass twitches. I take a deep breath. Aiming at his right cheek, I slash the thongs across the pale flesh. The stroke falls true. I feel the vibration of the impact in my hand. The sound of the leather connecting with his flesh sends a shock to my sex. It's followed a fraction of a second later by my victim's moan. Parallel pink stripes bloom on his tender skin. They seem unbalanced. Tentatively, I swipe the whip across his left cheek. I'm rewarded by a whelp of agony and a new set of rosy marks. A perfect match. 71

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I'm suddenly mainlining power. Everything snaps into focus with that second whip stroke. I see, with total clarity, the target for my next stroke, and the one after that. The whip feels like an extension of my body. No, that's not right, it's an extension of my mind. I imagine a lovely pattern of traces on his upper thighs, and they burst into being, accompanied by his cries of pain. He moans and screams, flinches, tries to cover his backside with his bound hands. "No! Keep your hands out of the way! Unless you want me to stop? Have you had enough?" I hear muffled sobs. At the same time, his cock is straining toward his belly, and his balls are tight and hard. "No... more. Please, more." I paint his thighs, back and his butt with intricate designs in shades of red. He's close to coming, and oddly, so am I, though he hasn't touched me.

I think that

tomorrow, he'll examine my handiwork, feel the stinging memory, and come again. The notion pleases me, and I beat him faster and with greater force. Finally, I have to rest. "More..." he whimpers. He's drenched in sweat, hair tangled in his eyes. He's shivering. His whole backside is criss-crossed with my marks. In some cases, the welts blend together to form one raw, pulsing field of red. I graze a fingernail across one of these areas. He screams. "No more of the whip. You've had enough. I told you that I'd decide when you should leave." "No, please, let me stay..." He tries to heave himself back up onto his knees. I push him back down. "I didn't tell you to move. Be still. Let me look at you." I can't believe I've done this to him. That he allowed me, begged me to do it. Even more, I can't believe how the sight of his ravaged body turns me on. Maybe I should make him fuck me now? But I mustn't let him know the effect he has on me. I have to stay aloof in order to wield this power. I can see his erection clearly through the V of his spread thighs. I can also see the brown dimple of his anus, safely hidden from my whip in the valley between his cheeks. 72

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I lean over and brush my fingers over the knot of muscle. He starts at the unexpected contact. "You're unmarked, here." I wriggle my finger a bit, trying to work my way in. I can hardly breathe. I've never touched a man so intimately before. "It seems a shame," The flesh there is damp, taut, rubbery. Strange and infinitely exciting. "It's a pity. The tails of the whip can't reach you, here. But I could always use the whip handle to fuck your asshole..." I push hard. My finger sinks in up to the first joint. He clenches around me, bucks, yells, and spatters come all over the rented sheets. I understand that it's not my finger that made him come. It's my words, my images. My mind, speaking to his. The physical power is just an echo. He collapses on the bed. I let him lie there for a few minutes, to recover. I stroke his hair back from his forehead and tell him he's a good slave. My sex is still heavy and aching with my own desire, but that somehow seems far away, much less important than I would have expected. He's shy and grateful afterwards. I sit in the armchair, watching him as he dresses. He's definitely a handsome man. When he pulls his wallet from his pocket and tries to give me a hundred euros, I shake my head. "Thirty. That's what we agreed." "But you gave me so much—just what I needed." "Never mind. Business is business." "Please..." "I said no. Are you going to start disobeying me?" He smiles, puts most of the money away, and presses a ten and a twenty into my hand. "Thank you. Thank you so much." For a moment I think he's going to kiss me. I wish that he would. But that moment passes. He reaches for the door, squeezes past me in the crowded room and is gone, into the night. I lean back in my hired chair staring at the bills in my hand. I'm sweaty. My hair has come loose from the clip and is tangled down my back. My arms ache. When I unlace my corset, my breasts tumble out, the nipples as hard and sensitive as ever. I unsnap the leather panties, drenched and stained from my juices. They make a sticky noise as I pull them away from my pussy. The ripe smell of cunt rises, mingling 73

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with the bitter scent of semen. I reach for the vibrator, conveniently at hand in the tiny room. The cool stainless steel cylinder slides deliciously into my swollen cleft. I flip the switch to high and writhe helplessly as the vibrations trigger one ragged, ecstatic climax after another. Epiphanies? Revelations? I don't think he'll forget this night. As for me, I know that the memory of his red-streaked buttocks and tear-stained face, my power and his surrender, will fuel intense orgasms long into the future. I still feel high as I lock my door behind me and step into the street. I'm naked under my coat. Every sensation is frighteningly acute. A random breeze plays in my damp, bare sex. The smell of spilled beer mingles with the tang of autumn leaves. The alleys are still crowded. I hear snatches of conversation in a dozen languages, riffs of jazz and rock and roll. I sense the beat of the men's hearts as they congregate around some red-lit rectangle of glass. A lithe male figure in a turtleneck brushes past me and my breath catches in my throat. Images flood my mind, images of pale, pliant flesh, offering itself to me. It occurs to me, as I make my way back to my five star hotel and my ordinary life, that perhaps I am the one who was marked this night.

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K

ate arrived at DigiThai the next morning full of energy. She was excited by the success of her initial demo, and eager to move forward with the project.

The email message awaiting her scattered these expectations of productivity. Kate, If you have plans for this evening, cancel them. Await my instructions. G. Damn him, thought Kate. She sat back in her chair, her heart pounding despite

herself. How could he do this to her? Why did she let him? She abruptly clicked the Delete button, and returned to her work. I can ignore him, and I will, she resolved. She half-succeeded in this resolution, finding two bugs in her software before she and Malawee left to have a quick lunch. As they re-entered the office suite, Anchana called out to Katherine. "Miss Katherine, this package arrived for you while you were out." It was a long, narrow box, with the label of a local florist. It couldn't be from Gregory, Katherine thought scornfully. He would never consider sending her flowers. 75

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However, she was wrong. The box contained a single long-stemmed rose nestled among green ferns. The petals were just beginning to unfold. The blossom was a creamy white, with a delicate tracery of red veins. Kate had never seen such a curious pattern. In addition to the rose, there was a heavy brass key, and a sheet of writing parchment, folded in half. Kate's hands trembled as she unfolded the note. Montien Hotel, Room 1263. Eight o'clock. Love, G. Only these few words, inscribed with black ink in a strong, open script. Kate was intrigued and troubled. She knew the Montien, a four-star hotel on Suriwong Road, quite close to Pat Pong. Edward Harrison had taken her there for a drink a few days after she arrived. It was clear enough what Gregory Marshall wanted. Should she comply? Meet a man she hardly knew, in an anonymous hotel room, to participate in who knows what perverted activities? Images of their previous encounter flooded her. She remembered looking up from her knees, at his blazing eyes and hugely swollen cock. She recalled him laughing at her helpless lust, as she masturbated at his command. She felt the ropes holding her down, holding her open, as he ravaged her sex. It was all the secret, shameful dreams—of rape and ravishment, of use and abuse—that she had ever dreamed and denied. Her nipples were hard and she knew she was damp. She almost wanted to cry at her own weakness. Yet still her excitement grew, as she understood that she could not, would not, say no to him. Then there was the closing. Love. She did not know how to read this. She could hear him say it, with that characteristic irony in his luscious voice. Surely he was mocking her, once again. Or perhaps he was asking a question, asking her to look within and answer, so what is love, after all, and what did it have to do with the way that their bodies and their minds connected?

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The hotel lobby was bright and noisy with tourists. Kate felt conspicuous and embarrassed as she crossed to the elevators, as if she were already naked. In the elevator, a western man and a Thai girl fondled each other, whispering and giggling. They left at the sixth floor. The ride to the twelfth seemed to take a long time. Everything was hushed, muffled. Her heels made no sound on the thick carpet. Her heart beat in her ears, absurdly loud. Kate hesitated as she turned the key in the lock. Seized with sudden fear, she nearly turned and ran back down the hallway to the elevator. This was irrevocable. She knew that. In opening this door, she would open her well-ordered life to chaotic and irrational forces that she did not understand. She remembered Gregory's words. "You were born to this," he had said. And, "I will teach you". She swallowed hard and turned the doorknob. The room was dim, and apparently empty. She closed the door quietly behind her, and looked around. Spacious, luxurious, undistinguished: she might have been in a hotel anywhere. The only sound was the slight hiss of the air conditioning. A floor-to-ceiling window, with the draperies open, sparkled with the lights of the city. A comfortable-looking oversized arm chair, a teak desk, a vanity with a tall mirror, a king-size bed with carved teak head and foot boards; these were the sum of the room's furnishings. The diffuse, rosy light came from a brass lamp on the desk. Someone had covered the shade with a scarf of red silk. Kate noticed, on the desk, a narrow brass vase. It held a single rose, white traced with red, matching her own. There was no one here now. But someone had been here. She examined the wooden head and foot boards, but found no ropes affixed there. Then she noticed the items arrayed on the quilted silk bedspread: five circles of leather, decorated with stainless steel. She picked one up, savored the softness of the leather, ran her fingers around the attached metal ring. One of the circlets was larger; all were adorned with rings, perhaps an inch in diameter, and the larger circlet was decorated with steel studs, as well. Kate blushed, though there was no one to see her. She understood the purpose of these artifacts: wrist and ankle restraints, and a slave collar. 77

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Though he had left no instructions, Gregory's intent was clear. The bracelet of leather was lined with satin. It was held closed by sturdy snaps. Kate put it on her wrist. She was just curious, to see how it felt. Oddly, it was comfortable. It fit her well. Kate hugged herself nervously, walked around the room, stared out at the traffic on Suriwong Road, returned to the bed. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she began to remove her clothes. As in her previous encounter with Marshall, she felt that she was moving in a dream. Now he was exercising his will without even being present. She seemed to be watching herself, as she placed her folded garments on the bed and reached for the other wrist restraint. Now she bent and attached the leather anklets. Finally, she lifted her curls and snapped the collar around her neck. She was naked, save for the leather adornments. Daring herself, she walked barefoot across the plush carpet to the mirror. What would Gregory see, she wondered, when he arrived? Was this a worthy offering? Kate stood before the mirror, legs slightly apart, hands on her hips. She was breathing heavily; she could see her chest rise and fall. Her nipples were round and rigid, the size and shape of ripe olives. She imagined Gregory taking one in his mouth, and shivered. The dark leather around her throat made her creamy skin seem even whiter. The studs on the collar were red with reflected light, as if this emblem of submission were encrusted with rubies. She gazed at her face, trying to recognize herself. The expression was strange, desperate, wanton. Her chest hurt from the pounding of her heart. A slight sound, and she saw the opening door, reflected in the mirror. Gregory stepped in. Kate's knees went weak. "Kate," he said softly. Before she could turn, he was behind her at the mirror, his hands lightly upon her shoulders. He towered over her; her head barely reached his chest. "You look very fetching, little Kate," he said with that familiar hint of derision. She blushed, ashamed to have been admiring herself, arrayed in this paraphernalia. Gregory bent and touched the tip of his tongue to the side of her neck, just above the leather. It was scalding hot. Her sex burned in answer. "I am glad to see you prepared, Kate." His hands were on her breasts now; he flicked painfully at the nipples with his thumbs. Now he ran his hands down her arms, and 78

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grasped her leather-clad wrists in a grip like a vise. He turned her around. "Are you prepared, Kate? Are you?" Kate hung her head, unable to meet his eyes. "Look at me," Gregory said, almost in a whisper. Even his whisper held authority. She raised her eyes to him. He was beautiful, like some wild, sleek animal. His long hair was loose tonight, framing those searing blue eyes. His mouth was half-open; Kate could see sharp teeth. Gregory was also clad in leather, tight black leather pants and a vest with studs that matched her collar, over a flowing black shirt. "Are you ready for the next lesson, Kate?" His voice was serious, no trace of the usual ridicule. Kate nodded weakly, her mind fogged with desire. "I—I think so." "Do you trust me?" he asked. Kate searched her heart. "Yes," she said finally. "I am not sure why I should, but yes." "Good girl," he said, levity entering his voice once again. "In that case, I have something else for you. Put your hands behind your head." As Kate obeyed, he reached into his pocket and drew out two items that sparkled in the red light. He held them up so she could see them better. Kate was horrified. They were spring-loaded clamps, like the "alligator clips" used to attach wires to battery terminals. "They are quite stiff," Gregory said, flexing one of them in his strong fingers. "But then, they have to be, to be effective." Kate realized that her current position, with forearms raised and hands clasped at the nape of her neck, was intended to expose and elevate her breasts. "Take a deep breath," said Gregory. As she did, he caught her right nipple in the jaws of one of the clamps. Kate gasped. Fierce pain shot through her. The clamp was lined with smooth leather, not serrated like an electrical clamp. It did not break the skin. But it squeezed the swollen knob of flesh and sent sharp stabs radiating through her body. It was torture; Kate bit her lip, trying not to cry out. Somehow, though, by the time the pain reached her sex, it had become something different, equally sharp, but more pleasurable, a kind of hungry aching. "Hungry," said Gregory, as if he had read her mind. "You are hungry for more. I can 79

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feel it." He captured her left nipple in the other clamp. The pain grew, magnified tenfold, rather than twofold. Kate was sweating, trying to be still, to be quiet, to please him. The clamps hung off her flesh, heavy, clumsy. Her nipples felt huge, the size of eggs or golf balls. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Gregory surveyed her, an expression of satisfaction on his face. "Yes. That's just right," he said. "They suit you very well." He kneeled on one knee before her. "Be still, now," he said brusquely. With two fingers, he began probing her cunt, first deeply, then sliding his fingertips across her clit. The heat that grew between her legs changed the sensation in her breasts. The pain flowing from her nipples was met and transformed by the pleasure radiating from her sex. Still excruciating, unbelievably intense, it nevertheless became something that she wanted. She stopped fighting against the pain and allowed it to wash over her, obliterating all her fear and her doubt and her shame. She closed her eyes; the accumulated tears spilled down her cheeks. Something changed. She realized that Gregory had removed the clamps. Her breasts still throbbed with pain, her nipples screaming and tender. Opening her eyes, she saw that Gregory was still kneeling before her. He placed his lips around one aching red nodule, and sucked gently. There was the heat again, but now it soothed rather than burned, blissful comfort like a warm hearth on a winter day. He switched his attentions to the other nipple, touching her only with his lips and tongue. She wanted so badly for him to take her in his arms, cuddle her, comfort her, praise her. But she knew he would not, or not at least when she wished it. He was the master, and it was his part to decide when to deliver pleasure, when to mete out pain. As he had told her that first night, she must learn to be patient. Gregory raised himself back to his full height, grasped her wrists again, and brought her hands down from behind her head. "Better now?" he asked. Kate nodded, still confused by her paradoxical reactions. "Good. Come over here, then." Still holding her wrists, he led her toward the window. He fished in the pocket of his vest and brought out a length of ordinary hemp rope. "This should do," he said archly. He threaded one end of the rope through the ring attached to her wristlet. He tied the other end to a wrought iron ring on the wall, to the 80

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right of the window. In her initial survey of the room, Kate had assumed that this ring was decorative, intended for tying back the curtains. Now she saw her error; the metal circle was far heavier and stronger than what would be required to hold the draperies. With mixed fascination and distaste, she understood that this was Gregory's special room, customized for his particular purposes by the hotel management. What other special features might he have requested? The room was so quiet; perhaps it had been soundproofed, to muffle the cries and moans of his "visitors". As the leather-attired giant tied her other wrist to the ring on the opposite wall, Kate wondered about the other women Gregory had lured to this room. (And men. So far she had seen no indication that his dominant stance extended only to females. His manipulation of Edward Harrison suggested the contrary.) Who were they? How did they behave? How much pain, how much humiliation could they endure? More than she could, no doubt. Suddenly she felt woefully inadequate. She watched Marshall, finishing off a neat bowline and testing its strength. How could she ever satisfy him? He caught her glance, read the distress in her eyes. "Yes, Kate, I admit I have brought others here, to my comfortable urban dungeon. But that should not concern you." She was bound now, arms stretched wide across the window alcove. "Spread your legs a little more," he interrupted himself to order. "You will find yourself more stable." He stood before her, hands on his hips. "You are mine now, Kate, mine because I chose to make you mine. Mine because you chose to answer my call." He brushed the hair back from her anxious eyes. "Your role is to obey me, serve me, please me." He paused, then continued softly. "And you do, Kate, you do please me, even in your innocence and inexperience. "If there are others who also serve, what is that to you? You should be grateful to them, for giving your Master pleasure." Kate felt her jealousy and despair melt away. He was right. As long as she could please him, what else mattered? She heard him moving behind her, near the bed, then he stood before her again, something dark in his hands. 81

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"I left this, also, on the bed, for you to examine and consider. But apparently you did not notice —or did not allow yourself to do so." He held out the article for her inspection. Kate swallowed the lump in her throat. The item in his hands was clearly some sort of leather whip. "The technical term," Gregory said, smiling, "is cat o' nine tails. You'll notice the many strands of leather radiating from the handle." He grasped the handle, which was neatly encased in braided leather, in his left hand, running his right over the strands as if caressing a lover's hair. "Each thong ends with a knot. When used correctly, the thongs apply a sharp heat, while the knots digging into the skin provide an extra sting." He dangled the whip above her shoulder, the knots just touching, then brushed it lightly across her breasts. The leather was amazingly soft, but as he dragged it across her still-swollen nipples, she felt the echo of the clamps on her flesh. Now he was delicately tracing an upward path, from her pubic fur across her belly, sending delicious tremors up her spine and down her bound arms. Thus far, he was using the cat o' nine tails as an instrument of pure pleasure. He spoke again, without stopping his leather caresses. "Have you ever been beaten by a lover, Kate?" Kate shook her head, and felt herself blush, though she did not understand why. "Have you ever dreamed or fantasized about such a thing?" Gregory asked. "No," said Kate, indignant. "Of course not." Gregory laughed. "Of course not? Indeed! Perhaps you do not remember your dreams, Kate." He leaned close to her ear, whispering. "The first time I laid eyes on you, Kate, I sensed that you craved the whip. I saw it in your eyes, in the way you moved, in your fierce, almost defiant independence. I felt your yearning to be mastered, to be set free." Kate hung her head, and said nothing. Was what he said true? Did she really know so little of herself? "I want to whip you, Kate, whip you well, to open your mind and your senses to the possibilities within you." He lifted her chin with the end of the whip, so that her eyes met his. "Will you do this for me, Kate? Do you dare to take this next step?" His gaze was a spotlight, searching to the depths of her soul. Kate felt fear and 82

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desire, rebellion (I'll show him what I dare!) and devotion (how could I not do whatever pleases him?). She found herself fascinated by the leather implement of punishment that he wielded with such familiarity. She was curious, disgusted, and, as usual in Marshall's presence, unbelievably aroused. Finally she answered. "Yes," she said softly. "I dare. For you." Her cheeks burned at admitting her weakness. "Good," he said. "Once again, you do not disappoint me." He circled around behind her. "Now, relax. And breath." The first stroke caught her by surprise. Confused by her mixed emotions and muddled by her lust, she had not been thinking about the pain. Each leather strand was a red-hot wire, searing the flesh of her buttocks. She bit her lip, trying not to cry out. A precise "snap" and a second stroke landed, a little lower, on the fullest part of her rump. "Ouch!" Kate could feel the individual traces left by the knots, a dozen separate bites all over those swelling cheeks. "Does that hurt, Kate?" said Gregory, with a little laugh. "But I have just begun." He swung the whip three times in rapid succession, crisscrossing her behind with sharp leather kisses. Then there was another snapping sound, and the thongs raked across the sensitive skin on the backs of her thighs. Kate whimpered. Each stroke built on the pain of the previous one. Her whole rear burned and stung, as the man behind her methodically applied the whip to her ass, her thighs, and her shoulders. She twisted and writhed, trying in vain to avoid the lashes; the bonds held her taut. Gregory used an uneven rhythm, so that she could not anticipate the blows. There would be a pause of several breaths, then he would rain four or five quick strokes on her quivering flesh. Kate could no longer feel the individual strands of the whip. All had blended into a hot haze of pain, streaking up and down her body. Tears pricked in her eyes. She wished that she could see her tormentor; perhaps that would give her courage. Even as this thought came to her, he stopped. She felt his palms cupping her buttocks. Even against her inflamed skin, his touch was hot. Now she felt him sliding his fingers into her cunt, probing and massaging. Kate knew that she was drenched with arousal, that the beating had left her sex 83

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more swollen and hungry than before. "Just testing," said Gregory with his characteristic mocking tone. "I want to make sure that you are enjoying yourself." Kate was mortified. It was hard enough to admit to herself that the whipping had excited her; for him to know this was too much to bear. "I am not finished yet, my little slave." He came around to face her. He was flushed and breathing deeply, yet his voice was totally controlled. "I'm just getting a bit warm." He stripped off the vest and shirt, as she watched in fascination. The sight of his lean, hard body made her weak with lust. She was glad for the ropes that held her upright. "No, Kate, you're only half-done." He raised the cat over his shoulder, and brought it down sharply across her right breast. The force of the blow horrified and thrilled her, as she watched the muscles move under his skin. The sting of the lash was complicated by the ache in her still-sore nipples. A symmetrical stroke landed on her other breast. Kate watched his face as he slashed the thongs over her belly, and, with amazing precision, up and down the insides of her spread thighs. His full lips were pressed together, a hint of a smile behind intense concentration. His blue-diamond eyes darted over her body, measuring, evaluating the effects of each stroke and planning the next. He was a powerful machine, a pagan god, a lurid nightmare in black leather. She floated now on the waves of pain, sensitized, tender, without thought. He would never stop, it seemed, and she did not want him to. Vaguely she realized that her cunt was pulsing, expanding and contracting in time with his strokes. In the midst of the pain, she was close to climax. Gregory paused dramatically, just long enough for her to miss the kiss of the whip. Then, with expert skill, he flicked the leather thongs between her legs. The knots caught her clitoris, distended and protruding from between her aching lips. It was enough. The orgasm broke over her, hot and strange, her raw skin crackling with electric twinges, her sex, it seemed, turning inside out. The room turned red. Kate hung helpless in her bonds, writhing, twitching, undone. When Kate returned to awareness, she found that Gregory was unfastening her wrists from the walls. He massaged her shoulders and upper arms, urging the blood to flow. She let her arms drop to her sides and stood there before him, silent. What could she say? Her body spoke for her. Gregory stood back a bit, looking her over. "Once again, Kate, you surpass my 84

