Folly (10 page)

I placed my right hand on the smooth curve of his right buttock and gave it a gentle squeeze.

‘Rather scrawny,' I said dismissively.

And then I realised what I'd done.

My third session, and already I'd broken one of my most important rules. What had I been thinking? I must have been more rattled than I'd thought after my session with the Judge. I hadn't put on my gloves after filing my nails, and now I had touched a slave with my bare hands – and in a rather intimate place, as well.

I snatched my hand away but found that the feel of his backside stayed with me. Silken smooth, firmly muscled, slightly warm to the touch.

‘Right, slave,' I said, hastily grabbing my gloves from the window sill before pulling them on and picking up the lengths of black bandage. ‘After I've tied your wrists and ankles to these chains, your session will start with some punishment. We need to clean your slate before we progress any further.'

‘Yes, Mistress.'

‘Do you know what you've done to deserve this correction?' I asked as I bent to attach the fourth bandage firmly to his left ankle.

‘No, Mistress.'

‘Liar!' I shouted and brought the whip down with a satisfying crack across his bum. I didn't even have to fake the anger in my tone, because I was still furious with myself for touching him. ‘Of course you know. And you're going to confess.'

‘What should I confess?' he asked in a low voice.

‘You're going to confess your filthy desires, of course. Those unclean thoughts that have been festering in your mind and distracting you from your task of total obedience to me.'

I slapped him again, the flap of the crop leaving a perfect imprint that bloomed red before its edges began fading.

‘Oh, Mistress, telling you my unclean thoughts will be difficult,' he groaned.

‘Why, slave?'

‘Because there are so many of them.'

A slave with a sense of humour? I hesitated for only a moment before bringing the whip down again, this time harder, to punish him for his impertinence.

‘Speak respectfully to the Mistress,' I warned him. ‘And do not exaggerate. It's quite obvious to me that a simple man such as yourself could not possibly have more than one or two thoughts in his head at the same time. Do you agree?'

‘I'm sorry, Mistress. You are right. I know I exaggerated.'

‘Go on. Spit them out, and then I'll force you to take what you deserve.'

‘Truthfully, Mistress, the thought uppermost in my mind right now is that I hadn't expected a professional dominatrix to be so attractive. And when I first looked at you, I couldn't help wondering immediately what you were wearing under that coat.'

Which I hadn't yet removed, and now most certainly wasn't going to, knowing that at the first opportunity he had, he would be eyeing out my body while taking an inventory of my kinky clothing. The thought made me feel sexy and incredibly self-conscious at the same time. It was lucky I was standing behind him or he might have seen how his words had caused my face to turn crimson.

‘You're going to suffer for that,' I hissed, and let him have it with the whip again. ‘Count the blows down, and remember to thank me after each and every one.'

I gave him twenty of the best with the short crop. He writhed and twisted under the blows, his buttocks clenching and his legs tensing as if he was looking to escape – but the firmly anchored chains offered him no refuge. By the time I had finished his buttocks were a sea of red – or actually, given their compact size, more like a small dam.

My arm was aching. This was the most severe beating I'd yet administered.

‘Are you hurting, slave?' I asked in tones of mock gentleness. With my now-gloved hand, the suede still damp from the earlier washing, I gently stroked over the worst of the redness. The glove meant I couldn't feel the smoothness of his skin any more, although I could still make out his muscles, tight and firm.

‘I'm in agony, Mistress. I think I have had enough punishment for one day. Please, no more.'

The anguish in his voice was so convincing that I almost relented …until I remembered he'd said he had a high pain threshold and he hadn't used the safe word. He'd challenged me to take him to his extremes, and now he was testing my authority.

‘You really are a wimp,' I spat. ‘Do you honestly think you can get out of what you deserve so early on? That's very cowardly, and I don't allow cowardice in my dungeon. You're going to have to take all the punishment I give you.'

‘Yes, Mistress.'

‘Stand up straight. And tell me, did you ask for permission to become hard?'

‘No, I'm sorry. I didn't.'

‘Next time, don't dare do it without asking first. And now I am going to dress you as a maid. That should help you to curb these shameful desires.'

‘I need all the help I can get, it seems,' he agreed.

‘I'm going to untie you now and then I want you to put on that pink frilly apron. Then you will stand in front of me, holding the edges in your hands, and curtsy twenty times. Each time you're going to repeat, ‘Mistress, I apologise for my filthy erection.'

‘Yes, Mistress.'