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expectations. Now, indeed, you look as my slave should look, well-whipped, and wellsatisfied." "Come here," he said softly, "and let me show you." He led her over to the mirror. Kate was shocked by the image that greeted her. The same full breasts and full hips, the nipples still erect, but now the white skin was marked with red. Each lash of the leather had left a rosy track on her flesh that still burned slightly. She could see, now, that Marshall had planned his strokes for visual effect as well as for the sensation. There was a symmetry, a pattern to the marks, that was both disturbing and pleasing. It was hard to believe this was her own body, her own flesh. She traced one of the welts on her breast with a hesitant finger. The skin answered with a muted sting. Something was familiar here, she thought. Then she remembered the roses, red veins on creamy white. Gregory stood behind her, watching her reaction. "You should see your ass, Kate. Lovely red tracks across your sweet skin. The marks will be gone by tomorrow. But I know that you will not forget the pattern." He put his hands on her buttocks, brushing his fingertips over the reddened skin. Kate sighed, and leaned against him, exulting that he was touching her at last. The heat that came from him made her sweat. His eyes met hers in the mirror, as he continued to stroke her nether cheeks. Then his touch changed. While one hand continued to caress those twin globes of flesh, the other found its way into the crack between them. Once again, Kate knew mingled shame and pleasure as his long fingers began to probe her rear. Marshall was less tentative than Somtow had been. Or perhaps her anal passage was a little less tight now, from Somtow's attentions. Gregory pushed one finger deeply into her, then two. Kate could not help the moan that escaped her. "Ah yes, Kate. I thought you'd like that." He grinned at her in the mirror, a wicked look on his face. "Bend over," he ordered. "Rest your elbows on the dressing table." Kate could see the nervousness and excitement in her own face as she complied. Gregory pushed a third finger into her ass. She winced as the circle of muscle was stretched to a new limit. Then suddenly the man behind her removed his hand. Kate flushed, realizing that she desperately wanted him to continue. He stepped to one side of her, so she could see him in the mirror. Slowly, he 85

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unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. His cock rose from between his leather clad thighs, longer and thicker even than she had remembered. "No!" she began, understanding his intent. "I never... I can't..." "Oh yes, you can, Kate," said her partner. "Spread your legs." He reached between her thighs, plunging his hand into her wet cunt. Pleasure surged through her. Then, as she watched, he ran his hand over his penis, across the glistening knob at the end, lubricating himself with her juices. He positioned himself behind her again. "You can, Kate. And you will, for me." She felt the tip of his penis against the curled knot of muscle, then pressure as he began to push his way into her. "Let go, Kate. Let go." He pushed harder. Kate felt panic as sharp pain tore her virgin flesh. She looked at him in the mirror. His eyes were closed. She felt the intensity of his concentration, and his passion. His hands were like steel clamps on her buttocks, holding her open. She suddenly understood that she would do anything for this man, this master who knew her so well, better than she knew herself. She put her head down between her hands and tried to relax the stubborn muscles keeping him out. Enter me, she thought, take me, use me as you will. Sensing the change in her flesh or her thoughts, he thrust hard. Agony and ecstasy flooded her as his member stretched her wide and he filled her most private cavity with his hot, hard flesh. He hung there for a moment, pinning her with his cock. Kate could not believe the sensations exploding inside her. All the dirty pleasure of being full, down there, and the desire to let it all out; the tremors in her clitoris, another climax gathering; the pain at the gateway, where her delicate tissues were stretched near to tearing; the sting where his hands clutched her leather-lacerated skin. There was a long moment of stasis; the feelings grew, till they were almost unbearable. Then Gregory pulled out, letting her feel the guilty delight of being emptied. Then he thrust in again, deeper, deeper than Kate would have believed possible. In and out, Gregory plowed her ass. The rougher his thrusts, the more abandoned Kate became. He worked his cock around inside her butthole, grinding his hips, fierce, raw, finally letting go of his own control. Kate clung to the dressing table, moaning, as he reamed 86

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her, buggered her, sodomized her like the sluttish slave that she was. Dimly, Kate heard a low, guttural cry, and realized that it came from Marshall. New fire exploded in her anus. She opened her eyes and saw Gregory in the mirror, his head thrown back, his hair tangled on his sweaty shoulders, his mouth open in an animal yell as he pumped himself into her rear passage. She was shocked and amazed at the raw power that flowed from him, usually in check, now set free. He pulled his cock from her anus, leaving her empty, gaping. Moisture trickled from her stretched hole and dribbled down the backs of her thighs. Kate felt dirty, violated, sore, and blissfully satisfied. Her master helped her stand, then swept her up in his strong arms and laid her gently on the bed. The cool, quilted silk was soothing against her raw skin. Gregory looked at her, silent, for a long time. Kate held his gaze bravely, proud that she had endured his trials and come out the other side. Finally, he bent and kissed her tenderly on the lips. There was amazement, even awe, in his voice, as he murmured, "You really do trust me, don't you?" Kate was too exhausted to answer. In any case, there was no need; Gregory knew her, body and mind, saw her clearly through the masks of respectability and independence. The things he showed her about herself, she was not sure she was ready to see. She had to believe that he would not push her further than she was ready to go— or perhaps, a bit beyond.

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Wednesday Night at Rocky’s Ace Hardware Store

I

t's Wednesday night, and he's in a funk. He would rather be home, ensconced on the couch watching TV. He knows I need his help, though, so he's come along, grumpy but basically willing.

This morning the electric percolator literally melted down, frying the wall outlet in

the process. Victorian buildings just weren't designed to handle modern appliances. He's surprisingly handy; he has offered to repair the damage himself and save us the expense of an electrician. As we wander through the aisles, selecting cable and junction boxes, red wire nuts and sticky black tape, I smile up at him. I want to let him know how grateful I am for his company. Not just for tonight, but for his presence in my life. At first it does not seem that my message is getting through. He's still scowling, his brows knitted together in dark concentration. As we leave the electrical section and head toward housewares, though, he absently fondles my bottom through my light cotton dress. A hint of a grin crosses his lips as he realizes that I am not wearing panties. He touches me again, more deliberately, smoothing down the fabric of my skirt, poking it into the crevice between my cheeks. I hold my breath, savoring his surreptitious caress. "Being naughty again, Sarah?" He speaks softly, his rich, melodious voice seducing me as it always does. "Trying to tease me, my little slut?" 88

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"Just trying to cheer you up." I arch my back slightly, silently suggesting that he explore my cleft more deeply. In typical exasperating fashion, he takes his hand away. "Perfectly innocent, I'm sure," he mocks, but he's smiling now, TV forgotten, the power and challenge of his attention fully directed at me. I bask in his gaze, proud and humble simultaneously. "You know what happens when you tease me. I'm sure that you remember the other night." Of course I do, and the memory leaves me wet and breathless: the binding, the beating, the final delicious buggering. My sex overflows. My thighs are slippery with my juices. I imagine he can hear the liquid squelch as I walk. His arm is around my shoulder now, guiding me along. We pass a display of galvanized steel fittings. I stop, fascinated. Sturdy eyebolts and swivel bolts, hooks and pulleys, interlocking rings and brackets, all sensuously curved and shining a dull silver. I can't take my eyes away, imagining spread limbs and stretched muscles. Hardware stores always bring out my creative side. He laughs at my intensity. "You know that we can't attach anything to the walls, Sarah. It's in the resident's agreement." "Well... what about out on the deck?" Our top-floor condo has a lovely patio built out on the flat part of the roof. From there we have a fabulous view of the city, from Twin Peaks to the Golden Gate. "You want me to bind you out in the open, where anyone uphill can see you?" He rolls his eyes heavenward, pretending annoyance. "And you say that I'm perverted!" He steers me onward. Reluctantly, I leave the suggestive display of fittings, only to be transfixed by the rolls of self-service chain at the other end of the aisle. "Chain is completely impractical," he reminds me with a grin. "But it's so decorative, so evocative," I counter. "Whips and chains, you know." "Whatever you want, dear," he says, bowing low. I make a choice and he cuts me a four-foot length of the pretty, brass-finished stuff with half-inch links. He dumps it into our basket. It gives a satisfying clink whenever we move. My nipples go taut at the sound. He notices, of course, and leans down to tweak one, hard. Another wave of lubrication gushes from my cunt. His nostrils flare as my scent fills the aisle. "My turn," he says. "Let's go check out the dowels." His thumb and forefinger are 89

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still grasping my swollen tit. He leads me toward the back of the store. I look around nervously, but there are few customers at eight PM on a Wednesday evening. Despite my comments about the deck, I'm actually terrified of public exposure. To be more accurate, public restraint or punishment is still beyond my limits, something I'm not ready to admit that I want. He knows that perfectly well. He halts in front of a rack holding wooden rods of varying diameters and lengths. I have small hands; I could not get my thumb and forefinger around one of the thickest. The thinnest are perhaps a quarter-inch in diameter, like the sticks used to mount children's balloons. When he releases his hold on my nipple, I still feel the echo of his fingers on my throbbing flesh. "Bend over," he orders. Trembling with fearful excitement, I bend at the waist. I rest my hands on my thighs for support, but he can see that I am not comfortable. He flips my skirt up, baring my buttocks. "Don't move," he cautions, and then disappears, leaving me alone in this awkward and obscene position. He is gone for what feels like forever. Slight currents of air brush my exposed ass like ghostly fingers. My engorged pudenda ache for his touch, and the scent of my lust is stronger than ever. Sweat trickles down my neck, dampening my hair. My heart sounds so loudly in my ears, I do not even hear him when he returns. He has a folding stepladder, which he assembles and places in front of me. "Hold on to this." The position is more stable and places far less strain on my back. "Thank you, Master," I whisper, once again marveling at how finely tuned he is to my needs. He slips a casual finger into my soaking cunt and wriggles it around. "You certainly are wet, Sarah." My pelvis churns at his touch. Without thought, I grind myself against his hand. I am rewarded by a sharp slap on my butt cheek. "Be still!" he says softly. "I did not give you permission to move." He continues to explore my well-lubricated folds. Meanwhile I press my lips together and tighten all my muscles, struggling to obey his directive of immobility. "What are you thinking, little slut?" he whispers in my ear. "Tell me." I can hardly speak, aroused and taut as I am. "That I'm yours," I gasp, finally. "That I would do anything for you." "Really? Well, we'll see about that, won't we?" His voice holds that familiar hint of mockery, but I can tell he is pleased. He pulls his hand abruptly from my sex, and I 90

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almost cry out in disappointment. "Now, let me think about this..." I can hear him rummaging among the dowels. My mind paints pictures of what he will do, what he will choose. I see him easing the fattest rod into my cunt. My sex spasms at the thought, and an electric thrill seizes my clit. But then, why would I think he'd prefer my cunt to my rear hole? He's told me, often, that taking me anally is the purest form of domination. What if he forces a dowel into my ass, presented so conveniently to him here in the aisle of this hardware store, where anyone could watch and observe my total degradation? I almost come with that thought. But as usual, he surprises me. Just as I am getting control of myself, I hear a swooshing sound, and something burns a fiery track across my left buttock. Before I can recover, my right cheek is symmetrically assaulted. Tears rise and spill down my face at the sudden, spectacular pain. I tense, expecting more blows, but instead there is the blessed relief of his palm, delicately stroking my inflamed skin. "Yes," he says, "this should do quite nicely, seeing as birch switches are fairly hard to come by in the city..." He circles me, raises me up, and deposits a gentle kiss on my grateful lips. "Don't you think that this will work well, Sarah?" I nod, still dazed by the pleasure and pain surging in my lower parts. He smoothes my dress over the rosy streaks that I know mark my skin. I am barely decent when a bespectacled clerk in a blue-striped vest rounds the corner and almost bumps into us. "Oh, excuse me," he says, flustered. "Can I help you with anything?" My Master looks down at me, pondering a moment. "Let's see, we have plenty of rope... which way to the plumbing supplies?" Reading the excited question in my eyes, he shrugs. "Well, rubber tubing is always useful. And then we mustn't forget clamps, clothespins, a sawhorse, candles, bamboo plant stakes, yardsticks, wooden paint stirrers, plastic clothesline, webbing cargo straps..." He smiles in that provocative way that makes my stomach do somersaults. "I love hardware stores, don't you, Sarah?" I blush as the clerk points us to the appropriate aisle. I have a fearful, delighted conviction that we won't be watching TV tonight.

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Rick – Monday, midnight

T

he gym is full of shadows. The only illumination comes from a three-quarters moon, filtering through the trees and in the windows near the ceiling. I don’t turn on the lights; this room is familiar even in the dark. I simply seat myself

on one of the padded exercise benches, and wait. Someone has been here, preparing. The windows are open to the night air. I catch a sharp floral scent that mingles with the eucalyptus from outdoors. Ruby’s perfume. I breathe deeply, trying to relax, trying to ignore this infernal erection. It seems as though I’ve been hard for days. I don’t bother to touch myself. I know that my lovely torturer would not approve. In any case, I can’t hope for any real release, not on my own. Only she can give that to me. If she chooses to. The Naugahyde covering the bench is cool against my bare butt and balls. Even alone, I feel embarrassed and vulnerable. I work out regularly, but I know that I’m no Mr. Universe. I wonder, idly, what Ruby will think of my naked body. Then I realize she probably won’t care one way or another. Sure, she wants me, but she views that as a 92

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weakness. Ultimately, I’m not her lover. To her, I’m merely an opponent to be punished. Taught a lesson. I’m filled with regret and self-disgust. Things might have been different. It seems as though I’ve been waiting a long time. With each passing minute, my nervousness grows. What will she do to me? Will I be able to bear it? Through the gloom, I can barely read the wall clock. Quarter past twelve, it looks like. Perhaps she’s not coming. But I know better. I think about leaving. She’s late, why should I subject myself to this? But something holds me here, motionless, my cock jutting toward the ceiling, my heart slamming against my ribs. Pride? Fear? Desire? All of the above. I’d completely lose whatever last shreds of respect she might have for me if I ran away now. Finally, I hear a stirring outside the door. A sudden panic chokes me. I fight it down and continue to sit quietly as Ruby enters the room, carrying a lit candle stuck into a wine bottle. “Good evening, Rick,” she says in a voice of quiet authority. “Don’t move. Don’t get up.” “Good evening, Ruby.” “For tonight, you will call me Mistress Ruby.” I almost laugh. In an instant she’s looming over me with that fiery taper, looking distinctly menacing, and the humor of the situation evaporates. She notices me looking nervously at the dripping candle. “Scenes like the one we’re going to play tonight are better suited to candle light than the glare of electricity,” she says. “Don’t you agree?” “I don’t know—Mistress Ruby.” I stumble over the honorific. “I don’t have any experience with this sort of thing.” “Well, consider tonight to be your initiation.” Deliberately, she allows a drop of wax to fall onto my forearm. A tiny lance of hot pain shoots through me, lodging, it seems, in my cock. “A trial by fire, if you will.” Her sharp eyes do not miss the way my prick jerks as she dribbles another bit of molten wax onto my bare skin. “Now be still while I light the other candles.” She moves around the room, using her taper to light others on the equipment cabinet, the windowsills, and the bookshelf near the bathroom door. There’s an ache in my belly as I watch her graceful progress. 93

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I had expected her in leather, like that night in the club, sexy but hard as nails. Instead, she’s wearing a black lace teddy. Her breasts spill lushly over the top of the halfcups. Old-fashioned garters hold up her matching stockings, which have prominent seams that trace the curve of her calf to the back of her thigh. Her hair is bound into a gleaming black braid that reaches to her waist. She is petite, feminine, and infinitely desirable. But her shoes are cruel, pointy-toed patent leather with heels like silvery spikes. And her infamous little whip hangs from a lanyard around her neck, the thongs clustering provocatively right above her lace-sheathed pubis. She returns to my side and prods my thigh with one wicked toe. “On your knees, Rick.” Her tone sends a shiver up my spine. I sink down into a kneeling position on the exercise mat, facing her. I find myself blushing as my swollen cock gets in the way. She rests one of those vicious heels lightly on my poor penis. “You seem to be somewhat excited,” she observes dryly. She adds some weight and I feel exquisite fear as the heel barely pierces my taut skin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you enjoy being humiliated.” No, I think, that’s not it, it’s just that you’re so gorgeous and so powerful. Some part of me knows, though, that I’m lying to myself. “Lick my shoe,” she commands, returning it to the floor. I almost laugh again, her command seems so ludicrous, and yet I find myself obeying, bending awkwardly at the waist and applying my tongue to her patent-leather toe with the same enthusiasm as if it was her cunt. She extends her foot daintily, pushing the shoe into my face. The chemical, plastic taste puckers my mouth. After a moment, I stop, swallowing to try and get the saliva flowing. “Did I tell you to stop?” Ruby looks at me darkly. “No—Mistress.” “You’re going to have to do a better job of obeying me, Rick, or you’ll be sorrier than you can possibly imagine. Open your mouth.” When I do, she thrusts her razor-like heel between my lips. “Suck on that.” I try to obey and at the same time avoid having my tongue slashed open. For the first time, I wonder if Ruby would truly hurt me. A part of me notices how the twinge of fear increases my already unbearable tumescence. “I know that this excites you, Rick,” she murmurs as she fucks my mouth with her 94

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heel. “You can’t pretend with me. I see right into your slimy little heart. I’m warning you, though...” She pulls out her heel, raking it against the insides of my mouth, and leans over me, skewering me with dark, angry eyes. “If you come without permission, I’ll make you hurt so badly that even a pain slut like you won’t enjoy it. Do you understand me?” “Yes, Mistress Ruby.” Am I really like this, I wonder? A part of me is watching my reactions, from a distance, in total disbelief. “Good. Now put your hands behind your back.” When I do, she circles behind me, and I feel smooth lengths of nylon cord wrapping around my wrists. “Try to get loose.” I wriggle and twist my hands. I’m trussed like a chicken, though there’s enough give in the rope that the blood still flows. She sits down on a bench opposite me, her legs apart. A cloud of her musk washes over me. The lacy garment she wears is open at the crotch. I lean toward her, trying to inhale her, dying to touch her, to taste her. Her fragrant, shadowy sex draws me like a magnet. My cock swings wildly toward north. “Want me?” I can’t answer, struggling as I am to suppress the come that is boiling up my stalk. She knows the answer anyway. But she’s relentless. “Answer me!” She reaches out and pinches the tip of my bulb with knife-like fingernails. “Ow!” I can barely speak. “Yes, I want you. You know I do. Please, Ruby, let me eat you. Let me make you come.” Her slap knocks me off balance. “How dare you? And what did I tell you about addressing me?” My cheek stings from her blow. Pre-come drips to the mat, gathering in a sticky pool. “I’m sorry, Mistress.” Suddenly I am, dreadfully, desperately sorry. All I want to do is to please her, if not with my body than with my obedience. The door swings open suddenly. I look up. The sight that meets my eyes knocks the breath out of me as surely as if Ruby had punched me in the solar plexus. The menacing figure standing in the doorway might have been born of de Sade’s nightmares. Her ripe body is arrayed in red leather and gray steel, studded straps and woven chains. The bands bite into her fleshy breasts; the chains are pulled tight between 95

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her labia. I understand the message of this costume: my pain, it says, is but the merest echo of the pain that I can inflict. Blood-hued boots sheath her muscled calves and thighs. The heels make Ruby’s spikes look modest and unremarkable. The black leather gloves she wears have pointed studs embedded in the palms. Her hair is slicked back from her brow. Her eyes are heavily shadowed with black and gold, and her full lips look as though they have been painted in gore. She is smiling, a mocking, knowing smile that shrivels whatever vestiges of my selfesteem still remain. I know that it is Margaret—only Margaret, I tell myself—but when she lays her studded palm against my cheek, I cringe. “So, you’ve already started,” she says. Her voice is low, melodious, strangely soothing. “And how is our little Richard?” She grasps my cock in her gloved hand and squeezes, just enough to scare me. “Eager, it seems, for the evening’s entertainment. Is that so, Richard?” She looks into my eyes, and I’m simultaneously flooded with excitement and guilt. I can’t believe that I used this woman so badly. I’m aroused and terrified by the thought of how she might take her revenge. Margaret grips me more firmly, until steel bites into my turgid flesh. “Answer me, Rick. Are you eager? Are you ready?” I can’t hold her gaze. I look miserably down at her hand clutching me. “Yes, Mistress. I’m ready.” “Very good. Well, we won’t keep you waiting. Luna, bring in the bag so that we can show our little friend all the delightful things we have in store for him.” I look up and see that Luna has joined us. She looks delicious in a gauzy white chemise that shows all her charms, and a tiny thong to match. Unlike her companions, she is barefoot. She scurries over to Margaret, carrying a heavy-looking duffle bag. Then, to my astonishment, she kneels at the other woman’s feet. “Open it,” Margaret commands. Luna hastens to obey. “Now, Rick, let me show you some of the souvenirs that I brought back from San Francisco.” The first thing that she finds is a vicious-looking riding crop. It whistles as she swishes it through the air. When it smacks into the mat just in front of my knees, I jump. “Perhaps you’d like to be my little pony,” she comments, as she puts it aside. 96

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Next she pulls out some tangled contraption of stainless steel. It takes me three breaths to recognize it as a pair of nipple clamps, adorned with tear-drops of dull gray metal that I realize are weights. She opens the jaws of one and holds it just above my chest. “You seemed so interested in the effects of clothespins...” she remarks genially, leaning close. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, anticipating agony when she releases the spring and allows it to close on my flesh. But nothing happens. When I open my eyes, I see that all three of the women are laughing at me. My cheeks burn. My cock throbs. Margaret is busily pulling more articles from her infernal bag, each one more obscene than the last. A heavy leather strap with studs on the end. A huge, realistic dildo, black as coal. A device made of fluorescent green jelly that I recognize, with a sinking stomach, as a butt plug. Leather cuffs and straps. “I didn’t bring back a cat,” she remarks to Ruby. “I figured we could use yours.” Ruby strokes the leather thongs almost lovingly. “Indeed. I’ve been counting on it.” I feel as though I’ve fallen into some bad porn movie. Scared as I am, it’s hard to take all this paraphernalia seriously. I still can’t quite believe that pliant, susceptible Margaret has turned into this fearsome, fascinating dominant. “Ah, here we are. This is what I was looking for. To start with.” She holds up the article in question for Ruby and Luna to see. I gasp. It’s an enema bag, sickly pink, with long coils of tubing. “No!” I cry, forgetting my previous determination to please Ruby. “Not that!” Ruby strolls over and grasps my chin in her hands. “You agreed to obey me, didn’t you?” I nod, miserably. “But...” “No buts. I promised not to do you any permanent harm, and I won’t. Trust me, Rick.” There’s a sudden, astonishing softness in her eyes. My resistance begins to melt in the heat of hope. “Please, Mistress, I’ll do anything, but not that, please. I couldn’t bear it.” “Of course you can bear it. Won’t you bear it, if I ask you to?” I’m overwhelmed. Suddenly I understand that they will not subject me to this if I absolutely refuse. I’m not totally in their power, I realize, and then the one-two punch hits me: if I’m not in their power, then I’m collaborating in my own humiliation. 97

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“Richard,” says Margaret in that soft, steely voice. “You must be empty, so we can fill you.” I am silent, unable to force out the words, but they know my silence is acquiescence. Margaret sends Luna to fill the bag with warm water and soap. Ruby helps me down onto the mat, lying on my left side with my knees drawn up. It’s a difficult maneuver with my hands still bound. I cherish every touch of Ruby’s, even as my fear continues to grow. I hear Luna’s light step returning. She stands behind me. Margaret continues to give directions. “Hold the bag about chest level, Luna, so gravity will control the flow. Ruby, would you like to do the honors?” Ruby does not reply, but I can sense the heat of her as she kneels on the mat behind my out-thrust buttocks. The perfume of her sex surrounds me. When she parts my cheeks, I nearly lose everything, all control. Her fingers are slippery with lubricant, which she smears up and down my crack. God, I can’t go through with this, I think, and then I feel the nozzle slide into my asshole. It’s slender. It doesn’t stretch me much. It sits there, embedded in my anus, and I remember how I butt-fucked Ruby. Shame washes over me, shame at humiliating her, shame at how incredibly good the enema nozzle feels there in my most private place. “Release the clamp, Luna,” Margaret’s voice commands. The warm liquid begins to fill me, and I totally panic, because I’m convinced my guts are going to let go, right there. I begin to thrash wildly, literally scared shitless. Then I feel Ruby’s cool hand on my butt cheek. “Relax, Rick. Be still. Don’t fight it, or we’ll have a very messy accident indeed. And if you think that we’ve been hard on you so far...” She finishes her sentence with a sharp smack to my butt. There’s brief pain, then warmth, flooding me with pleasure as the liquid floods into my distended rectum. I’m quiet, biting my lip, clamping down on the nozzle as they continue to let the liquid flow. I’m sure that I can’t hold anymore, that I’ll burst from the pressure, but still they fill me. The room is silent. I know that they are all watching me. I know that I must look pathetic, disgusting, the tube jutting out of me. I deserve this, though. I earned it, through my selfishness, my arrogance, my thoughtlessness. 98

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“That’s enough, Luna. Clamp the tube. Ruby, remove the nozzle.” I feel the slick plastic slide out of me. I clench my muscles desperately, trying to hold it all inside me. Margaret comes round to face me. “Open your eyes, Rick.” I do, but all I can see are those evil boots, dangerously close. My guts churn. I clench my sphincter grimly. “How long should we make him hold it, Ruby?” “Ten minutes,” Ruby replies after a moment. God, no, I can’t! An eternity. Impossible. And if I fail? What could be worse? The ultimate in humiliation. I try to push away the thought, but the pressure in my bowels fuels the pressure in my prick, and I finally admit that the disgusting thought is more exciting than anything I’ve ever imagined. “Meanwhile, to distract him, why don’t we have Luna suck his cock? Remember what we told you about coming, though.” I groan as Luna engulfs my aching cock. The pleasure, the tension, the sensations, the fear: it all melds together. If I come, I won’t be able to hold in the enema. If I come, they’ll beat me. But God, it all feels so horribly wonderful. “Quite a piece of work, isn’t he?” I hear Ruby comment to Margaret. “Pitiful,” Margaret replies. “Though somehow perversely appealing. Rather like a nasty little puppy who always misbehaves.” Shame, pleasure, guilt, fear, it’s all roiling in me now, fogging my mind, assaulting my senses. I’m a worthless little worm. I deserve this. I’ve earned this. I want this. Ruby I am oddly nervous in Rick’s presence, though of course I don’t allow him to see this. In truth, I’ve only played the dominant with strangers and supplicants, men who mean nothing to me. To have this kind of power over someone I know so well is disconcerting. As I stand over him, watching him bathe my shoe with his tongue, I try to remember why I wanted this. His distress is evident, and it disturbs me. But his excitement is equally obvious, and mine grows in proportion. I imagine that tongue slithering over my inner folds, and my sex convulses in response. His nostrils flare as he unconsciously reacts to the potent musk leaking from between my thighs. He pauses, to get his breath perhaps. My arousal makes me petulant. “Did I tell you 99

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that you could stop?” “No, Mistress...” I threaten him silently with my lovely, vicious spike heels and I’m gratified at his reaction. I can feel his will relaxing, little by little. I can sense the way his physical desire is transforming itself into a desire to please me. As I observe him, I’m surprised to feel a twinge of regret. Part of me wants him to fight back, to struggle and take control. The way he does in my fantasies. I imagine him suddenly rising, seizing me by the shoulders and wrestling me to the floor, tearing the open crotch of my costume as he forces that hard rod of his deep into my cunt. I see myself pinned against the mat, helpless, as he rams me again and again. These unworthy images make me angrier than ever. I’m angry at myself, for my own weakness, but he thinks that my fury is directed at him. He quivers with eagerness to please. I bind his hands to excite him further, and to remove the possibility that he might intuit and act out my fantasy. I seat myself before his kneeling form and spread my thighs, treating him to a good look at my slick, rosy flesh and a nose full of my fragrance. “Do you want me, Rick?” “You know I do. Please, let me eat you, Ruby. Let me make you come.” Something leaps in me at these words, at his voice. I must be ruthless in suppressing this something. “How dare you?” I cry. I slap his face, hard, and watch the marks of my blow bloom on his cheek. “How can you presume? And what did I tell you about addressing me?” “I’m sorry, Mistress. Forgive me.” He does look contrite, with his cock dripping and the pattern of my five fingers clear on his face. “I only want to please you...” Then there’s a stir behind us, and Margaret enters, trailed by Luna. I know it is Margaret, it must be, but she is so transformed that I hardly recognize her. I look into her kohl-rimmed eyes, and I’m suddenly ashamed and embarrassed. Here is true power, true dominance. Compared to her, I’m a novice, a fake. She is immediately and clearly in charge; I am taking instructions from her. She has Rick’s entire attention, it seems, and I’m both jealous and awed. She is simultaneously velvet and steel as she woos and threatens him with her collection of fearsome paraphernalia. I find myself fascinated by each device she extracts from her black duffel. When she pulls out the enema bag, my stomach does a sick little 100

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flip. I can’t believe that she intends to do this. “You must be empty,” she tells Rick, “so we can fill you.” The next thing I know I’m on my knees behind him, smearing his arsehole with lubricant. When my fingers penetrate his sphincter, he tightens involuntarily. My own muscles contract in sympathy. I watch the candy pink nozzle slide into his rectum and my clit throbs, remembering the way he slipped my vibrator into my rear hole. I have the sudden conviction that he’s remembering this also. As Luna releases the clamp and the enema flows into his bowels, he squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his teeth. My own guts cramp. My sex pulses in time with the water gurgling through the tube. I’m dying to touch myself, but strangely, under Margaret’s eyes I don’t dare. I simply kneel there above him, holding the nozzle in place, watching the naked emotions play across his face. “That’s enough,” says Margaret finally. “Luna, clamp the tube. Ruby, remove the nozzle.” I gently slide the fluted plastic out of his butt. His sphincter tightens desperately. He opens his eyes briefly, and they meet mine. He hides nothing. I see his desire and his shame. He offers them to me. Margaret may be calling the shots, but it is still me that he wants most to please. “How long shall we make him hold it, Ruby?” I have no idea. Once again I’m aware of my inexperience, of my silly conceit in thinking myself a true domme. Rick’s eyes are closed again. I can only begin to imagine what he’s feeling. As for me, I am about to explode. “Ten minutes?” Rick silently shudders. “Fine. Meanwhile, to distract him, why don’t we have Luna suck him?” His cock twitches at the suggestion, and I see his muscles briefly relax, then tighten frantically. He lies passive as Luna swallows him, all his attention focused on holding on. My identification, my sympathy, makes me cruel. I stand, and prod him with my pointed toe. “Quite a piece of work, isn’t he?” “Pathetic,” Margaret agrees. “Five more minutes, Rick.” He groans through gritted teeth. Luna turns up the suction on his swollen organ. I pace back and forth in front of him, swishing my whip through the air, watching the second hand sweeping circles on the face of the wall clock. 101

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I am incredibly nervous. I want to slash my flogger across his pale butt, but I’m afraid he’ll lose control. There’s a funky, dirty smell growing in the room as he desperately fights his body for control. I’m terribly sorry for him, yet at the same time, I am enjoying his suffering. At last the time is up. I nod to Margaret. “Untie him,” she orders, and I do. “Hold on, Rick… It would be a shame to give up now.” He seems limp as we help him stand, walk him to the loo, and lower him onto the toilet. He sits there, staring at us three women, unbelieving, as we watch him. “What are you waiting for, Rick? Want another ten minutes?” I see brief anger flash across his face, then, he closes his eyes and relaxes. Privacy is a luxury that he cannot afford. He goes for a long time. The splashing sounds make me slightly queasy, but my cunt is wetter than ever. His cock still juts up from his lap. Giving in to temptation, I straddle him and lower my soaking sex down onto his rigidness. Ah, at last some brief relief! I don’t allow myself to linger, to consider how well he fits. He moans as I grip him with my muscles, moans again as I pull away. “Just a taste of what you might, just might, earn, if you behave yourself.” There’s an annoying quaver in my voice, echoing the ripples in my cunt. “Clean yourself up,” says Margaret, gesturing toward the shower. “Then we can really get down to the business at hand.” Margaret leaves him. I remain in the bathroom, watching his silhouette through the frosted glass. He’s my slave, I can do as I wish. His angular, wiry body is strangely graceful. He stands with his head thrown back, allowing the water to wash over him. His erection is clearly visible. He soaps it once or twice, but drops it as though it were red hot, before I can remind him about not coming. I feel very strange. When he turns off the tap, I return to the gym. I don’t want to meet his eyes. “What do you think, Ruby?” asks Margaret. “What next?” I look around the room, at the nautilus machine, the stationary bicycle and the rowing machine. That reminds me of Raoul, so I look elsewhere. The weight bench is nicely padded, with sturdy steel racks at one end for holding barbells. I gesture toward the piece of apparatus. Margaret, apparently understanding my intentions, nods. “Come here, Rick,” she says to the naked figure standing in the bathroom doorway. 102

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His unruly hair clings damply to his head. His brown eyes are huge. For a moment I think that he will refuse, but instead, he walks over and sinks to his knees in front of Margaret’s leather clad-form. “Good boy,” she purrs. “Kiss my boots.” His enthusiasm as he does so reawakens my envy. “Now, my cunt. Just a little kiss now. Respectful.” Rick rises and delicately places his pursed lips against Margaret’s lower ones, which protrude juicily from her pubic curls. “Enough. Now Ruby.” He shuffles over on his knees and bends his mouth to my shoe, then raises himself and addresses my sex. I can feel his hot breath, blowing into my cleft. I bloom and open in response. His tongue flicks out and stabs at my clit, and my entire body shimmers briefly, like a mirage. How dare he? I grab his chin roughly, lift his eyes toward mine. “Did I give you permission to do that?” I can still feel the echoes of pleasure coursing through me. “No, Mistress,” he replies softly, but there’s a glint in his eye of mischief and knowledge. “I couldn’t help it.” “We will teach you to control yourself,” says Margaret. “Onto the weight bench, now. On your hands and knees.” When he complies, Margaret positions him so that his arms are parallel to the vertical supports of the weight rack. “The cuffs won’t really work here. It’s a good thing you brought the rope, Ruby.” She and I work together to bind our victim to the bench. She wraps the rope several times around each ankle, adding knots to keep the loops from tightening, then runs the long end of the cord under the bench and across both calves. I use two shorter pieces to tie each wrist to the weight rack. “Can you move?” asks Margaret when we’re done. Rick wriggles a bit. His erect penis, jutting out and downward, bobs comically. “Not really, Mistress.” “Are the ropes too tight?” He shakes his head. “If your hands or feet start to get numb, you must let us know. Understand?” He nods again. “Good. Now, let’s see...” She retrieves the nipple clamps from the pile of toys and hands them to me. “Would you do the honors?” They’re simple spring-loaded clips, quite stiff. I hold them up for Rick to see. He swallows hard but says nothing. “You like?” He’s silent. To reach his nipples, which are 103

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facing the bench, I must crouch down beside him. I bring my lips close to his ear. “Margaret tells me that you were quite interested in the clothespins she used on Luna.” He actually blushes! I reach underneath his body and capture the closer nipple between my thumb and forefinger. “Your nipples are as erect as your cock, Rick. You can’t pretend.” I pinch, hard, using my nails. He gasps, but still says nothing. Holding one clamp open, I let the jaws press against the sensitive skin on either side of the nipple. For long moments, I simply hold this position, allowing the suspense to build. I’m breathing hard. A drop of my own wetness trails down my inner thigh. “Take a deep breath,” I say finally, and allow the jaws to close. Rick sucks in his breath, squeezes his eyes shut. The weight attached to the clamp hangs straight down, increasing the tension. “Now the other...” I apply the other clamp quickly, before he knows what’s happening. He moans softly. “Painful? Don’t speak, just nod or shake your head.” He nods. “Can you bear it?” He nods again. “Of course, if it gets to be too much to bear, you should let us know. But I know that you don’t want to disappoint Margaret and me, do you?” He shakes his head emphatically. “After all the times you disappointed us before...” I glance over at Margaret. She smiles and nods, encouraging me to proceed. Taking the flogger from around my neck, I trail the leather tails across Rick’s tanned back. “You remember this little toy, I’m sure. I didn’t realize at the time why you found it so fascinating.” I raise my arm and swipe his arse smartly. “Ow!” “I told you to be silent. Surely you can obey such a simple request?” He nods. I lash him again. Scarlet welts rise in the wake of my blow. He does not exclaim again, though he jerks reflexively in response to each of my strokes. He’s open, willingly accepting my lashing. I can sense the beat of his heart, can see it in the distended veins of his penis. Energy flows between us as I dance around him, targeting unmarked flesh each time I whisk the flogger through the air and bring it down on his poor bound body. I pretend to be angry. “This is your punishment, Rick, for arrogance and conceit, for dishonesty and disrespect. This is for your tricks at Proscenium.” (Snap!) “This is for 104

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blackmailing Margaret.” (Snap!) “And this is for your attempts to seduce poor Hariati, all in the service of your greed! She came to me in tears, you know, confused and frightened, telling me that you tried to make love to her, asking me what to do. She wanted you so badly, she was shaking. But even she could tell you can’t be trusted.” I pause for breath. Rick’s buttocks are peppered with rosy weals. Candle light flickers over his bruised flesh. The marks seem to shift with the shadows. He’s breathing deeply, in time with my strokes. His eyes are closed. His erection is huge. “What do you have to say for yourself? You may speak.” It takes Rick a few moments to find his voice. “I’m sorry, Mistress,” he says gruffly. “I know that I was wrong. I truly regret my actions.” “Do you? And do you think that you’ve been punished enough?” He’s silent. I realize with a sick thrill that he wants more: more abuse at my hands, or Margaret’s. “Would you care to take a turn, Margaret?” My executive assistant stands with thighs apart, arms akimbo. Crouched between her legs, delicate Luna applies her eager mouth to Margaret’s sex. I have a sudden recollection of the Margaret I always thought I knew, conservative clothing and sensible shoes, modesty and good sense. It is difficult for me to believe that this is the same woman. But then this whole scene feels like something out of a fantasy. I’ve never had any sexual interest in women but I swear, the sight of Luna lapping at Margaret’s cunt sends currents of pleasure coursing through my own sex. Margaret places a light hand on her girl’s blond head, and Luna stops immediately. She gazes up at her mistress with such love that once again, I’m slightly jealous. “I would not miss the chance,” Maggie says. “But first, why don’t you introduce Rick to this little item?” She hands me the butt plug, which wiggles like obscene gelatin. My sphincter clenches, recalling its recent invasions. The device is shaped like a blunt arrow head, perhaps a quarter of an inch in diameter at the tip, at least two inches at its widest. It has a narrow stem and a broad, flat base. I hold it in front of Rick’s face. “Doesn’t this look appealing?” The fear in his eyes tells me that he’s never experienced anal penetration. “You seem to enjoy buttfucking others, we thought we’d see how you like it yourself.” I slather the thing with lubricant while he watches. “How are your nipples, by the way?” I jerk the chain between the clamps and he winces. “We’ll see to those in a moment. But first...” 105

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I circle behind him. “Luna, go help Ruby,” Margaret commands. The housekeeper grasps Rick’s leather-seared butt cheeks and holds them apart for me. His anus lies curled between them, naked and vulnerable. I feel another brief stab of pity. To compensate, I make my voice like ice as I position the plug at his entrance. “There should be plenty of room for this now, Rick. So open wide...” He tries to resist the well-greased plug. I press a bit harder but still the tip is barely inside. “I said open, Rick.” I give his cock a sudden vicious squeeze. His attention shifts as he tries to keep from coming, and in that moment, I twist and push simultaneously. The slippery plug disappears into his rectum. He gives a heartfelt groan. For a moment, I’m certain he’s about to lose control, but then the moment passes. I can’t help admiring his determination to please. Or perhaps it is merely his natural stubbornness. “How’s that? Nice to be full?” I tap on the protruding base. He wriggles involuntarily. “Get used to it. We’ll probably fuck you there later.” I turn to Margaret. “He’s all yours.” “Thank you, Ruby.” She strolls over to where our victim can see her. “Now tell me, little Richard, what instrument of discipline you’d prefer. I can use the crop—sharp, cutting pain. Or I can use the strap—rough blows seasoned with the bite of the studs. Or, you can have both, if you are feeling particularly greedy.” She sinks to her haunches and brushes her scarlet lips over Rick’s parched ones, smearing her lipstick all over his face. “Sweet, helpless little Richard. You must choose.” Rick seems hazy, almost as if he were drugged. His voice is slurred. “You choose, Mistress. Whatever pleases you.” “You don’t have a preference?” He shakes his head slowly. I worry whether he is all right. But his cock is still enormous, and his face is flushed with arousal. “Well then – I’ve always thought that the crop was a more feminine instrument. But first, let me remove these. We don’t want to damage you. You have a long night ahead.” She reaches under his body and opens one of the clamps. “Ow! Oh God...!” “Goddess, perhaps. Yes, it does hurt when the blood flows back into your compressed flesh. Perhaps more than the clamps themselves. But you’ll bear it, won’t you?” Rick nods, though his face is a picture of misery. 106

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“Good boy.” She deftly slips off the other clamp. Rick’s entire body tenses. Margaret strokes his hair, which is curled in dark ringlets around his ears. “Relax now, little one.” In response to some imperceptible signal, Luna hands her the crop. “Relax and enjoy.” Rick One assault, one indignity, follows another. I’m torn between pain and ecstasy, shame and pride. The clamps are agony, but Ruby put them on me with her own hands. I’ll wear them as badges of honor, for her. I yearn for her touch. I’m swimming in her scent. I’m barely aware of Margaret and Luna, in the background. All my mind and heart are focused on Ruby. Her whip is an extension of her self. Each stinging blow is a kiss. I force myself to be still and receive her caresses. My flesh is on fire, but I burn willingly, for her. When she sinks that obscene plug into my ass, I nearly melt. I’m afraid of the pain, but there’s none, only the secret, dirty feeling of fullness there. It reminds me of the enema, the sensations, the certainty that I’ll lose control and soil myself like an infant. Then I remember. I am empty, open, her receptacle. She threatens to fuck me and I’m terrified and eager. A part of me finds my submissive reactions disgusting and frightening. But this feels strangely right. There is such pleasure, such satisfaction here. I might never come, and yet, if I can please Ruby, it will be enough. She hands me over to Margaret, though, and new fear stabs through me. I sense a core of softness in Ruby, but Margaret is steel through and through. “Which would you prefer, little Richard? The crop or the strap?” How can I answer a question like that? I don’t have a clue. I never imagined. Let me go, I want to say, untie me now, I’ll have neither, but instead I hear the voice of a stranger, my own voice: “You choose, Mistress. Whatever pleases you.” And I realize that it is not just Ruby, though she is at the heart of it, the source and reason for all I do. I want to be used by these women. All the time I was manipulating, seducing, plotting against them and their sisters, was this what I really wanted? The first slashing stroke of Margaret’s crop rouses me from my reverie. Hot pain races from my already tender butt to my cock and back again, a reverberating circuit. She barely gives me time to breathe before she strikes me again, in a different spot. Not 107

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just my ass, but my thighs and shoulders too are soon raw and pulsing with vivid sensation. Is this pain or pleasure? At this point, I can’t tell. But I do not want her to stop, though my body jerks involuntarily trying—without success—to avoid her blows. Ruby crouches down beside my head. Margaret’s vicious crop fades from my awareness. “Are you doing all right, Rick?” Her eyes glitter in the candlelight. I just nod, inhaling the exquisite fragrance of her. Her forehead is lightly sheened with sweat. Her nipples jut out like tiny erections. As if reading my mind, she reaches beneath me and pinches my aching cock. “You seem to be enjoying this.” Looking into her eyes, I nod again. See me, I silently beg her, see what I will do for you. Take me, use me. You have won. From now on, we’ll play by your rules. She slips a hand into her crotch and massages her clit. Her eyes close briefly, then her gaze locks on mine once again. “I’m having a rather good time myself.” She offers me her cunt-slick fingers. I lick them eagerly. This is my first taste of her. She is sweet and salty, complex and mysterious. “Thank you, Mistress,” I whisper when her skin is thoroughly clean. Margaret’s rod sears my backside once again. “Thank you.”

Ruby Rick sucks on my fingers like a hungry baby. In my mind, I feel his mouth on my nipples, on my clit, as well. Eventually, I will have him, have that stubbornly swollen penis of his deep inside me. But he is not ready. He has not suffered enough, though he is now well-tenderized by Margaret’s expert blows. My assistant pauses and surveys her handiwork. Rick’s buttocks and thighs are a blotchy, fiery red. I lay my palm on one discolored cheek. Heat flows from his flesh through mine, down to my melting cunt. I brush my fingers gently across his bruised butt. He arches his back, seeking contact. Offering himself to me. “Want something, Rick?” My slap makes him jump. I struggle to keep the mockery in my voice. When I tap my fingers against the base of the plug embedded in his rectum, he unconsciously presses his hips in my direction. “I think it is time that I stopped playing with you, and treat you as you truly deserve.” Grasping his cock in one hand, I take the green jelly base in the other and pull. 108

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The plug emerges from his arse with an obscene popping sound. His penis tightens and jumps in my hand. For a moment I’m sure that he is lost. I gloat. I have a vision of his come flooding out, into my palm, and then his distress and his shame. However, he retains control, just barely. He moans as I alternately squeeze and release him; his eyes are screwed shut and his teeth are clenched. But he does not come. Margaret is watching me approvingly, her arm around Luna, her fingers playing in the blonde girl’s sex. I untie Rick’s ankles, and then his wrists. “I thought that perhaps I should invite Raoul in to join the fun,” I say softly as I work at the ropes. “I know from experience that he enjoys sodomy. Perhaps he would like to have a go at your arse, now that it has been stretched a bit.” My prisoner looks at me frantically. “No, Mistress, please! Don’t get Raoul involved.” “No? You wouldn’t enjoy sucking on him while I watched? You wouldn’t enjoy feeling him pounding his cock into your arse? Not even if I wanted you to?” His face expresses conflicted misery, but he does not reply. “In any case, our friend Raoul is already involved. He told me that you had instructed him to fuck me.” “No I didn’t,” Rick protests. “I never told him that!” “Was he lying then? You didn’t say anything?” He looks embarrassed. “I think I might have commented that what you needed was a good fuck. But I didn’t mean for him to act on that comment.” “Well, you should watch what you say. Because one way or another, he did fuck me, and not gently, either. So I’m going to give you a taste of what he did to me. Go stand over there, facing the mirror. Margaret, can you help me?” The jet-hued dildo is solid and elegant. Margaret assists me in adjusting the harness and affixing the dong at the right angle. The casual brush of her fingers against my thigh inflames me. I’m so aroused that this seems completely natural. There’s a clever little nubbin at the base of the phallus that presses against my clit. I jerk my hips forward experimentally. My whole sex throbs with the result. In the mirror, Rick watches me donning the fearsome artificial cock. It must be at least ten inches long and two thick, far larger than any real penis I have ever accommodated. My imagination suddenly presents me with a picture where the roles are reversed and Rick is about to impale me with this object. My rear hole tingles 109

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deliciously at the image. I have stopped fighting these thoughts; it’s no use trying to suppress them, and ultimately, they simply heighten the already unbearable level of my excitement. I walk over to him, the dildo bobbing in front of me, and hand him the tube of lubricant. “Grease it up, Rick. You know where it’s going.” He is embarrassed to touch it at first, but my eyes compel him. His hands slide up and down on the black shaft, and it is as though he was actually touching me. My cunt trembles, on the verge. “Enough! Face the mirror, hands on the glass. Bend over a bit. Thighs apart.” He obeys promptly, and I understand that he wants this as much as I do. I grasp his cheeks, still warm and brightly marked by Margaret’s and my beatings, and pull them apart. His anus gaps slightly open, still, from the plug. The brownish skin there gleams wetly in the flickering light of the candles. Delicately, I position the bulb of my borrowed cock at his entrance, the rounded tip barely touching the whorled muscles. For perhaps half a minute I remain still, while my breathing synchronizes with his and the suspense builds. I gaze at Rick in the mirror. His lips are parted. His eyes are closed. His whole body is trembling slightly. The vibration transmits itself through the hard plastic joining us, to my aching clitoris. Open your eyes, Rick, I think, and he does. Our gazes lock in the mirror and amidst the fear and lust, I glimpse something brighter and purer. “Fuck you, Rick Martell,” I growl and jerk forward, burying the dildo in his bowels. Rick Oh yes, I want her to fuck me, I’m ready to do anything for her. But when she drives that evil dong of hers into me, I scream. I had no idea. The pain of the flogger and the crop were nothing to this, this raw agony that takes away all breath, all words, leaves me as torn and whimpering meat hanging on her prod. I try to be empty and open. Each time she pulls out of me, I feel the pain of loss. Each savage thrust into my depths brings back the searing pain of flesh stretched beyond its limits. I imagine that I am bleeding. I feel warm liquid seeping out of me. I struggle to bear it, arch my back to open myself to her, my cruel and beautiful mistress. The pain does not abate, but little by little, I sense a strange pleasure, around the edges, underneath the pain. There’s a slow pulse of delight in my balls, a quivering 110

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in my cock, as she slams into me again and again. My eyes are tightly shut. I dread each new impalement. I long for it. Somehow through the fog of my agony and excitement, I sense Ruby’s growing arousal. She will come soon, I know. I long to feel this, to be blessed by her release. All at once, I’m floating. Ruby still batters me, ripping me apart, but I’m in some cocoon of white light where the pain and pleasure are one. My body is simply a vessel, for her to own and fill. I am nothing but brightness, shining in this cool and soothing place. Somehow she is here with me, glorious, energy and lust singing through her as she revels in her power over me. Yes, I think, yes, which is the only word now, and Ruby hears and answers with her body, the screams of her orgasm mingling with my own sympathetic cries as I relax and feel her pleasure crest and spill over into me. Ruby This is something new. I’ve never known such total release, such total pleasure, a climax that took my whole body and shook me out of it, into some realm beyond flesh. I could swear that I heard Rick’s voice murmuring in my ear as I came, wordless but encouraging, full of love. Love? When I finally return to normal consciousness, he is crumpled on the floor, his breathing deep and steady, his eyes closed. There are traces of red on the heavy phallus still attached to my groin. I feel acutely guilty, and concerned. “Rick?” I brush his tangled hair away from his eyes. “Rick, are you okay?” He opens his eyes and smiles at me, humbly and happily. All arrogance gone. “Yes, Mistress.” His cock is still, amazingly, erect. I feel a new respect for him, his discipline and his devotion. And new desire. I un-strap the harness. Glancing across the room, I see that Margaret has bound Luna face up on the weight bench and is busily working at the girl’s sex with the handle of my flogger. Luna twists and moans under the onslaught. Margaret notices my attention, shrugs, and gives me a little smile. “Turn over on your back, Rick. I think that you deserve a bit of a reward.” He shudders as I smooth on the condom. I straddle his prone form and lower myself onto 111

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his thick, twitching penis. We both give a sigh of satisfaction as he settles deep inside my well-soaked cunt. I begin to move, slowly, relishing the sensations of his hardness sliding over my sensitized inner folds. He is watching me, smiling, and I smile back. “You may come, but only after I do.” I tell him. A spasm of pleasure seizes me; I feel his cock pulse in answer. I lean over and brush my lips against his. “I have a feeling,” I say softly, “that it won’t take very long.” Margaret I’m impressed, finally, by Ruby, though I had my doubts before. She has used Rick well, trod the fine edge between cruelty and concern. I had some ideas of my own – I think that Rick might have benefited from having his penis whipped, or being forced to drink our pee – but ultimately this was her show, and I applaud her performance. Luna has come twice and is still eager but somewhat exhausted. I glance over to see that Ruby has mounted Rick and is riding him with an abandon that convinces me she’s unaware of her audience. I untie my girl and help her to her feet. “Let’s go back to my room,” I tell her. “I have some very nasty notions that might shock those two.” As we close the door behind us, I take once last look at my lovely boss and her prey. Her back is arched, her hair half out of the braid and cascading down to her buttocks. She grips her nipples frantically as she slams her pelvis against Rick’s body. His knees are up. He rises to meet her strokes, struggling to bury himself ever deeper. They are beyond speech, grunting in unison as they climb the final peak together. Luna and I are halfway down the hall when we hear the two screams, one soprano, one tenor. Once again I wonder who has won this contest. Then I realize that it does not matter.

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W

hen the police colonel walked into my bar, I knew it was a bad sign. I was pretty sure that I was up-to-date on protection money. I knew the documents proving that all my girls were over eighteen were stowed in

my safe, and I'd done a drug check only yesterday, but I couldn't help worrying. Police Colonel Apichat wasn't a bad sort. He was always polite, both to me and to my girls, when he came by to pick up the monthly envelope of cash. Occasionally, he'd even accept my offer of a drink. He'd sit at the bar, nursing a Chang beer, hungry eyes surveying the dancers as though he wanted to devour them. I'd send over two of my prettiest employees to try and cheer him up, but with all their teasing and flirting, he rarely smiled. Tonight, though, he looked even more serious than usual. And he was not alone. Behind his wiry, dark-skinned frame I saw the crew cut bulk of his lieutenant, Narongchai. The girls called Kwai, “buffalo", though he reminded me more of a gorilla. I hurried over to Apichat, and gave him respectful wai. "Colonel, this is an unexpected pleasure. Please come inside. Can I offer you and your companion a drink?" "Thank you, Madame," he said in English. He always speaks English to me, even though he knows that I'm fluent in Thai. "We are on duty. In any case, we come to tell 113

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you the terrible news. Terrible news? Was the government on another morality and social order campaign? "Yes? What news?" "A girl from SuperVamp bar was killed last night. Choked to death in a hotel room." A chill ran down my spine. SuperVamp is on the next soi. I know lots of girls who work there. "What was her name?" "Suwannee. Her nickname was Nee." It didn't ring a bell. The name was a common one. I thought for a moment. "If the murder took place in a hotel room, it should be easy to find the killer. Just look at the registration records." Colonel Apichat sighed. He was obviously very disturbed. "The victim registered by herself, and paid in cash. The desk clerk never saw her companion." Anger flared briefly in his flat brown eyes. "I don't understand why these girls are not more careful. We make the laws to protect them. They just ignore the laws." I didn't bother to point out that this was the typical Thai attitude toward laws of any kind. Maybe it was a kind of Buddhist non-resistance, letting the laws flow around them without touching them. Apichat put his hand to his brow as if he was in pain. "So, how can we help you, Colonel?" "Warn your girls. If they see anything that makes them suspicious, tell them to call '1771'. It's a special hotline number we have set up since the crime. Tell them to program it into their mobile phones, and to always make sure their phones are nearby." I nodded. "Of course. I'll talk to them right away." I knew that the women who worked for me would pay far more attention to a warning from me than from the police. "Is there anything else?" He looked troubled. "I think your girls need to be especially careful." "Why is that?" "The girl who was killed—well, there was evidence that she had been involved in some S&M activity." He obviously found it difficult to talk about this. "She was found tied to the bed, with plastic clothespins on her nipples, cigarette burns on her arms and legs, and vibrators inside her." The plural seemed to make him particularly 114

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uncomfortable. He pulled himself together and looked me straight in the eye. "We understand that your establishment tends to attract…that sort of people." I couldn't deny it. It's true that The Academy is not a typical Bangkok go-go bar. There are no crowds of bikini-clad girls struggling to look sexy up on stage but collapsing into giggles if you smile at them. Instead, I'll have only two dancers on at a time. One undulates, near-naked, yearning and helpless, inside her cage. The other, in vixen-wear of leather or latex or chain mail, flaunts her unattainable beauty on a pedestal in the shape of two crouching bodies of indeterminate gender. The two poles of the power exchange, opposite each other. My customers can savor either, or both. My girls are very special. I have the pick of Patpong, because I'm willing to pay for quality. I screen them carefully. They need to know how to keep a straight face when their role demands it. They have to be able to understand the difference between a parody of seductiveness and the real thing. Most important, I only hire women who intuitively respond to the dynamics of dominance and submission. I don't train them in D/s. (I don't dare; if the authorities found out, I'd be closed in a flash.) But I'm always looking for the ones who are natural tops or bottoms. That's what the customers like, anyway, the sense that they're discovering the "hidden truth" about the girl they buy out of the bar. Not realizing that they're really plumbing the truth about themselves. Of course, much of my clientele is content to simply drink and watch, imagining the possibilities without experiencing them. Which is fine with me. Fantasy is always more reliable than reality. Safer, too. Murder, though. A shiver ran though me. Bangkok can be a hard, cruel city, but murder is still pretty rare, especially this kind of sick, senseless killing. People here get shot or stabbed, for revenge, or because of some shady business deal. I can understand murder for a reason. But a harmless young woman, tortured, violated and then choked to death? It left a sour taste in my mouth, that someone would take the trappings of good, oldfashioned BDSM and twist them to such evil service. "I haven't noticed any suspicious customers, Colonel. Just the usual tourists, coming 115

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in for a beer and a thrill. Don't worry, though. We'll let you know right away about anyone who seems at all threatening or abnormal." "Thank you, Madame. I appreciate your cooperation." He rose to leave. His eyes flicked involuntarily over to Lin, the tall, muscular woman currently writhing on the "mistress" pedestal, and the muscles in his face tensed as though he was grinding his teeth. "Come on, Lieutenant," he barked over his shoulder in Thai. Narongchai heaved his bulk off the next stool, reluctantly, it seemed to me. He gave me a lingering stare that sent cold chills down my spine, before turning to follow his boss. "Good evening, Madame. I'll check in again soon." The skinny colonel and his heavyset assistant disappeared through the curtained entrance of the club. As soon as they were out the door, the girls crowded around me, all talking at once. "Trouble, Ajarn?" "What did police want?" "He look so serious. Is he going to close bar?" Their first worry was for their income. Still, when I told them about the murder, they gasped in uniform horror. Some gripped their amulets. Some made the old sign against bad luck. Only Nok, practical and hard-headed, seemed unaffected. "That girl, she probably ask for it," she commented. "What? How can you say that? She asked to be killed?" "No, of course not. But she want to be tied up, right? I don't think anyone can tie her except if she agree." Nok is one of my natural dominants. Sometimes she can be a bit too blunt. Her name means "bird"; she's as sharp and relentless as a hawk. "Well, for now, I don't want any of you 'agreeing' to anything that makes you uncomfortable, or that could leave you helpless. Understand?" They all nodded. "Remember that hot-line number. Put it in your address book. Assign it to speeddial. Then don't let your phone out of your sight." They were already pulling their mobiles from their boots or their back pockets, following my instructions. When she was finished, Nok turned back to me.

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"Ajarn?" The girls call me "professor", and I don't discourage it. In one of my former lives, I taught business at a Thai university. That was before somebody betrayed me by sharing the details of my private life. "Yes, Nok?" "We can still go out with customer, right?" "It's up to you. As usual. But be sure you trust the person. Be extra careful." I wasn't worried about Nok, though. Her customers were much more likely to want her to tie them up than the other way around. *** It was my turn for dancing. That was ok. I really didn't want to think about that girl. Strangled. That was a bad way to die. Struggling to breathe. But maybe there was no good way to die. That night, I was wearing red leather and black fishnet. My nipples poked through the holes in the net cups. I liked the way the elastic strands gripped them and made them hard. The leather G-string (I think that's what Ajarn called it) was wet inside, with my sweat and my lady-juice. I squatted down on my heels and moved my hips in a slow, sexy circle. The thong stretched tighter between my legs. It rubbed against all the spots that make me feel good. I like dancing. Not just because of the money. It gets me excited. When I see how much the customers want me, my whole body vibrates with pleasure. The more they watch me, the hotter I get. And I know that when I am excited ("horny", the men say), I dance more skillfully. I am more graceful and more sexy. So they want me more. They're willing to pay me more. And I can give them more fun. Seems like a good situation for everyone. The bar was beginning to fill up. Nu, the DJ, put on some different music, something slow and romantic that made my body feel like flowing water. Sade, I think it was. I let the music speak to me. Speak through me. I picked up the little whip that Ajarn gave me to use in my act and swirled the thongs lazily around above my head. Then I stuck it between my thighs and rubbed it back and forth. Mmm. I could smell myself, as I got more and more wet.

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I checked my audience. Everyone was watching me. I chose first one man, then another. I stared at each one until he was too embarrassed and lowered his head. I didn't smile, just stared. Letting them know with my eyes that I was in charge. The boss lady. At the end of the row of benches, I noticed somebody new. A handsome farang with hair the color of straw, wearing business clothes that looked expensive. He smiled at me, a strange smile that made me feel like I was naked. Of course, my costume doesn't hide very much. Normally, that gives me a feeling of power. Maybe I will allow them to see the hidden parts. Maybe not. With this man, it didn't matter what I was wearing. I felt like he could see right through my clothing. Like he could see every bit of me, even if I wore street clothes. My nipples started to ache, and my G-string got more slippery than ever. For the first time since I started working for Ajarn, I was nervous. I stumbled on my spiky heels. I almost lost my balance. Luckily, I was able to turn the mistake into a sexy dip that showed off my bare rear. Most of the customers didn't notice. The blond man was not fooled. My heart was beating so hard that it hurt. When I finished my dancing time, I ran into the toilet and splashed some water on my face. I crouched down, my back against the wall, listening to the chatter of the other girls. My eyes closed, I tried to follow my breathing, the way the monks taught me. All I could see was the farang looking at me, with that X-ray stare of his, like something from a science fiction movie. I stayed in the bathroom for as long as I could. I knew Ajarn would notice if I was gone too long. Finally, I had to go back out. I peeked out from behind the curtains, trying to see if he was still there. When I saw that his seat was empty, I sighed with relief. I headed toward the bar to get a coke. My throat was tight and dry. Then I felt a hand on my arm. It was him. His skin was so cool, it made me shiver. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked. His voice was kind, and made me think of music. Still, I felt something like terror. He stared at me without blinking. Now it was me who was embarrassed. I looked away. Ajarn was on the other side of the room, watching us. I couldn't refuse. "Thank you, sir. Just a moment. I go get a coke, come back right away." 118

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"Let me go with you," he said smoothly. He took my arm and walked me to the bar. After we got our drinks, he guided me to a table in the corner. "Sit," he ordered. I didn't want to, not really. But what could I do? I clicked my glass against his. "Chok dee," I said. "Good luck to you." His smile made me feel like I had eaten a meal of live butterflies. "Same to you. What's your name?" "My name Nok. What your name?" "You can call me Sam," he said. "Nok is bird, right?" I nodded. He brushed my long hair off my shoulders and down my back. Then he took my chin in his hand. He raised my eyes to meet his again. I felt like I was captured. Trapped. "Very appropriate. You're as delicate and airy as a sparrow." I thought of those caged birds they sell at the temples. You set the birds free to make merit, but they always return to their masters. Without warning, he kissed me. His lips were as soft as his voice, at least at first. I thought I should stop him, though. I tried to pull away. His right hand held my mouth against his. His left arm wrapped around my waist. I couldn't move. So I gave up. I let him slide his tongue into my mouth and suck the breath from me. The funny thing was, as soon as I gave in to him, I began to like it. He smelled like soap and expensive cologne. He tasted like his whisky. I could feel that he was strong, much stronger than he looked, with his slim body and fancy clothes. He kissed me harder, biting my lip. I felt like I was melting. He let go of my chin and played with my breasts through the stretchy mesh. My sex was on fire against the hot, sticky leather. Suddenly, he pinched one of my nipples, digging in his fingernails. His mouth smothered my cry of surprise and pain. After the pain, though, I felt amazing pleasure, shooting up my spine like lightning. "You like that, Nok." My English is only so-so, but I could tell he wasn't asking a question. He was telling me. And he was right. I was terribly embarrassed. I wanted him to do it again. He bent me backwards. My hair nearly brushed the floor. He put his mouth on the

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other nipple and sucked. I felt that his mouth was between my legs, sucking me there. It was like heaven. I reached up, wanting to stroke him, but he pushed my hands away. Then, when I was not expecting it, he sank his teeth into my flesh. Everything went dark for an instant. Then pain exploded in me, brilliant as the sun. I was burning up, but I wanted to burn. When I opened my eyes, he was watching me. That strange smile was on his face, but he also looked worried. "That's enough for tonight, Nok," he murmured. "I have an appointment elsewhere, in any case. But I will come back for you, soon." I was too dazed to say anything. He stuffed a thousand baht note into the cup with the bill, to cover two one hundred baht drinks, and stood to leave. I grabbed his shirt. Not thinking, but not wanting him to go. "Please, sir..." He flicked his thumb across one of my aching nipples. Delicious echoes of pain rippled through me. "Be patient, Nok. Be patient and wait. Now is not your time." Before I could say or do anything more, he was gone. I sat on the stool, confused. Ashamed. Frustrated. Sticky and dirty and smelling like a whorehouse. I buried my face in my hands, almost ready to cry. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Your turn to dance again," said Lin. I nodded and stood up. I was still shaking. "Who was that guy?" she asked. She knew that something was wrong with me. "Just a guy," I said. I made myself sound uninterested. "Just a customer." I paid my respects to the shrine in the corner, then climbed back onto the pedestal. I began to dance, showing off my whip to customers. Trying to look like I was in control. *** The papers the next morning were full of the usual: political squabbles, glittering charity events, the government's latest poverty eradication scheme, the achievements of Thailand's tennis champion. There was no mention of the bargirl's murder. I wasn't surprised at the omission. Perhaps someone highly placed was involved in the crime. Perhaps the newspapers didn't want to alarm the tourists. Or maybe the police just wanted to keep the whole thing quiet in order to not encourage the murderer. 120

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I had heard that serial killers thrived on publicity. Colonel Apichat undoubtedly would prefer to avoid a repeat of such a horrific crime. It had been a rough night. My sleep had been full of dark, threatening dreams which I couldn't remember, but which left me with a vague sense of dread that intensified rather than dissipated as the day wore on. Around four PM, I showered, put on my "uniform" and headed for The Academy. I was glad to have work to distract me. On the Skytrain, I got the same stares I always get. Ok, so you don't see that many farang women here who are six feet tall and wearing a tuxedo. I don't care, really, what people think. I've never in my life been "normal"; quite a while ago, I decided that I wouldn't waste my time by trying. Why the tuxedo? It's a costume, that's all. In a way, I'm on stage at The Academy as much as my girls are, playing my latest role. I am the benevolent but strict Professor, teaching, guiding, enforcing the rules, meting out punishments in the rare case when that is necessary. I carry the bamboo cane more for effect than anything else, though a few of my employees have felt its bite. Cool, fast and efficient (so anomalous for Bangkok!), the elevated railway deposited me a block from the bar in a mere ten minutes. As I strolled down the busy soi toward the fake brick facade of The Academy, I spotted a suspicious figure lurking in the alley between two buildings across the street. My pulse raced with a sudden surge of adrenaline. I stopped to admire a vendor's display of outrageously high-heeled shoes, keeping watch on the spot out of the corner of my eye. I was acutely disappointed when, a moment later, Lieutenant Narongchai stepped out of the shadows and into the middle of the soi. Obviously, Apichat had assigned him to surveillance detail here, in the heart of the so-called entertainment district. Kwai nodded his head in recognition as he passed me. He didn't smile. I should have felt a sense of relief, knowing that we were under his watchful eye. Instead I felt of a sense of oppression. I would have preferred that the Colonel had delegated the role of guardian angel to someone a bit more simpatico. The bar was already getting lively when I arrived. Happy hour always brings in a crowd, Bangkok being a favorite destination for bargain hunters. Nok was dancing in the domme's spot, wearing a leopard-patterned costume that would have been camp on 121

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anyone else. On her, it fit like her own skin. Her movements were sinuous and raw. She had become a wild animal, fierce and full of power, terrifying and breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair was tangled in her eyes. Her limbs were sheened with sweat. I thought that I could see the glint of her long fingernails in the spotlight. I imagined those glittering talons raking across my belly, tightening on my nipple, deftly teasing my clit from its hiding place. I watched her for a while, trying to ignore the hungry ache in my cunt. I knew better than to lust after my employees. I had learned my lesson, a painful one. It's dangerous to mix business and pleasure. And Nok was in some sense under my protection, just as my students had been. Still, a few daydreams couldn't hurt, could they? My palms tingled as I saw myself tracing the fluid shapes of her body, cupping her compact breasts, spreading her thighs wide. I could almost hear her moans when I buried my face in her sweet, nasty pussy and lapped at her sex-juices. Then I thought about my strap-on, how she would squirm underneath me as I worked it deep into her cunt. And what if I bound her, first? Would she let me? I knew she had the heart of a dominant, but I was her elder, her superior, her boss. Her teacher. She might submit to me, out of krieng jai, respect and a sense of duty. On the other hand, she just might do it out of desire. Years of experience had taught me that few people are purely tops or bottoms. But then, I was her employer and her teacher. She was a constant temptation, but I knew I had to control myself. In this city, there was no shortage of women, or men, willing to give themselves to me. Unfortunately, it was Nok that I wanted. My suit felt tight and uncomfortable. The trousers were distinctly damp at the crotch. I signaled to Daeng, my mamasan, and she hurried over. "Sawatdi kha, Ajarn." Her sunny smile contrasted with her costume, deliberately designed to evoke the severe headmistress. Starched white blouse buttoned up to her throat, dark skirt that fell just below her knees, "practical" shoes with sturdy high heels that highlighted her muscular calves. Her mane of black hair was meticulously constrained in a tight bun at the back of her neck. The final touch was a wooden ruler, 122

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tucked conspicuously into her wide leather belt. More than one customer had begged to feel her ruler across his knuckles. "Sawatdi kha, Daeng. Would you mind getting me a ginger ale? It seems hotter than usual tonight." "Of course, Ajarn. Just a moment." When she returned, I drained the glass in four gulps. "Thank you. So, how is everything going tonight? Any problems?" A shadow crossed her face. "Everybody seems fine. But Toy is not here yet." "Really?" Toy was a petite, playful, latently submissive girl whom I had hired a few months ago. Normally she was prompt and diligent, eager to make as much money as she could. I learned from the other girls that her mother was an invalid, and that Toy sent most of her earnings upcountry to support her. "And she didn't call?" I felt a frown gathering on my forehead. "No. Nobody has heard from her. I'm worried, a little bit. You know, because of the other girl." Her vagueness did not surprise me. It was bad luck to talk too openly about a violent death. It might attract ghosts. I nodded sympathetically. "I know. I'm worried, too. If you get any kind of information about her, let me know right away, please." "I will. Now I have to go and make that lazy girl Jen get up and dance. Excuse me, please." Daeng hurried away to resume her normal activities. I wandered over to ask Goff, the bartender, for another drink. As I sipped the bubbly liquid, I let my eyes drift back to Nok. She was just finishing her set; her grace as she descended the stage and donned her robe made my chest ache with longing. She looked uncharacteristically thoughtful, even sad. I beckoned to her, and she joined me at the bar. "Everything ok, Nok?" "Yes, Ajarn. Everything fine." "You look tired." "Maybe, a little. Last night I didn't sleep well." "Neither did I." I didn't bother to mention the reason. "Have you seen or heard from Toy, by the way? "Nok shook her head. "No, why? Isn't she here?" 123

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"No one has seen her since last night." For the first time since I met her nearly two years ago, I thought that Nok looked scared. Then she seemed to wipe the emotion off her face, replacing it with a carefully composed mask of calm. "I'm sure she's ok. Maybe she eat something bad. After work last night, many girls go out for somtam and sticky rice. Sometimes, when you eat late, you get sick." I could tell that Nok was no more convinced than I was. "Ok, well, thanks. Let me know if you hear anything." "Ok, Ajarn." She headed toward the toilet, swaying on her fuck-me heels. I certainly could see how that slang phrase had originated. *** I work at the bar two years already. That night was the longest night in those two years. On the surface, everything seemed normal. I danced. I chatted with my friends. I flirted with some customers. Mostly, I waited. I tried to be patient. But the blond farang didn't come back. I didn't know if I was sorry or glad. When I remembered what he had done to me, his lips and his teeth and his see-through-me eyes, I wanted him so much that I could hardly stand up. That girl Toy didn't come, either. I didn't want to think about her. She was such a soft, silly girl. Sometimes I liked to boss her around, just for fun, because it was so easy. She almost seemed to enjoy it. When I made her clean my shoes, or get me a coke, or give me a massage, she would just smile and call me phi sao, older sister. Now I felt guilty. What if something happened to her? After I was such a bully. I promised the Lord Buddha that I would apologize when I saw her again. If I saw her again. I remembered what the farang said. "It's not your time." That he had an appointment elsewhere. Was Toy here last night? Did she meet the stranger too? I

didn't

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Running The Academy, I typically don't get to bed before four in the morning. So I was not pleased to be awakened by my mobile at eight AM. "Hello." "Hello, Madame. Colonel Apichat Weeranwongsakul speaking." I wondered groggily how the police had gotten my cell phone number. Then, all at once, I was wide awake, and full of dread. The proper Colonel Apichat wasn't likely to be making a social call. "Yes, Colonel, hello. Excuse me if I seem confused." "Sorry to wake you, Madame. But it was an emergency." Oh, no. No. Please, not little Toy. "Yes?" "There has been another killing. The same basic pattern." "Another bar girl?" "We think so. But we can't identify her. We didn't find her ID card, and her face is rather—damaged." Oh, God! I squeezed the tears back and tried to focus on what he was saying, to figure out why he had contacted me. "We got a call on the hotline, from someone named Daeng. She told us that one of your dancers was missing from work last night." I supposed Daeng had done the right thing. Too bad that she was too late. "I would be grateful if you came and looked at the body. To see if this is your girl." I could tell from his strained voice that he didn't want to ask this of me. He understands how I feel about my girls, and he knew how difficult it would be. I didn't want to go, didn't want to acknowledge the violence, the danger, the evil that was stalking me and my "family". But really, I had no choice. "Of course, Colonel. If you can give me the address, I can be there in an hour." "Thank you, Madame. From my heart." He gave me directions to the morgue. The tears spilled down my cheeks as soon as he hung up. I gave myself five minutes to cry. Then I wiped my eyes and headed for the shower, trying to prepare myself for the task before me. When I came out of the bathroom, drying my hair, the phone was ringing again, insistently. I raced to answer before the caller gave up. 125

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"Hello. Colonel?" "Ajarn?" The voice sounded faint and the line crackled with static. "This is Toy." I had the momentary thought that she was calling from beyond the grave. I've really been here in Thailand too long. "Toy! Where are you?" "In Ubon, Ajarn. With my mother. Yesterday she had a stroke. I rushed upcountry to be with her. They thought she might die. I'm sorry I didn't call before now. I couldn't think of anything but her." "How is your mother now?" "Better, Ajarn. At first she couldn't move or talk at all. Now she can wiggle her fingers, and say a few words. The doctor says she might be partly paralyzed, but he thinks that she is not in danger." "I'm sorry to hear about your troubles. But I am so very glad that you called. We were all concerned about you. You know, because of what has been happening here..." I definitely didn't want her to know that the killer had claimed another victim. "I know. I didn't mean to worry you." There was a pause, as though she was conferring with someone else. "The doctor thinks that I should stay here for at least a week. Just in case. Is that ok?" "That's fine, Toy. Never mind. I won't deduct the time from your salary. It's better you should be with your mother." And safer, too, I thought. "Oh, thank you, Ajarn. You have a good heart. I'll call again soon." As soon as she cut the connection, I redialed the Colonel to tell him the good news. Well, good news from my perspective at least. He still had another tortured and apparently mutilated body to deal with. I could sense his frustration, almost desperation, on the other end of the line. "Thank you, Madame," he said. "I'm glad the victim turned out not to be one of your employees. But, do you have any idea who it might be, then?" "Did the victim have any distinguishing marks? Anything that might provide a clue to her identity?" "Just the same dragon tattoo at the base of her spine as half the other girls in Bangkok. One thing, though—she was blonde. You can tell, even with all the blood." I shuddered. "So this woman wasn't strangled?" 126

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"Oh, we think that she was. But she was also cut, with a sharp knife, very deliberately. Almost as though she was a sacrifice. "I will do some research, Colonel, talking to the other bar owners, and see if I can find out if any of them have a girl with blonde hair and a tattoo who seems to be missing. I'll call you if I have any leads." "Khorp khun khrap, Madame. Thank you for your help." "Not at all, Colonel. Please, call me if I can be of any other assistance." Our "entertainment district" doesn't begin to wake up until mid-afternoon. I figured I could manage a few more hours of sleep before I started working on Apichat's problem. I should have dropped off immediately, after my rude morning awakening and the dual shocks of Toy's murder and resurrection. I tossed and turned for at least an hour, though. The Colonel's voice echoed in my mind. There was something he wasn't telling me, something that he wanted to share, but felt that he had to conceal. I finally drifted into sleep, still wondering. There are dozens of bars and clubs on the two streets that link Thanon Silom and Thanon Suriwong. There was no way I could check them all. And of course, there was no guarantee that the latest victim was a bargirl at all, though the murder had taken place only a few blocks from the Patpong area. I let my intuition guide me, going first to the few clubs that, like mine, have some BDSM flavor. The Cavern was just opening. Khun Jim, the mamasan, was there already, checking the accounts. Her round face, all the rounder for her spiky buzz-cut, first bloomed into a smile when she recognized me, then immediately grew serious. "Sawatdi kha, Ajarn. How good to see you! Though the news is not so good, is it?" I wondered if she had heard about the second murder. My question must have shown in my face. "You know, about poor Nee. She worked here for two months before she moved to SuperVamp. Did you know? She left because her girlfriend got a job there. But we kept in touch." "I didn't realize that you knew her. But, that's not why I'm here." I looked around at the walls, styrofoam painted to look like stone, festooned with fake iron rings and 127

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dangling chains. A bit tacky. Though the young lady who brought me a welcome glass of water looked genuine enough, with her pierced nipples and black velvet thong. I forced myself back to the topic at hand. "There's been another killing. Another girl, with bleached hair and a dragon tattooed on her back. The police don't know who it is. Any of your girls match that description?" Jim thought for a moment. "Doesn't sound like anyone who works here. We prefer our women dark—you know, given the dark business we're in here." She laughed at her own jest, before remembering once again the somber topic we were discussing. "What about Justine's?" I figured that Jim would know something about the competition. Do you know any of their girls that match the description?" "Are you kidding? Everyone who works at Justine's has bleached hair and multiple tattoos. Part of their image, you know, along with the collars and wrist cuffs." Jim grinned. "You'll have to go ask there. Talk to Ae. She's a smart girl." I thanked Jim and strolled down the soi to Justine's. It was an upstairs bar, one of the few that still offered live sex shows in return for doubled prices on its drinks. In Justine's case, it was silly pantomimes of one woman whipping another. Sometimes, they got the customers up on stage to participate but it was all very light-hearted. Forgive me if I seem catty, but I believe that when it comes to dominance and submission, The Academy is the only place in Bangkok that offers the real thing, in all its scary glory. The bar wasn't officially open yet. On the raised stage in the center of the room, half a dozen women sat cross-legged, eating noodles and gai yang and gossiping. One of them was Ae. Though she seemed as loud and chatty as her companions, she sobered up immediately when I took her aside and told her my mission. Her brow wrinkled in thought. "It could be Arun," she said, "or maybe Nong. Both of them bought out of the bar last night." "Did you see who they left with?" Ae shrugged. "I really didn't notice. There were many men here last night, some Germans, some Australians, a bunch of Japanese. A few Thais, too. I saw that fat policeman Kwai around, though he wouldn't have a drink." 128

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"Colonel Apichat has assigned him to keep watch." "That's good. Maybe he saw something." "Maybe." I figured that Narongchai would have told the Colonel anything that seemed relevant. "About Arun, and Nong. Did either of them have any special characteristics that the police could use to identify them—if you couldn't see their faces?" Once again, Ae gave her entire attention to my question. "Well, Arun has braces. You know, to straighten her teeth. She says she wants to look like Madonna. And Nong has a scar on her throat, from where she choked on a fishbone when she was a child." "Thank you, Ae. That could be very helpful." "Never mind. I hope that they find him." Her faces was suddenly grim. "That son of a dog who is killing us. As if we don't have enough problems." I couldn't do anything but agree. I phoned the Colonel as soon as I left Justine's. The braces didn't ring any bells, but when I told him about the scar, he grunted. "Her throat was badly bruised, but there might have been a scar. I'll ask the coroner to check. Thank you, Ajarn." It was the first time he had ever called me that. Curiosity pricked me into high alertness. "Never mind, Colonel. I want to do whatever I can to help you catch this madman." He was silent, but I could hear his breathing. Something was definitely odd. "Colonel? Are you still there?" "Yes, Ajarn." I was shocked to realize that he was speaking in Thai. "Ajarn, I need your help. In a more personal matter." "But of course, Colonel. What can I do for you?" Once again there was silence on the line. I could feel him fighting with himself. "Ajarn, I have…desires. And from what I have heard, you have the skill and experience to help me satisfy those desires." All at once, I understood. I remembered the look of anguish on Apichat's face when he watched Lin dancing. He knew of my history as a dominatrix. He wanted a session with me, to try and propitiate the demons of submissiveness that haunted him. How could I explain to him that, if all went as it should, this would only strengthen his obsession? 129

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I made my voice as gentle as I could. "Are you sure this is what you want, Khun Apichat?" "Yes, please, Ajarn! It is what I need." Sincerity rang in his reply. I thought for a moment. Then I spoke to him in a very different tone. "Very well. Meet me at the Palace Hotel at seven this evening. Room 822." It has been years since I actively practiced (my…profession? hobby? vocation?) here, but I still keep a room reserved in a nondescript but comfortable hotel near the bar. Just in case. "Thank you, Ajarn. Thank you!" "Be prompt. You don't want to make me angry." "No, I'll be on time." "And bring along with you whatever it is you want me to beat you with." I sensed a story here, some past complexity in his life that needed unraveling. Plus, I knew it would ignite his desire to fever pitch, to admit, by handing me the instrument, that he craved punishment at my hand. I heard him swallow his nervousness. "Yes. I will. Thank you, Ajarn." "Save your gratitude for after I've worked on you." I hung up, abruptly, before the sympathy could creep into my voice, and headed home to shower and change. I dressed with special care that evening. I decided to exchange my usual tuxedo for a fitted suit of fine gray linen, superficially respectable but with a skirt split to mid-thigh. Underneath, I wore a black satin waste-cincher, whose garters held my old fashioned, back-seamed stockings. I left my pussy bare. Nothing like a full-lipped, mature, wellthatched cunt to intimidate a man. I was amused to realize, as I climbed onto the Skytrain, that I was dripping in anticipation. Indeed, it had been a long time since I had played my real self. And I did feel some affection for Apichat, despite his belonging, officially, to the enemy establishment. I planned to check in at the bar, then, go over to the hotel. Probably I'd be done by ten; after all, how much abuse could a novice like Apichat take? It occurred to me, briefly, that meeting a man in an anonymous hotel room might have its dangers. What if, despite appearances, Colonel Apichat had something to do with the murders? Then I shook my head to clear away these ridiculous notions. I was at least twenty 130

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centimeters taller than Apichat, and probably weighed ten kilos more. I could take care of myself. I felt decidedly cheerful when I arrived at The Academy. *** As soon as she got to the bar, Ajarn told us all about Toy and her mother. I was very relieved. I decided to go to the wat on my next day off and make an offering of thanks. I also promised myself that I wouldn't bully Toy so much when she returned from upcountry. Though sometimes it's hard to resist the temptation. It was Saturday night, very busy. Ajarn left a few minutes after she arrived. To take care of some business, she said. Daeng made me dance more often than usual, because some Australian guy bought Lin out of the bar right away. I didn't mind; dancing kept me from thinking too much. And I really didn't feel like talking to the customers. I was wearing what I think of as my Catwoman costume. It's just a bunch of soft black leather straps, slinking around my chest, my belly, and between my legs. Lots of skin showing between them. The straps are studded with steel nail heads and hung with heavy chains. I have elbow-length black gloves with sharp fake nails painted silver, and boots of matching leather that show off the white skin of my thighs. Oh, and a mask of black satin that hides my eyes but focuses your attention on my lips, which I paint the color of blood. The outfit is very cruel-looking, and very sexy. As I swayed and shook on the stage, the chains swung against my nipples, teasing them into hard little knots. The strips of leather between my legs teased too. Every time I shifted my weight from one foot to another, the leather rubbed against my pussy lips, until my sex was swollen and pulsing with excitement. Of course, that's what I like, when I'm dancing. I was beginning to feel like my usual self, powerful and in control. Then I saw the blond farang slip through the curtains at the entrance to the bar. My legs suddenly turned to rubber. I grabbed one of the poles that surround my pedestal to keep myself from stumbling. He saw me right away. From the other side of the room, his eyes locked onto mine. I wanted to look away, but somehow that was impossible. 131

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Heat and cold rippled through my body in alternating waves. As he strolled toward me, I gasped for breath, as though I was suffocating. When he sat down on one of the stools at the foot of the stage, I was overcome with dizziness. I thought I would faint, and would have been glad to, if I could escape those awful, knowing eyes. He grasped my ankle in one hand. I felt the chill of his touch even through the boot leather. He beckoned to me. I sank onto my haunches in front of him, unable to resist him. "Tonight is the night, Nok," he said. His voice was soft, but I could hear every word above the blare of the music. Nu was playing the Rolling Stones, "Under My Thumb". "Tonight I'll take you out of the bar. If you're willing, of course." He smiled a peculiar half-smile. I wanted to die from embarrassment. He knew the effect he had on me. He knew that my pussy juices were soaking into the leather between my thighs. Knew that I was haunted by the memory of his eyes, his lips, and his teeth. He reached up and tugged on one of the chains dangling around my breasts. It felt as though the chain was threaded through my nipple. Piercing my flesh. I imagined it that way, felt intense pleasure and a ghost of pain. The farang's smile grew broader, as if he could read my thoughts. "So, Nok, what do you say? Will you come with me?" I nodded, unable to choke out a word, either of agreement or of protest. He released my ankle, and rose gracefully from his stool. With one cool finger he traced the shape of my lips. "Hurry up and finish your set, then. I'll go pay the bar fine. Six hundred baht, right?" I nodded again. Finally he took his eyes off me and walked over to talk to Daeng. I could breath again. When the last song ended, I raced upstairs to my locker, peeled off my costume, and threw on a pair of jeans shorts and tank top. For a minute, I wished that I had something more elegant to wear. Then I realized that he didn't care about my clothes. They didn't exist for him. All he could see was my nakedness. I made sure my phone was in one pocket and my wallet in the other, and that the padlock protecting the costume in my locker was secure. I stopped long enough to repair my make-up. There was a blood-colored smudge beside my mouth from his exploring fingers. Then I slipped into high-heeled sandals and made my way back down the bar, a little shaky. 132

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My heart was pounding so hard that it hurt. I really didn't know if I was feeling excitement, or terror. *** Apichat was prompt, as I had expected. At precisely seven PM, I heard a hesitant knock. I had positioned myself in the armchair, facing the entrance. "Come in," I ordered, speaking in English. Slowly, the door to the room swung open. Apichat hovered uncertainly on the threshold. "Come inside," I said, adding a sharp note to my voice. "Do you want the whole world to see you?" Hastily, the wiry Thai entered and shut the door behind him, then stood across the room from me, unable to take a step. I held his gaze, watching his skin darken with a blush. The police colonel was casually dressed, in a nicely-ironed sport shirt and khaki trousers. His hair was damp and slicked back from his forehead. His face displayed a complex mixture of emotions: confusion, fear, embarrassment, and definitely, arousal. His hands were clenched into fists, but the stirring in his groin told me how much he wanted to be here, regardless of how difficult it might be for him to admit it. I rose from the chair, allowing him to appreciate the full effect of my height. "Come here." My voice was soft but implacable: steel wrapped in velvet. Overcoming his hesitation, he crossed the few meters of carpet to stand before me. I was touched to observe that he was actually shaking. "Remove your clothing." Anger flashed briefly across his face at this improper suggestion, but then his features relaxed. He began to unbutton his shirt, slowly but deliberately. "Hurry up. Do you think that I have all night to spend with you?" "No, Ajarn." He moved more quickly, but still, it seemed to take an excruciatingly long time. I found that my own excitement was making me impatient. I considered stepping forward and tearing the clothes off his back. My intuition told me, though, that force was the wrong approach. He might want me to strip him, to relieve him of the responsibility. But what he needed was to admit to himself his desperate desire to submit. Undressing was the first step toward that 133

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admission. Finally he stood naked in front of me, his eyes cast down to the carpet. He was not at all unattractive. There was not one ounce of excess fat on his frame. His walnut-toned skin was smooth and mostly hairless, except for a coarse-looking tangle at his crotch. Cords of muscle shifted underneath that skin, not the overblown muscles of someone who spends his days in the gym, but a weathered strength born of years on the streets. I noticed a raised, pinkish scar on his shoulder, and another slashed across his thigh. Colonel Apichat was not the sort to take a desk job. His cock hardened under my gaze. Reflexively, his hands fluttered down to shield his crotch from view. "No!" At my command, he immediately dropped his hands back to his sides. His fingers were only half-fists now. "I want to look at you. You're quite a pretty picture, Colonel, with your swollen penis and erect little nipples, just begging to be abused." Apichat swallowed, and raised his eyes to mine. I saw naked longing there, desire so pure that my own body shimmered with lust in response. "That is what you want, isn't it? For me to abuse you? Beat you, use you, make you my slave and my toy?" Slowly, the veteran policeman nodded. "Speak up. Tell me what you want." Apichat's eyes glittered, as if tears gathered there. "Ajarn. I want—I want to be your slave. I want you to do whatever you want with me. To make me do things." "Do things? What kind of things?" He swallowed, then steeled himself to continue. "Dirty things. Nasty things. Whatever—whatever you want." I wondered what I should do next. Should I circle him, towering over him, breathing hot on his neck and whispering lewd ideas in his ear? Should I tie him to the bed and bring out the dildos I had packed in my bag? Should I make him kneel in front of my chair and eat me? Making a slave kneel is always a good idea, I decided. "On your knees, then." The sight of his nut-brown body on the carpet stirred me more than I would have expected. My cunt was dripping, and my clit felt as huge as his cock. 134

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I was definitely overdressed. Turning my back on Apichat, I unzipped my skirt and stepped out of it. I couldn't see his reaction, but his gasp was loud and clear. My bare buttocks jiggled as I strolled over and draped the skirt over the desk chair. His gaze was as palpable as a caress. I turned to face him, giving him an eyeful of my wild cunt curls and the ruddy flesh protruding from that forest. He licked his lips, never taking his eyes from my body. Now I began to unbutton my jacket, pausing occasionally for dramatic effect. Apichat's eyes followed my every move. I relished the horror I saw in those eyes when I bared my torso and he caught sight of my breast, my scar, and my tattoo. Fear is a critical ingredient in the emotional mix of a scene. When the pity and terror in his face melted into pure, potent lust, I had to hide my jubilation. I might finally have found someone who could appreciate me. *** The farang—Sam—was waiting for me outside the bar. He took my arm, the same way he did on the first night. Firmly, as if he thought I would run away. In fact, I was glad, not only for his touch, but for the support. Without leaning on him, I might not have been able to walk the short distance to the Palace Hotel. I hated feeling this way. This was not me, this silly weak girl who couldn't stand on her own two feet. Who couldn't say no. Men think that all Asian women are their slaves, but I am used to being the one in control. But I also loved feeling this way. My nipples ached underneath my shirt. One was still bruised from his bite two nights ago. I knew he could see them, pushing out the stretchy material. Between my legs, my shorts were soaked. They became wetter with each step I took. I kept my eyes on the uneven pavement, trying to keep my balance. He gripped onto my arm harder, almost hard enough to hurt. I found myself wishing that he would squeeze harder. I stumbled and pressed my body against him. I felt as though I was drunk. He smiled and pulled me closer. "Just a littler further, little bird," he murmured in my ear. His breath was warm, but it made me shiver. 135

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Inside the door to the lobby he released me. "Go get the key to room 1027," he ordered. "It's already reserved and paid for." A flash of fear cut through the fog of my horniness. I remembered the other girl. Secretly, I checked my pocket for my mobile. Then I pretended to be shy. "Please, sir, can you do it? I don't want the hotel people to think I'm a bad girl." "But you are a bad girl, Nok, aren't you?" He stroked his hand down over my backside. From behind, he slipped a finger into the dampness between my thighs. "Your cunt is sopping." He rubbed his finger back and forth over the seam, pressing into my folds. "You're a dirty, improper little girl who deserves to be punished. Isn't that right?" I squirmed at his touch, struggling to stay silent. "Anyway, no one cares whether you go to a hotel with a foreigner. Whereas I have a reputation to protect. I need to be discreet about these things. There would be severe repercussions if my secrets were discovered." I didn't completely understand what he was saying. But the message of his fingers was loud and clear. Somehow he managed to pinch my clit through the stiff denim. I moaned. "Do it, Nok," he said. "Or I'll take you back to the bar." On shaky legs, I walked over and asked for the key. The desk clerk looked me over carefully. Then he searched the lobby, trying to find out who I was with. But Sam was not visible. I found him waiting for me by the elevators. I handed him the key. "Good girl," he said with that strange smile. He bent over and gave me a long kiss that ended in a savage bite. He caught me as I started to fall. As soon as the door to the room closed, he lifted me into his arms. I was right, he was incredibly strong. The muscles moved under his fine shirt as he carried me over to the bed. I couldn't escape him. But I didn't want to. I wanted to be cradled in his arms, with my pussy streaming, my heart pounding, my own limbs wobbly as jelly, forever. I felt a flash of disappointment when he laid me on my back on the silk bedspread. He must have seen it on my face. He sat down next to me. "Be patient, Nok. I told you before. You must learn how to wait. Now be still." He ended his instructions with a tweak of my nipple. That made it very difficult to obey him, but I tried. I heard him go into the bathroom and close the door. Without moving my head, I 136

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tried to look around the room. There were no suitcases, or any other sign that someone was staying here. There was the sound of the bathroom door opening. My heart beat ever quicker than before. I kept my eyes straight ahead, facing the ceiling. I felt his warmth beside me, but I didn't turn to look. Then there was a flash of light reflecting metal, and I couldn't help myself. The farang stood very close to me. He was naked. There was blond hair around his nipples, and darker hair between his legs. His cock was hard. The pale skin on it was stretched so tight, it looked like it might burst. The knob at the end pulsed, bright red. I thought of the beacon light on top of a police car. Saliva flowed into my mouth. I wanted to taste him, to suck him. I started to reach for him, to pull him closer. Then I saw. He had an open pocketknife in his hand. I choked back a cry. The shiny blade gleamed as he waved it slowly in front of my face. I shrank away, out of instinct. He saw my terror. He loved it. "Be still," he said quietly. "I told you not to move. I meant it." He leaned over me. I smelled his cologne and his sweat. The knife was close to my skin, close to my throat. I tried to scream. Somehow I couldn't. Because despite my terror, I didn't want to move. I didn't want to disappoint him. I tried to close my eyes. He held them open with his stare. "Look at me, Nok," he whispered. His eyes were deep pools of cold blue. It seemed that something flickered there, like a frozen flame. The flame seemed to spread from his eyes to my body. I was on fire with wanting him. At the same time, I was paralyzed by fear. He hooked the tip of the blade into the fabric of my shirt and ripped it downwards. The shirt fell open, showing him my brown, swollen nipples. Swollen with desire for him. He laughed softly. Gently, he placed the cold steel flat against one aching nub. I shivered, and he laughed again. "You are perfect, just what I need," he said. Leaving the knife in place, he sucked my other nipple into his mouth. Hot saliva and cold steel. Pleasure beat in my sex like another heart. "And I am what you need, the master you have been seeking." No, I thought vaguely, no one is my master. I am the mistress, the one giving the orders. That thought melted away in the heat of his mouth. 137

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He put the knife aside. He trailed kisses down my belly. I tried to help him unzip my shorts. He slapped my hand away. "Be still! Unless you want me to punish you..." He sat upright and his eyes flicked over to the knife. "If you won't obey me, I might as well leave." This was a far worse threat than the knife. "No, sir, please, don't. I won't move." I tried to remain motionless. It was very difficult. He raised my hips with one hand and pulled my shorts down to my knees with the other. The smell of my sex was strong. He swiped one finger through my crack. I jerked in reaction, close to coming from that one touch. A stinging slap on my left breast, then on my right. "Still, I said!" After the pain, I felt the glow, the pleasure flowing through me like a river. "I'll have to tie you, I suppose. That will keep you in check." Roughly, he pulled off my shorts and tossed them aside. A faint flicker of fear, a dim memory. She probably asked for it. His face, hovering over mine, eyes burning into my soul. "Do you want that, Nok? Shall I bind you, so that you are helpless? So that I can do whatever I want to you?" His fingers groped in my pussy and found my clit. He began to squeeze. Slowly at first, then faster. Then his fingernails, digging into my flesh. Each time slicing a little deeper. Each time creating sharper pain and more intense delight. Still. I must remain still, I thought, even as I thrashed and struggled on the bed. Suddenly, he took his hand away. "No, please..." I pleaded, as the echoes of pleasure quickly faded. "Please what?" "Don't stop, please." "But how can I continue when you won't be still?" "Please, sir." I was lost, desperate, ready to do anything for his renewed touch. "Please, tie me up, if that's what you want. I'll do anything. Just don't stop. Don't go." "Good girl," he murmured, bending to prod my clit with his tongue and send an earthquake through my body. "I think you are ready. Ready for the ultimate thrill." The ropes tightened around my wrists. I felt a new surge of terror. Then all at once, new peace. I had made my choice. I was in his hands, for better or worse. All that mattered was that I please him. He was fastening some sharp metal clamps onto my pussy lips when I heard my 138

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phone ring. In my pocket. On the floor. Across the room. He plunged three fingers deep into my pussy. I forgot to be afraid.

*** With the tip of my finger, I traced the design, starting where the tail of the dragon curls around my navel, up the center of my torso, along the svelte curves that circled the spot where my left breast used to be. The red and gold of the scales blend with the livid hues of the scar. The dragon's head paints the swell of my remaining breast, his jaws gaping as though he'd swallow it whole. I shivered with pleasure at my own touch. I remembered pain. The pain of hours under the artist's needle. Healing pain. Cleansing pain. And then the other, earlier pain, so difficult to bear then, but now transformed. My breathing became a bit ragged; my cunt pulsed and ached. The pain is a part of me now, part of who I am. One of my gifts. Apichat watched me closely, trying to understand. He wanted me to share this gift. I found that I was more than willing. "Slave. I told you to bring with you the instrument with which you wanted to be punished. Did you disobey me?" "No, Ajarn." He gestured toward his trousers, crumpled behind him on the floor, and blushed. I waited. "The belt," he said, finally. "She used to beat me with my belt." "Who used to beat you?" "My wife. For many years, she secretly made me her slave. Until she died." I had known, vaguely, that Apichat was a widower. "And you allowed her to abuse you?" He nodded, swallowed, then continued. "I loved her. She loved me. This was part of our love." He looked anxious, suddenly. "You won't tell anyone, will you? If anyone knew..." "Of course not. You know you can trust me. If you didn't, you wouldn't be here, kneeling in front of me." 139

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Relieved, he nodded. "Go get your trousers, then. On your hands and knees. With your mouth." Almost eagerly, he scrambled across the carpet, picked up the garment in his teeth, and brought it back to lay it at my feet. "Good little dog," I said, patting him on the head. The Thais think that dogs are low animals and that the head is sacred, not to be touched. My gesture was a double humiliation. Apichat's erection swelled even further. I slipped the belt out of the loops and flexed it in my hand. Quality leather, wellseasoned. Without warning, I swiveled around and brought the belt down hard on the cushions of the chair behind me. Apichat jumped at the satisfying "thwack" of leather on silk. "Yes, this will do nicely." There was something in his pocket. "Let's see what else you have here. Handcuffs! How convenient!" "Did your wife use these, too?" He bowed his head, miserably aroused. Of course a masochistic policeman would be particularly turned on by the tools of his trade. "And what about your nightstick? Did she use that to beat you," (I licked my lips at the tasty thought) "or in other, more intimate ways?" Apichat eyes glittered with excitement. I imagined him bent over, shackled, a greased rod of polished wood protruding from his ass. Time to turn fantasy into reality. I brought the desk chair over and placed it with its back to the armchair. "Come here and put your chest here." I ordered, patting the seat. He shuffled over on his knees, as quickly as he could. "Arms stretched through the slats." As I fastened his wrists together on the backside of the chair, I caught a whiff of his dark, musky sweat. My cunt clenched in response, reminding me how horny I was. Maybe I should have had him give me head, first. But a dominant can't be greedy. Circling around behind him, I nudged his thighs apart with my foot. Then I reached between them and gave his compact balls a moderately vicious squeeze. The colonel moaned. "As you have requested, I'm going to whip you. I'll continue until I think you have had enough. Do you understand?" "Yes, Ajarn." 140

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"If the pain is too much, say the word 'Elephant'. I'll stop then, and send you home. Is that clear?" He nodded "What do you say if you want me to stop?" He seemed reluctant even to voice the word. "Tell me, slave, or I'll send you home right now." "Elephant, Ajarn". "Good. Now prepare yourself." I made him wait for several minutes, while I became familiar with the belt. It was smooth and supple. I held it to my nose and breathed deeply; my cunt quivered in response. Leather always has that effect on me. Mischievously, I slipped the belt between my legs and ran it back and forth between my pussy lips. Lubricating it. The sensation was delicious. I found myself hoping that my victim would break quickly, so that I could experience some personal relief. My first stroke took him by surprise. The leather whistled through the air and landed squarely across both buttocks. A scarlet trail erupted in its wake. Apichat choked back a cry of pain and shock. I came around to look at his face. There were tears in his eyes. "Too much?" I asked softly. "Oh no, Ajarn. No. It’s just that it has been so long." "So I should continue, then?" He raised his eyes to mine. "Please, Ajarn." My second stroke sliced clean and sharp across his shoulders. His body shook with the force of it, but he remained silent. The third blow painted red patterns across the backs of his thighs. His muscles clenched each time I struck, but still he made no sound. Ten strokes. Twenty. His skin began to look as though he had been barbecued. I paused to check his state, a bit worried. His eyes were closed. His tousled hair was matted against his sweaty brow. His breathing was deep and even. And his russetcolored cock was rigid as stone. "Enough?" I whispered in his ear. He shook his head. "More," he croaked hoarsely. "Please, more." I gave him twenty more strokes. His buttocks twitched and his back arched each 141

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time the leather kissed him. My arms and back began to ache. I'm not young any more. Still, he offered his body to me, mutely asking for my power, my pain. Finally, it was I who couldn't take any more. I unfastened the handcuffs. He crumpled to the floor. Was he unconscious? I crouched beside him, rolling him over on his back. "Colonel? Are you all right?" He opened his eyes and smiled, though his voice was a weak whisper. "Oh yes. Thank you, Ajarn." He let his eyes close again, exhausted, but his face was calm and relaxed. There he was, simultaneously so vulnerable, and so strong. With that cock of his still rearing up between those sinewy thighs. I had no choice. I reached for his trousers and rummaged once more in his pockets. As I hoped, I found a condom. I straddled his skinny body and lowered my slippery cunt onto his swollen organ. His cock convulsed as my heat engulfed him. "Don't come, slave" I warned, "or I'll beat you some more." He said nothing, but I could swear that he almost grinned. Leaning over, I forced my nipple into his mouth. "Suck on this, slave, and be grateful. Maybe after I climax, I'll let you come." He answered by arching his back, driving his cock into my depths. Unexpectedly, that was enough to push me over the edge. I plummeted down, down, flying through a void where there was nothing but pleasure. Pleasure swirled around me, shimmered through me. Dimly I felt his teeth sink into my breast. Dimly I heard grunts, sensed renewed heat as he exploded inside me. But the pleasure, the sweet pure pleasure of lust long denied, washed it all away.

*** Something woke me from the soundest of sleeps. Disoriented, I gazed around the strange room. Where the hell was I? My phone rang again. As I scrambled out of bed, I saw the wiry brown body tangled 142

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in the sheets beside me. I smiled as I pressed the answer button, though I knew a call on my private number probably meant trouble. "Ajarn? This is Daeng." "Good morning, Daeng." "Afternoon, Ajarn." I check the phone's clock. Sure enough, it was after one PM. "What's going on?" "The police. They found Nok." The room swam around me. Oh, no, please. Not Nok. "In a hotel room, tied to the bed, with her clothes stuffed in her mouth." I felt limp, helpless. When would this stop? I tried to pay attention, get the details. I would have to tell Nok's family. "Someone called the police. A farang. He told them where to find her." "Yes?" "So anyway, Nok asked me tell you that she wants to take a few days off." My heart skipped several beats. "A few days off? You mean, she's all right?" "Yes, she was very careless, but except for some bruises and bites, she is fine. But she doesn't seem to be herself. She's very quiet. She says she wants to back home, upcountry, and think." Nok was not hurt, not dead. I thanked whatever gods watched over this old dyke domme for that blessing. "Thanks for calling. Tell Nok she can take as much time as she needs." "Ok, Ajarn. See you later?" "Yes, Daeng. Of course. See you later." I climbed back into bed and curled my body around Apichat's slighter frame, careful not to brush against his stripes. It sounded like Nok might have learned a lesson. There was another, unfamiliar ring. The colonel was awake immediately. He sprang out of bed and fumbled in his pants pocket. I noticed his belt and handcuffs, my corset and stockings, all scattered around the floor. He nodded, once, twice, speaking so low that I couldn't hear him. When he snapped the phone shut at the end of the call, his face was grim. "What is it? Another murder?" The pain that had been such a common expression on Apichat's face had returned. 143

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"Not exactly. But another death." I waited patiently for him to explain. "Lieutenant Narongchai. He slit his throat. They found him in his room this morning." Kwai? Committed suicide? He really didn't seem the type. "There was a note in his room. A confession. He killed those two girls. Then later, he killed himself. He said that their ghosts were haunting him. He couldn't get away from them." I couldn't believe it. And then, remembering the closed up darkness in Kwai's eyes, I could. Apichat was already pulling on his clothes. "I have to go back to headquarters. The whole department is upset. Nobody knows what to do." He was already at the door when he turned back to me. His face softened. "Thank you, Ajarn, for last night. It was wonderful." "No, I should thank you." Bizarrely, I felt bereft, as though he was master and I was his devoted slave. I struggled to put some authority in my voice. "And do you think that you will want another session?" A gentle smile lit his weathered face. "Perhaps, Ajarn. Perhaps." I lay in bed by myself for a long time after he left, idly stroking my body, replaying scenes from the previous night. Everything felt slightly off-kilter, as if there had been some subtle shift in reality. Maybe I just needed a vacation. I wondered idly if I could persuade Nok to come with me to Phuket or Koh Samui. I was daydreaming about this scenario when my mobile rang again. I knew, deep in my bones, that the news would not be good. It was my colonel. They'd found another girl's body, tied and tortured, this time in a house down by the river. Kwai was gone. But the nightmare continued.

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S

he's glad to be his slave. She's just not too crazy about being his housekeeper and maid, at least not these days.

When they first moved in together, he used to make her strip before she vacuumed

the carpets or washed the floors. He'd watch her, sitting in the wing-backed chair that they bought together at the garage sale, as she strutted around in her collar and high heels, pushing the mop in front of her. "Arch your back," he'd order. "Stick out your butt." She'd struggle to keep her balance as she obeyed, her pussy liquefying as it always did at the sound of his voice. She could feel his eyes on her buttocks like a physical caress. He wouldn't miss the signs, the flush on her face, the taut nipples, the musky scent that wafted through the apartment. When he was paying attention, his powers of observation were astounding. Not to mention his powers of seduction. She loved housework in those early months. Of course, it wasn't often that she got the chance to finish her household tasks. She would get hotter and more frustrated, while he would be increasingly amused. Finally, he would take pity on her.

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"Go get the rug-beater, Elizabeth," he'd order, and she'd scamper off to the closet to find that wicked implement of twisted rattan that she both hated and loved. Or else he'd pat his lap and say, "Get your slutty little ass over here" and she'd be there in flash, draped over his knee, shivering in anticipation, triumphant as she felt his hard-on through his trousers. Since he lost his job, though, household chores were just that. He spent most of his time slumped on the couch watching TV, or at the computer playing video games. He complained about everything she did, it seemed, but not in the old tone of the beneficent, omnipotent Dom chastising his sub. No, he was just whining. Meanwhile, his formerly prodigious interest in sex had dwindled almost to nonexistence. Maybe once a week, he'd wake her in the middle of the night, fuck her, then fall back into near-comatose sleep. He wasn't cruel or rough—she could have borne that, would have welcomed it. It was like a reflex for him, like sneezing or scratching an itch. He might murmur her name as he came, but the old connection just wasn't there. And he hadn't beaten her or tried out any kinky new ideas, in more than a month. She wanted to cry with frustration. She tried everything she could think of, to cheer him up, to get his attention. She ordered outrageous costumes from Frederick's and wore them as she worked around the apartment. He barely looked up from the monsters he was blasting on the screen. She left various paraphernalia lying around suggestively, draping the flogger over the seat of his chair, leaning the crop against his computer monitor, carefully arranging her custom-made leather cuffs and butt plug on his pillow. He simply pushed the toys out of the way with a weary sigh. She tried directly disobeying his orders. The trouble was, lately he hardly gave her any orders. He walked around like a zombie. The zombie Dom. More than once, she considered removing her collar. Would he notice that? Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to that point. The collar defined her, defined their intense and magical relationship. She didn't want to repudiate that relationship, not at all. She wanted it back. She let the housework go, trying to annoy him to the point where he'd say something, get mad, chastise her in the old way. After a few days, though, the dirt and disarray began to bother her, and she just had to do some cleaning. 146

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So today, she was finally vacuuming the living room rug, after more than a week, too disgusted by the dust bunnies and the scattered crumbs to put it off any longer. She was wearing a baggy tee shirt and shorts; her feet were bare and her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail. He was at his computer, staring at the screen. She moved closer, running the carpet attachment under his desk. He looked so lost, so sad. Deliberately, she brushed her breast against his shoulder. The touch sent a thrill through her body that settled wetly between her legs. He just shrugged absently, barely knowing she was there. Something snapped. Her anger and frustration finally boiled over. He wouldn't pay attention to her? She'd make him pay attention. It was time for her to take control of the situation. She turned off the vacuum cleaner. The sudden silence seemed ominous to her. He still didn't look up. In the bedroom, she stripped off her work clothes. She was a bit sweaty from her exertions around the apartment, but that was ok; she didn't want to be so hygienic that he couldn't smell her. Actually, she could smell herself, the excitement that was taking over from her anger as she moved to put her plan into action. She laced herself into the black satin corset he had bought her for her last birthday, not bothering with the matching thong. She dug around in the closet until she found a pair of black PVC boots with the four-inch heels. They hurt, but for what she was about to do, she needed whatever stature she could muster. She took the rubber band off her ponytail, and brushed her chestnut hair till it shone like burnished copper. Then she swept it up into a severely elegant twist, secured with black lacquered chopsticks. Finally, she retrieved the restraint cuffs from their toy drawer. Her nipples tightened to aching points as she touched the supple black leather. She couldn't help it. The cuffs evoked such memories. He had designed them and had them fabricated to order. Just for her. They worked like handcuffs. The two cuffs were connected by a strong chain, and they could be fastened and locked almost instantaneously. However, hers were much more comfortable than the police model, the lovely leather lined with quilted satin. Silently, she slipped back into the living room. In a moment, she was standing 147

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behind him. He gave no indication that he knew she was there. Nervousness almost undid her. She had never tried to dominate him before, though they had often discussed his fantasies in this area. Shyly, he had shared his desire to be topped by a powerful woman, who would test his devotion and compel him to sexual service. Elizabeth felt inadequate and guilty, but it seemed that there was no way she could bring these fantasies to life. His presence was normally so commanding, so compelling, that she couldn't imagine doing anything but gratefully submitting. These days, though...he was a wimp, pathetic, just asking to be whipped into shape. At least this is what she told herself. She didn't quite believe it. Gently, she reached for his arm, which was resting on his thigh. He didn't resist. In one swift motion, she fastened one cuff to his wrist. "What the hell...?" he sputtered, finally startled out of his gloomy reverie. He didn't react quickly enough, though, to prevent her from capturing his other wrist in the leather bonds, so that his arms were linked behind the back of the chair. "Elizabeth, what are you doing?" His voice sounded irritated, but when she looked at his face, she saw uncertainty, fear, and definitely, the beginnings of arousal. She swiveled his chair around to face her, lifted his chin with one finger and tried to stare him down. "You know exactly what I'm doing. I'm taking control, since you seem to have given up in that regard." "Elizabeth..." Before she even knew that she was going to do it, she slapped his face. "Silence, slave. No complaints. No excuses. You need this, I know you do." A splotch of red bloomed in the shape of her palm. He shut his mouth, but his eyes moved over her, finally registering her costume, and her exposed cunt below it. He licked his lips. She noticed a stirring in his crotch. "I didn't say you could look at me, did I?" He shook his head, obeying her command not to speak. "Eyes down." He complied. She felt euphoria rising in her chest, bubbling through her veins. She could do this. In fact, it felt easy, almost natural. "And for the rest of the afternoon, at least, you will address me as 'Mistress'. Understood?" Head bowed, he nodded. 148

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"Let me hear you say it." "Yes, Mistress." His voice was gruff, as if he had a difficult time forcing the words out. But the bulge in his trousers continued to grow. "Now," she said, "it's about time you did something useful. All this silly computer stuff." Rolling his chair away from the desk, she pushed his monitor and keyboard back toward the wall and moved aside the piles of CDs and papers jumbled about on either side. Then she hoisted herself up to sit on the edge of the surface, and spread her legs. "Turn around," she ordered. He used his feet to roll the chair back to face her. His eyes widened at the sight of her ruddy pussy, drooling only inches away from him. Then he remembered, and lowered his gaze, before she could remind him. Good. He was more pliant that she had expected. She watched him for a moment, full of love and some other feeling, something with a nasty edge. His erection looked distinctly uncomfortable, trapped in his trousers. All the better. She saw his nostrils flare as he took in her scent, noticed the pulse in his temple, beating fast. His breathing was quick and shallow. Clearly he was beginning to wake up, to enjoy playing this game. She felt suddenly giddy, drunk with her own powers. But she couldn't allow him to see this; she must still play the role of the harsh, angry mistress. Splaying her thighs even wider, she put one booted foot on each arm of his chair. Her hungry, swollen cunt gaped at him. "Eat me," she commanded. Eagerly anticipating her instructions, he began to lean toward her even before she finished speaking. She stopped him with the spike of her heel, pressing it against his still-inflamed cheek. "And if you don't do a good job," she murmured, putting a little sugar in her voice to counteract the violent gesture, "you know that I'll make you very sorry." "Yes, Mistress," he mumbled, his mouth already full of her flesh. He applied himself to his task with commendable diligence. His tongue slithered snake-like among her folds, swimming in her juices. He sucked and licked, nibbled at her clit, plunged his nose as deep into her cleft as it would go. With her arms behind to brace herself, she pressed her pelvis forward, forcing his 149

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face into her cunt, as if to smother him. Or perhaps drown him would be more appropriate. Between his saliva and her own secretions, there was quite a puddle growing on his desk. He certainly didn't seem to mind. With his arms fastened behind the chair, he was in a bit of an awkward position. He had to bend forward from the waist and lean over at what must have been an uncomfortable angle. She felt a brief pang of sympathy; she hated for him to suffer. But this was what he needed, what he wanted. Wasn't it? She hiked herself up further on the desk, away from him, so that he had to work even harder to keep his mouth on her sex. "More," she said. "Harder." She had a difficult time, normally, orgasming from oral sex. Even with him, who seemed to understand her sexual needs better than anyone she had ever known. Now, though, she could feel herself losing control, feel the gathering tremors deep in her belly. She was very tempted to let go and come all over his face. Maybe she should let her bladder go, too. That thought almost overwhelmed her. But no. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She wasn't finished with him yet, and she wanted him to understand how deeply he had hurt and frustrated her with his lack of attention. "Enough!" Reluctantly, he pulled away from her snatch, his eyes searching her face. His chin and nose glistened from her wetness. "Is that the best you can do? I deserve better than that feeble attempt at cunnilingus, and you know it." He looked surprised, and wounded. She relented slightly. "Perhaps I'll give you another chance, later. Right now, though, I'm going to punish you." His cock twitched, visible even through his khaki trousers. "Stand up." With some difficulty, he managed to follow her instructions, slipping his bound wrists over the back of the chair as he raised himself off the seat. She brushed her fingernails over the lump between his thighs. "You see, I was right. You want this, as much as I do." Amazingly, he blushed. Her unflappable, outrageous Dom, for whom no suggestion was too extreme or obscene! Who had eaten olives from her cunt, fucked her with the ornament unscrewed from a hotel bedpost, made her kneel and suck him in the middle 150

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of a crowded airport! Roughly, she unfastened his belt and pulled down his fly. "Don't think you're going to get any relief," she warned. "I'm sure you know how angry I will be if you come without permission." He nodded, a bit desperately. "I just need your ass bare so that I can chastise you properly." She grabbed his pants and underwear and pulled them down to his ankles. Without needing to be prompted, he stepped out of them. He looked delicious and ridiculous, standing there in his shirt and socks, with his swollen penis angling hopefully toward the ceiling. She desperately wanted to kneel and kiss the slippery head. Instead, she laughed. She watched his face, noting his responses to her mockery: first anger, then shame, and finally, despite the shame, increased arousal. His cock strained forward, almost vertical. "Silly, silly boy. You don't appreciate me. I love you. I support you. I care for you, cook and clean for you, give myself to you body and soul. And what to you do? You neglect me. Ignore me. How dare you?" She reached forward suddenly and pinched his glans, hard. He gasped. "But you want me, now, don't you?" "Yes, Mistress," he murmured. "I want you. Please, forgive me." "Perhaps. But not until after you've been punished." "But what would be an appropriate punishment for a selfish, inattentive master like you?" She cast her eyes around the room, seeking inspiration. Then her eyes fell on the vacuum cleaner she had abandoned in the middle of the room. Fresh lubrication gushed from her cunt at the outrageous idea. Her nipples felt as though they were wound with tight rubber bands. (She knew what this felt like, of course. Just one of his many little experiments.) "Don't move," she said. She strutted off to the bedroom, swinging her hips, knowing his eyes were glued to her naked, swaying buttocks. She returned in a moment, a towel draped around her neck, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand, a tube of Astro-Glide in the other. She pulled the brush attachment off the vacuum. She poured some alcohol on the towel. Then she picked up the plastic extension wand and began wiping the black tube of 151

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plastic inside and out. He watched her every move. "Sterilization," she said cheerfully. "No!" His anguished cry interrupted her. "What was that?" she asked sharply, brandishing the wand like a sword. "Did I give you permission to speak?" Misery on his face, he shook his head. "You may speak." "Please, Mistress, don't..." "Don't what?" "Don't use the vacuum on me." "No? I thought you might find it quite pleasant, having your cock stuffed into the hose." He looked pained, but his erection twitched and pulsed as if it had a mind of its own. "See, just the thought is nearly enough to make you come." "But actually, I had other ideas." She held up the lube. His face was grim. "I was planning on sticking the extension wand up your ass, then turning on the vacuum." He actually groaned. "It might be a bit messy, of course. But now that you've woken up to who is boss, I don't suppose you'll mind cleaning up. I've certainly done enough cleaning up after you." "Please, no..." "Maybe if I gave you an enema first?" He often talked about doing this to her, but so far hadn't made good on this threat. Looking at his face, she could see that the notion evoked the same queasy and excited feeling in him that it did in her. He was silent. Deep down, did he really want her to take him in this outrageous way? It was very tempting. Her heart pounded and her pussy throbbed at the thought. She wasn't sure, though, that she wouldn't hurt him. She's hardly an expert at this sort of thing. "Go to the chair and kneel down, with your chest on the seat." As he obeyed, his wrists still clasped awkwardly behind his back, she let him see that she was greasing up the extension rod. He flinched, but he didn't rebel. "Be still, and think. Think about how badly you've treated me. Think about all the 152

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things I'm going to do to you." She returned a few moments later with other implements of domestic order: the feather duster, the toilet brush, and the rug beater. For a long moment she stood behind him, breathing in the scent of his sweat, watching his breath rise and fall. "Spread your thighs," she ordered. With difficulty, he complied. "Wider." He'd have carpet burns on his knees tomorrow, but he managed to create a gap at least a foot wide. Now she could see his balls, pulled tight and hard against his body. She leaned forward and trailed the feather duster over their hairy surface. He jumped and stifled a small cry. "Don't you dare come," she reminded him. She used the duster on the sensitive insides his thighs, just barely touching the tips of the feathers to his skin. She could see his muscles tighten as he tried to maintain control. His anus was clearly visible, too, a pink knot rimmed in coarse hair. Once or twice he had ordered her to lick him there. Remembering the dark, funky taste made her shiver with lust. She swished the duster across that spot. His whole body jerked in response. "Enough of this teasing," she finally announced. "Time for something more rigorous." She held the bristle end of the toilet brush above his ass and poured the rubbing alcohol over it. Chill drops of the liquid ran over his bare flesh and down between his legs. He squirmed, despite his obvious determination to remain in control. She responded with a swift smack on his fleshy butt cheeks. "Be still! I would have expected that a Dom as accomplished as you think you are would have more self-discipline!" Next she grazed the now-sterilized brush over the pale skin of his ass. Even this relatively gentle contact left behind a network of pink lines that took minutes to fade. "Do you know what this is?" The question was rhetorical. "This is the toilet brush. I'm going to whip you with it, and then, I'm going to stick the handle up your asshole." A groan arose from deep in his throat. His balls twitched. She stood there for a long moment, letting the suspense build. Did she really dare to beat him? No going back now, she thought, and brought the brush down on the fullest part of his butt in a rasping blow. "Ow!" he wailed. "That hurts." 153

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"Of course it hurts. Punishment is supposed to hurt!" She tried again, this time working to give the stroke a more elastic quality, so that it would bounce off his flesh while still marking him with the bristles. It landed exactly as she planned on his left cheek. He gasped and pulled away. She rewarded him with a symmetrical stroke on the right, then moved back to left without giving him time for a breath. His skin was crisscrossed with fiery lines, as though it had been lying on a barbecue grill. He had stopped struggling. She reached between his legs to check his cock. It was like iron. "Do you want me to stop?" she murmured in his ear. "You know that if you want me to stop, I will. Your safeword is 'goddess'. Just say it, and I'll unfasten you and let you alone." He was silent. "Had enough, then? Want me to stop?" No sound from him. No movement. She knew only too well what he was feeling. There was the pain, yes, the humiliation, his fear of what she might do next. But then, there would be that strange desire for more—more pain, more testing of his will and his devotion. That desire was the most shameful and the most exciting thing of all. "Well?" He shook his head slowly, his coarse black hair hanging in his eyes. "Speak up. Tell me, slave." "No, Mistress." "No what?" She brought the brush down on his butt again in mock annoyance. He cringed in response. "No, I don't want you to stop, Mistress." His voice was nearly inaudible. She understood how much this admission cost him. "You want more, more pain, more punishment?" He nodded, unable to force out the words. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his inflamed buttocks. "Good boy," she purred. "Of course, I'll give you what you want. How about the rug beater now?" She knew this weapon far better than the brush; he had used it on her often enough. Though she had never wielded it herself, she seemed to have an intuitive feeling for how 154

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to make it swish through the air and land with the best effect. Soon his butt cheeks were scarlet. At that point, she went to work on the backs of his thighs. The afternoon seemed to stretch into infinity. Tireless, full of grace and power, she lashed at him again and again, her pussy weeping in sympathy with his agony and his lust. The only sounds were the whoosh of the rattan as it sang through the air and the thwack as it landed, oh so painfully, on his poor punished ass. All at once, she heard something else. The sound of him sobbing. She stopped immediately, turned his head to the side so that she could see his tear-stained face. "Enough?" she murmured. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. "Say it then. Tell me your safeword." "Goddess," he whispered, closing his eyes in shame and relief. "Good boy," she said, and tossed the carpet beater away. "Want another chance to make me come?" His face brightened immediately. "Get up, then. On your knees, facing the chair." He was surprisingly agile for such a big man. She seated herself on the upholstered seat and draped her legs over the arms. Her cunt was spread wide before him. He licked his lips, and the ghost of a smile crossed his face. She didn't have the heart to be stern. "Do it, slave." Oh, if he was good before, now he was marvelous! His mouth was a machine with a thousand different speeds and settings. Delicate and slow, rough and fast, circling and probing, nipping and thrusting. I should have made him submit months ago, she thought vaguely, her mind fogged with lust. He had always liked to eat pussy, but she'd never been so thoroughly, so blissfully serviced. She let herself go, dropped her dominant persona and allowed herself to writhe and groan under the assault of his lips and tongue. "Harder," she begged, teetering on the edge. "Deeper, more, oh please, more..." It was the 'please', she supposed later, that shifted things. An admission of weakness, of ungovernable desire. In an instant, he was off his knees, between her legs, his swollen cock already half inside her. "No," she cried, trying to regain the advantage. "I didn't give you permission..." He 155

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stopped her protests by fastening his sticky mouth on hers, as he slid into her entirely and took her over. She felt his flesh pulse, swell and burst deep in her womb. The heat of his coming was the spark that ignited hers, a fierce conflagration that raced through her, sucking away breath and thought. In the heart of the blaze, she thought she heard his voice, melodious and controlled as ever, singing her name. Afterwards, they curled up together in the chair. He stroked her hair and planted feathery kisses on her lips. She stroked his raw buttocks and smiled when he winced. "Thank you, Elizabeth," he said, finally. "You were right. I needed something to shake me out of my funk. I apologize for ignoring you. You deserve better." She snuggled against his chest like a contented cat. Suddenly, he flipped her over, so that she was sprawled on his lap. She was too surprised to struggle. "On the other hand, I hope you don't think you're going to get away with behavior like that," His palm landed sharply on her ass, leaving a delicious stinging echo behind. Her clit throbbed as though he'd reached between her legs and pinched it. "You know I'm going to have to punish you." He gave her another slap, hard enough that she squirmed despite herself. "I can't have my slave thinking she can take control whenever she feels like it." With his left hand he rained painful spanks down on her poor butt. Then he dabbled the fingers of his right in her soaked cunt. He stopped only long enough to kiss her. "I can't, can I, Elizabeth?" "Of course not, Master," she replied meekly, struggling to keep the grin off her face. She relaxed into his blows, back where she wanted to be, letting him take her wherever he thought that they should go.

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T

he ad was a long shot, but I was getting desperate. It had been nearly two months since I'd had a gig. One more month of waitressing, I had sworn to myself, that's all I'll endure before I give up and go back to Pittsburgh. Live

theater, soap operas, commercials, music videos, I'd consider anything but porn as a step toward my goal. Still, this listing in the Chronicle's classified section was definitely on the fringe. "Wanted.

Attractive

female

magician's

assistant.

Regular

work,

excellent

remuneration. Will train." I'm generally considered pretty, but my auburn curls and freckle-dusted nose are more likely to cast me as the girl next door than the exotic femme fatale. Still, it was worth a try. I dialed the number from the ad. "Hello." One word only, but spoken in a voice so rich and melodious that I was temporarily speechless and astonished.

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"Hello, is anyone there?" Flustered, I collected myself and my thoughts. "Yes, hello. My name is Myra O'Toole. I'm calling about your advertisement, for an assistant." There was silence at the other end of the line, as if he was trying to gauge my personality from my speech. "Myra," he said finally. "Thank you for calling." His voice was truly marvelous, washing over me like a Bach cantata, filling me with light. Socially, though, he seemed awkward, not knowing what to say next. "Is the position still open?" "Yes, it is. I haven't found the right woman yet." "Well, would you like me to come and audition for you?" "Yes, I'd like that very much. Would this afternoon be convenient for you? Around four?" "That would be perfect." He gave me an address in the Mission district, an easy bus ride. As I hung up, excitement was singing through me. I had a premonition that I'd get the job. I arrived ten minutes early, but I rang the bell anyway. The building was one of those middle-class Victorians on Dolores Street that have been converted into flats. It had been defaced with vinyl siding and wrought iron security bars, but the curved windows fronting the street were intact. His apartment was on the second floor. He was not what I expected. Well over six feet tall, he was a massive presence, more than a little overweight. From his voice, I had imagined someone slender, elegant, and considerably more mature. He seemed to be in his early thirties, a scant half-dozen years older than I. He wore a Jefferson Starship tee shirt and jeans. His thick, coarse black hair had a tendency to fall into his eyes. Those brilliant black eyes held me transfixed. They searched my face; they searched my soul. They interrogated me, asking questions that I sensed but could not articulate. Standing on his threshold in my neat skirt and sweater set, clutching my folder of head shots, I suddenly felt stark naked. His silent scrutiny seemed endless. Finally, I could bear it no longer. I held out my hand. "I'm Myra O'Toole. I've come about the job." Slowly, as if waking from a trance, he grasped my hand. His hot skin made me wonder if he had a fever. "Myra. Welcome. Thank you for coming. Please, come inside." 158

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That voice. I could not resist it. I followed him down a shadowy corridor, into what must have been the front room. If his appearance did not exactly jibe with my idea of a magician, his flat certainly did. The windows were all draped in heavy black velvet. Candles provided the only light, dozens of them, tapers stuck in bottles and squat votives burning in glass dishes. There were books everywhere, not only on the shelves that lined the walls, but in piles on the chairs and in the corners. I noted other oddities, too: an antique model of the solar system, a stuffed owl on the marble mantelpiece, a grimacing mask fashioned of beads and feathers. There was a faint, strange odor. I thought that I recognized sage, and perhaps sandalwood. He gestured for me to sit in a tattered Victorian-era armchair and settled his bulk into its mate. There was another long silence, during which I squirmed under his appraising gaze. At last he spoke. "I am Magister Aleister." "Like Aleister Crowley?" "A distant relative, I've been told. And you are Myra O'Toole." He leaned forward, his lips parted to reveal sharp white teeth. "Tell me something of yourself, Myra. Where are you from? Are you married? What prompted you to answer my advertisement?" "I'm an actress." I held out my portfolio to him, but he ignored it. "I thought that working as a magician's assistant might—broaden my perspective." He did not speak, expecting more. Despite my best efforts, a bit of my frustration and despair crept into my voice. "I need the work." He nodded, silently inviting me to continue. "I came to San Francisco from Pittsburgh nine months ago to live with my boyfriend. He's a poet." "And?" Magister Aleister prompted. I hesitated, not wanting to get into the sordid story of Dylan's drinking problem. "It didn't work out." "So, you are currently on your own?" I nodded, wondering what possible relevance this question had to the job. Almost as if he could read my thoughts, he answered my mental question. "This position will 159

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demand a great deal of you. We will be working intensively on your training. Day and night. Thus, it would be best if you had no encumbrances, no competing claims on your time and energy." This made sense. I almost relished the thought of work so encompassing that it could make me forget about Dylan. Brilliantly talented, irredeemably bohemian Dylan. Unshed tears gathered in my throat as I recalled our all-night conversations and our funky passion. The way he had showed up at my door that first night, with his torn dungarees, droopy mustache and bottle of Stolichnaya. When he came to the City to seek his fortune, I followed like a moth to a flame, though New York or Los Angeles would have been more logical places to pursue my theatrical ambitions. After a few months, his dingy basement apartment in the Tenderloin had begun to feel like a prison. He was my jailor, sitting up until five AM, writing, chain-smoking and guzzling cheap vodka, while I tossed alone in our bed. Finally, I left to save myself, knowing that I could not salvage him. I swallowed my regrets and turned my attention back to the magician. He still watched me as if he would strip away my masks and lay me bare. Suddenly, he reached out and with one blunt finger touched the little gold cross hanging around my neck. "Are you a believer?" he asked. Memories shot through me: my childhood awe as I knelt under the cathedral arches; my first communion, colored light through the windows staining my bride-like finery; my mother dying of cancer, asking for my prayers. "I'm not sure," I replied. "I used to be, but now..." "And what about magic?" he asked with that ironic half-smile on his full lips. "Do you believe in magic?" My heartbeat inexplicably quickened. "I don't know that, either." "There is much in common between religion and magic. Both are grounded in faith and love. The essence is a trust in things unseen." I thought this a peculiar observation from a practicing conjurer. Surely the essence of magic was manipulating expectations and perceptions. Show business. "I have something to show you," he continued. He removed the dusty velvet cloth shrouding what turned out to be a combination television and VCR. It must have already had a tape loaded; as soon as he hit the button, 160

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it began to play. "Watch closely," he said. It was a recording of one of his performances. At first, I did not recognize him. He was clad all in black, with glittering rhinestones at his collar and cuffs. He moved with a grace and economy that negated his bulk. There was no sound. He offered a few deft sleight of hand tricks as warm up. Then he was joined by his assistant, a slender, raven-haired Latin beauty wearing a scarlet evening gown. How could I compare? I wondered. As if he heard my thoughts, he commented. "Roxanne. Exquisite, isn't she?" "What happened to her, that you need a new assistant?" His face darkened. "She suffered an unfortunate…accident." Roxanne lay down on her back on a trestle table. The magician draped her with purple satin. He passed his hands over her, clearly speaking some incantation. The draped figure began to rise, until it hovered level with his chest. The mage then removed the table. The illusion of levitation, I thought. Cleverly concealed wires. But then the scenario began to veer from the standard. Magister Aleister whisked the drapery off Roxanne's prone body. He picked up a full-length oval mirror and held it above the immobile figure, moving it up and down her body in a manner that would have effectively interrupted any possible attachment of cables from above. I could see her reflection in the glass, and faintly, a misting from her breath. Her eyes were closed. Then he crouched and moved the mirror underneath her, as if to prove that she was not supported from below. He released the mirror, and it hovered below her form, halfway between her body and the stage. The mage now made some passes over his assistant, his hands elegant and evocative. Her body began to rotate. First, she floated in a lazy circle around the vertical axis, her head and feet changing places. Then, very slowly, she rolled over, so that she was facing downward, once more face to face with the mirror. The video was clear; again, I could see the marks of her breathing. I was impressed. I could not understand how such a trick could be accomplished. What arrangement of wires or hidden frames could provide so many degrees of freedom? The next trick, however, amazed and horrified me. The magician gestured and Roxanne floated to a standing position, her crystal 161

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slippers barely touching the ground. Her eyes were still closed. He did not wake her from her trance. Instead, he pulled from the wings a framework of wrought iron, rather like an oversized bird cage. It was hinged along one side. He opened it, pulled it around Roxanne's body, and snapped it shut, then applied a padlock to the latch. I could almost hear the clang of metal on metal. A heavy cable slithered down toward the stage from above. He fastened it to a loop on top of the cage, and gave an almost imperceptible signal. The cage, with Roxanne within, rose about a foot off the floor. Now what, I wondered, as he disappeared offstage again. He returned with a rack of swords. He was talking during the entire performance, though I could not read his lips well enough to determine what he was saying. He chose one of the blades and swished it through the air in a swashbuckling manner. Then he appeared to plunge it between the bars of the cage and through Roxanne's body. She did not flinch. She did not move. Aleister seized another sword, circled behind her, and impaled her from back to front. I could see the tip of the blade emerging from her body, just below her breasts. There was no blood. I did not want to watch the rest of this performance; the illusion was too perfect, too disturbing. But I could not look away. The magician skewered her with a half a dozen more blades. He spun the cage in a circle so that the audience could see Roxanne from every angle. Unlike the usual sword gambit, there was no opaque box within which the assistant could hide or contort her body to avoid the sharp instruments. Everything was clearly, awfully visible. Finally, Aleister removed the blades, with great care, in the opposite order in which he had inserted them. He lowered the cage to the ground, and clapped his hands once. Roxanne's eyes flew open, and her lips curved in an enigmatic smile. Aleister unlocked the cage and handed her out of it as if it were a royal coach. They bowed deeply, in synchrony. Then the tape went blank. My heart was pounding uncomfortably hard. The magician re-covered the television, then turned to me. "Well?" he asked, fixing me again with those unnerving eyes. I took a deep breath and tried to meet his gaze. "That's…unbelievable. Remarkable. 162

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Not to mention very creepy." "Convincing, isn't it? Makes you wonder what kind of power I really have." There was an edge to his politeness, the slightest hint of arrogance in his well-tempered voice. He smiled in a way that I suddenly saw as seductive. "Do you still want to audition?" Curiosity and fear, wonder and terror, warred in me. I stared at my hands, distinctly uncomfortable. Then I had a vision of myself in that red dress, smiling at the audience, basking in thunderous applause. I almost felt the heat of his hand in mine. I looked up at him and tried to sound brave. "Of course." "Excellent. Come with me, then." He opened a set of French doors, and gestured for me to precede him. When I saw what the room contained, however, I faltered. No one can live in San Francisco for more than a few months without becoming somewhat familiar with the trappings of sadomasochism. The room that confronted me was obviously furnished as a dungeon. I noticed wooden frames fitted with steel rings, chains affixed to the ceiling, a wide variety of whips and paddles neatly mounted on the far wall. I also recognized the trestle table and iron cage from the video; I suspected that the rack of swords was somewhere about, also. "Go on, Myra," urged the voice behind me. "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you." Hardly realizing what I was doing, seduced by his voice, I entered. He followed close behind, and fastened the draped glass doors shut. "Sit, please," he said, pointing to a high-backed wooden chair in the center of the room. I felt paralyzed by fear and suspicion, yet I found myself obeying him. As I seated myself, I noted the leather straps fixed to the massive arms. He stood before me, surveying me frankly. "This may seem unorthodox," he said, "but in order to determine if you are right for this part, I need to bind your wrists and ankles. May I do this?" I was silent. Inside, I churned with mingled terror and excitement. He leaned forward so that he could look deep into my eyes. "Trust me, Myra. No harm will come to you, and you may discover something wonderful." Slowly, I nodded my assent. It seemed that I could not refuse this strange man. My practical side screamed, danger, beware, but as should be obvious from the fact that I was here in San Francisco at all, from the fact that I was in this musty flat in this bondage chair, skewered by his fabulous, knowing eyes, I often ignore my practical side. 163

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For better or worse. "Remove your sweater, please." I did so, shivering a little in my silk shell, though the September afternoon was warm. His hot fingers brushed my skin as he fastened the bonds. Goosebumps traveled up my arms. He knelt in front of the chair. Next I felt him nudging my ankles apart and circling them with leather. This time, when he touched me, there was a stirring in my sex. Despite my nervous uncertainty, this peculiar, awkward, powerful man aroused me. I blushed at this realization. As if he sensed the blood rushing to my cheeks, he looked up at me from underneath that dark mop of hair, and gave me a smile that turned my limbs to rubber. He turned away for a moment, then returned with a leather blindfold. "This will help you to concentrate," he said. I nodded, not daring to speak. I blushed again at my reaction to his brief touch as he slipped the blind over my head. Everything turned velvety black, black as his curtains and his eyes. Now there was nothing but darkness, darkness and his luminous voice. "Myra, I want you to relax and trust me. Listen to me. Focus on me. Let me fill your consciousness, until you know nothing but me." As he spoke, I thought I felt his fingers, dancing lightly over my body. Yet I could tell from the sound that he was standing several feet away. He began to chant in some language that I did not recognize. His musical voice rose and fell in a soothing rhythm. I felt a stirring of air around me. Little by little, the tension leached from my body. Warmth flowed in like honey to take its place, thick and sweet, coalescing into a dampness between my thighs. I could not understand what he was saying, but his intonations gradually took shape in my mind, whorls and eddies of vibrant color that held me spellbound. I hardly realized it when his incantation ended. Then I smelled sulfur and heard the snap of a match bursting into flame. My fear flared in response. "Myra," he said softly. I could tell that he was closer now, right beside the chair. "Trust me. There will be no pain." I felt intense heat against the skin of my forearm, smelled paraffin and singed hair. Yet he spoke truly. I felt no pain, only exquisite warmth that began in my extremities and raced toward that swelling center below my belly, which seemed to have become the center of the universe. "I choose you," he intoned. "I anoint you. I consecrate you to my service." With each 164

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phrase, he sprinkled burning wax onto my skin as if it was holy water. I smelled the incense of my childhood, and felt the ancient awe. Yet at the same time my whole self hummed with lust. I was aware that the evidence of my desire leaked from me, staining my business clothing and scenting the air. I did not care. Shame had left me. I hung on to his voice, rising and falling, eagerly awaiting the next blissful, fiery benediction. Complete bliss. That was what I felt. Then suddenly, there was a giddiness, a disorientation. My body was moving, floating upward. A shard of terror threatened to rend my joy, but his voice knit up the fabric of my concentration. "I choose you, I anoint you. Trust me. Yield to me. I am the One, the One you seek, the One you crave." I was suspended in his net of words. I understood with new wonder that my body hung unsupported in the air, mysteriously buoyant. I was literally flying. I could still feel the embrace of leather on my wrists and ankles, yet somehow, irrationally, I knew that I hovered several feet above the seat. Suddenly I comprehended the reality of his power. This was no illusion, no hypnotic suggestion. I knew, with total conviction, that magic truly lived in this man's voice. "Yield to me," he said softly, and touched me between the eyes with one delicate finger. A fireball of an orgasm seized and consumed me. I swear that I smelled burned flesh as I convulsed blindly in the air. The next thing I knew, I was crying. He was brushing my hair back from my face and speaking some soothing nonsense. I looked into his eyes, excitement flooding through me. "It's real, isn't it? The tricks, the magic? The power?" He smiled enigmatically. "As real as your submission. As powerful as your concentration." He handed me a glass of water, and my skin tingled at his brief touch. "In any case, Myra, you've got the job." There was mischief in his eyes. "That is, if you want it." I did not have to answer. He knew my thoughts. "We'll start work tomorrow. I think that tonight you will need some rest. You will call me 'Master'. And to honor this occasion, I believe that you should have a new name. I will call you 'Ariel'. Does that please you?" I smiled through my tears. "Yes, Master." The training was as rigorous as he had claimed. Sometimes he would bind me; sometimes he would beat me. As long as I yielded totally to him, shut everything but 165

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him from my ken, I felt no pain, no matter how he abused my body. Sometimes I would climax during our sessions, though he never touched me in any carnal way. Always I shivered with arousal in his presence. We practiced the levitation sequence, but he never brought out the rack of swords. When I questioned him about this, he smiled his secret smile. "I do not want to dull your edge, sweet Ariel. I need you to be afraid, when I cage you and pierce you with my blades. Your terror feeds my power. Or more correctly, the strength of your trust, overcoming your terror." He saw the worry in my face. "Trust me, Ariel, and all will be well. 'There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.'" I recognized the verse, a dim memory from catechism class. The Gospel of John. What an unlikely soul to be quoting scripture! Finally, the night of our debut arrived. My hands were bloodless and cold as I waited in the wings for my cue. When I saw my Master, resplendent in his costume, however, everything drained from me but total devotion. That night I heard him dually, his physical voice and his voice in my mind, equally real. In fact he was my only reality. I did not hear the clank of the cage enclosing me or the click of the padlock. I was deaf to the gasps and applause from audience. Each time he threaded a sword through my flesh, he whispered in my mind that it was his cock, penetrating to my core, and that was what I felt: a hot, hard penis piercing my loins. Each time he pulled a blade from my body, I shuddered in a silent climax. When we stood together and bowed, energy surged between us. That night, he made love to me for the first time, and I understood that up until now, I had only felt the shadow of his power. The weeks flew by in a blur of pleasure and exhaustion. I gave up my apartment and moved into the Dolores Street flat. We performed four nights a week, to packed houses. A bewhiskered German came by to discuss a European tour. I was happier and more fulfilled than I had ever been. All the ghosts of my past seemed to have dissolved in the brightness of my Master's presence. Little by little, though, I sensed some restlessness in him, some urge to explore new frontiers, to push past our current limits. One day, he called me to the dungeon. "I want you to see our new piece of apparatus," he said, pointing to a roughly rectangular object about his height, draped in the same purple satin he used in our 166

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levitation sequence. With a flourish, he whisked off the cover. Despite myself, I gasped in horror. A wooden frame constructed of thick beams. A rack near the bottom, pierced with a circular hole, stained a rusty brown. A silvery steel blade suspended from a pulley, glittering in the candlelight. A guillotine. My Master seemed to take some pleasure in my terror. "Lovely, isn't it? Finely engineered, and guaranteed to make our audience squirm in their seats." "Surely you don't intend to use this in our act? To use this on me?" Much as I loved and trusted him, the thought chilled me. "Ariel, it is just another blade. You know that the swords do not harm you. Why should you fear this instrument?" He gathered me in his burly arms, and I melted, as always. "Trust me, lovely Ariel. You are dearer to me than my own life. I will not let you come to any harm." How could I refuse him? Or refute him? I had experienced firsthand the potency of his will. Still, that night, I was not as much at ease, at first, as I usually am. Then, while my Master spoke to the audience, expounding on the history of the guillotine and its legendary effectiveness, I heard him in my mind, reassuring me, commanding me, filling me with his glory. As he positioned my head in the stocks, I heard him singing, a lovely melody without words that turned my flesh to rippling water. Yes, I cried with the remnants of my mind. Yes, yes! I did not feel the blade slicing my vertebrae. There was only the dappled light of his smile, the peace of a summer breeze, the delicious sensation of his caresses. I heard him call out to me: "Ariel!" "Yes, Master. What is your will?" "Tell me how you feel, Ariel." I could feel his arms, cradling me, cherishing me. "I feel perfect, Master. Perfectly whole in my love for you." Suddenly, there was bolt of darkness in the summer sky. "Myra!" The name was familiar, someone I had known once. The voice was familiar, and full of angst. Then my unconscious betrayed me. I smelled vodka and intoxicating sweat. Dylan! All the pain of our relationship poured into me, the longing and the frustration, the always-foiled closeness. Then the stink of a hospital reached my nostrils, antiseptic and vomit; my 167

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mother's face swam before me, skin stretched tight over her bones, sad gentle eyes. Next in the parade was my father, flushed, disheveled, snoring off his drunk on the living room sofa. "Myra!" cried Dylan's voice again, loud against the murmurs of the audience, and then the physical pain engulfed me, and I forgot my memories. Every nerve screamed with the anguish. My flesh was being ripped apart. I was burning at the stake, my skin blistering, my bones cracking and crumbling to ash. Poison was racing through my veins, leaving agony in its wake. Dimly, I felt wetness and knew it was my own blood. Everything became dim. I was slipping quickly into death, and knew this well enough to know the terror of that final moment. Then there was the voice, quiet, sure, strong, deep in my soul. "There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear." Master! I reached out to him with my last ounce of strength, and mercifully, the pain ebbed, faded away into darkness. His power saved me, his power and my trust. I am grateful. I lie here, watching the sun sparkle on Sausalito Bay, breathing the floral scents, waiting for my Master to return. It does not matter that I cannot move, paralyzed by my moment of doubt. My Master knit together my bones, but so far, we have not succeeded in mending my nervous system. He has renounced performing in order to concentrate on healing me. He blames himself, his arrogance and his pride, for my injuries. I smile quietly and try to soothe away his guilt. We spend time each day on rituals, exercises and ordeals. When he lays his hands on me, I sense his caress and it inflames me as always. Is this sensation born of my mind or my re-enlivening flesh? I do not care, not really. My Master loves me and cares for me. He raises me up with his power. He takes me to places where I have never been. He nestles in my heart. Nay, he is my heart. I know that the next time that I meet death I will yield gracefully and without pain, for my Master is with me, now and always.

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About the Author

Lisabet Sarai: About eight years ago, I experienced a serendipitous fusion of my love of writing and my fascination with sex. Since then I have published three erotic novels, and my stories have appeared in more than a dozen print and e-book collections. I have also edited three erotica anthologies, two with mixed authors and one dedicated to my own short stories. In my so-called spare time, I review erotic books and films for several well-known web sites. I love to travel and experience new cultures. Although originally from North America, I now live in Southeast Asia with my husband of more than twenty five years and two pampered felines. For more information about me, please visit Lisabet Sarai's Fantasy Factory (http://www.lisabetsarai.com) or join my Yahoo group Lisabet's List (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lisabets_list).

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Don’t Miss:

—Lisabet Sarai—

I

must really be horny, to be sitting here fantasizing about the keynote speaker. I squirm in my chair and worry that I'm making a damp spot. The geek next to me appears to be equally captivated by the woman at the podium—judging by the big

bulge in his lap. I wonder if he's catching my telltale scent. Marta Hauser, founder and CEO of VideoPlayHaus.com, takes control of the stage. I can't take my eyes off her. She's the only woman on the SoftCon opening panel, addressing the ostensibly earth-shaking topic: "The New Net: Convergence or Confusion?" In contrast to the casual beige of her fellow Silicon Valley visionaries, Marta wears an emerald green pantsuit of rich velvet that molds perfectly to her body. The businesslike cut only makes her curves more obvious. She takes the mic and struts around like the star that she is. The velvet gleams in the spotlight that follows her. Her jet-black hair is short, parted along one side with spiky sideburns that accentuate her cheekbones. Her eyes are dark, too. Even from the middle of the

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auditorium, I can see that her ripe lips are painted crimson. I imagine those lips claiming mine, firm, no nonsense, and then I imagine them lower, smearing my belly with scarlet, marking the insides of my thighs with lipstick brands before fastening on my aching clit. I can feel the soft nap of her trousers caressing my flesh as she parts my thighs with her own. I'm so horny that it hurts. I consider slinking off to the Ladies Room, but I don't want to miss an instant of Marta's performance. I try to focus on what's she's saying. I'm sure that it must be intelligent, if not enlightening. I keep getting distracted by the V of tanned skin above the closure of her jacket. Finally, she concludes, to rowdy applause, and re-seats herself as the moderator calls the next speaker. I skim her bio in the program. American mother, German father. Degrees from the University of Heidelberg and Stanford. Stints at HP and Oracle before she left to start Video Play Haus, her phenomenally popular site for collaborative video editing. When VPH went public last year, she became one of the few women among the ranks of Valley millionaires. Another technology mogul, a pudgy guy in a denim jacket, drones on about ubiquitous computing and the personalization revolution. Marta scans the audience, looking bored. For a moment, I have this bizarre notion that she's staring at me. I hold my breath, my heart slamming against my ribs. I swear that I can see lust in her eyes. Dream on, girl. What interest would a hotshot like Marta Hauser have in you? You don't even know if she's into women. It's just frustration. Since Rhys moved out nearly a month ago, I've been a veritable nun. I've been spending even more time at work than usual, trying to keep my mind occupied, trying not to miss her. Rhys claimed that she left because she couldn't compete with my job. But that wasn't the real reason for the break-up. Thinking about those days makes my pussy ache. I close my eyes and see Rhys' bronzed, compact body, her modest breasts with their purple-grape nipples, her bare pubes and downy thighs. It's so easy to picture her bold eyes and crooked smile, her buzz cut and her tattoos. I told Rhys that my long hair didn't make me any less a lesbian. She'd nod, but then she'd start to give me grief about the traces of makeup I wear to work, or the fact that I 171

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occasionally splurge on a manicure. Then there was the strap-on. I tried to make her understand, but she tended to take the whole thing personally. I miss Rhys now. If she were to show up with her harness and that pink, veined dildo, I'd very likely spread my legs and beg her to take me. But she's undoubtedly at work over at the Sisterhood Bookstore on University Ave., and I'm here at Moscone Center, flogging my company's products. And it's time to get back to the booth. Jim looks up from his laptop and grins. "How was the keynote session? Did you get startling new insights into the awesome future of technology?" Venkatesh, who's adjusting the LCD projector, just waves hello. "Nah, same old, same old." I consider telling them about Marta Hausman—the guys love it when I talk to them about hot women. Somehow, though, that doesn't feel appropriate, especially when we're trying to be professional. "Anything exciting happening here?" "It's been pretty slow. Probably because of the keynote. After coffee break, it'll pick up." Jim gestures at the fishbowl labeled "Win a free thumbdrive from FaceQuest" and says, "All the morning's cards are in there." I grab a handful of cards and start leafing through them, looking for any likely prospects. As team leader, I'm nominally in charge of the booth. But I hate the business side of my job. "Tell me about your company. What does FaceQuest do?" The question is soft but clear, carefully articulated, with the faintest hint of an accent. I nearly jump out of my trousers. Scrutinizing the business cards, I hadn't noticed her approach. She's here, in the flesh, standing in front of me in that outrageous velvet suit and waiting for my answer.

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