He'd wanted creative torture. What more could I do that might surprise and delight him? I glanced at my desk and my gaze fell on my make-up bag. In there I knew, because I'd used them only yesterday, was a pair of eyebrow tweezers.

‘If you don't curtsy respectfully enough, or low enough, we will start from one again. Every time we go back to one, you will be punished. I will order you to raise your apron and I will pluck out three of your pubic hairs using these tweezers.'

His gaze met mine for a moment and I was struck by its intensity, full of challenge and mischief. ‘And keep your eyes on the floor!' I shouted. ‘What are you doing looking at your Mistress without permission?'

‘I'm sorry, I really am, Mistress. It's just that, as I said, I find you …'

‘Silence,' I thundered. ‘Start your training. Do those curtsies. Nice and low, just like a girl would do.'

I managed to find fault with his performance three times, forcing him to start again and each time ordering him to raise the apron. I yanked a total of nine springy, brown hairs from his groin, carefully avoiding any contact with his erect cock in the process, hearing him catch his breath as I extracted each one.

Finally, we reached number twenty successfully.

‘Get back into position between the chains again and bend over,'I told him. ‘You're wasting my time here today, and you're testing my patience, too. I don't know why you can't just do what I ask you to do right the first time. You are pathetic.'

‘I apologise, Mistress. Truly, I am as pathetic as the plot of a lowbudget porn movie.'

Amused, I retorted, ‘And as lacking as its dialogue.'

‘Oh, dear, Mistress. I'm not doing very well, am I?'

‘Not at all. In fact, I'm afraid to say you've just earned yourself another beating. Slave, meet my pussycat.'

I picked up the cat-o'-nine-tails and rattled the fine chains, trailing them down his back and hearing him gasp at the kiss of the cold metal links. This instrument, I knew, I would have to use more lightly. It was going to create a sting rather than a thwack.

But after only four strokes I had to stop when the chains broke his skin.

My heart nearly stopped, too.

One minute I was sending the silvery chains jangling across the mottled surface of his behind, and the next I was gaping in consternation at the ribbon of blood that had appeared.

How in God's name had I managed to cause an open laceration on my client's buttocks when I actually hadn't been hitting him that hard?

Never mind the hows. It had happened and I had to take charge of the situation. And quickly.

But how on earth did I handle this problem?

Doubled over as he clutched the chains, every muscle in Simon's body looked rock hard. He was breathing fast, although apart from that he'd made no sounds during this part of his session.

‘The cat has caused a minor laceration on your buttocks, slave,' I said. I was trying not to sound breathless myself, but instead to adopt a businesslike tone while hoping desperately he wouldn't look up and see I'd turned sheet white. ‘Clearly, you're too much of a wimp to take your punishment, which is very disappointing. I'm afraid that even though you deserve more correction we're going to have to postpone further punishment until next time.'

I lowered the cat and wiped a trickle of sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove.

He straightened up slowly, inching his way into a standing position again, then bent forward and leaned against the wall. I honestly think there were tears in his eyes. More worrying still, however, was that his massive erection was still in evidence under the frilly apron. Whatever I'd done for him, from hair extraction to the drawing blood, it hadn't been enough. It hadn't achieved the necessary result.

‘Do we have to stop?' he asked.

Dear God, what more did this man want?

‘It's a dungeon rule. We cannot continue if there is an open wound.'

To my surprise, instead of arguing further, he whispered, ‘Thank you, Mistress,' took off the apron, and made his painful, limping way towards to the bathroom.

I made a mental note to put a first-aid kit in there. It concerned me that I'd actually broken his skin, and that he was now leaving, dripping blood, without having had so much as a plaster applied. In fact, I decided, it wasn't on at all.

‘Wait there,' I called. ‘Give me two minutes.'

I opened the folly door, called for Goodness to buzz the gate open and raced up to the main house. I thundered up the stairs, and skidded into the bathroom.

What resources did I have that could provide emergency assistance to an injured slave?

Savlon, cotton wool, and, thank heavens, a quarter roll of Elastoplast.

I grabbed these vital medical supplies and pounded back to the folly, ignoring Goodness's worried look.

Gasping for breath, I tapped on the bathroom door.

‘If you don't mind … I'd just like … to put something on that cut. May I come in?'

‘Of course.'

It was quite odd – out there in the dungeon he'd willingly stripped naked to be whipped. But now, session over, he was protecting his decorum with a towel held in front of him. Despite his efforts at modesty, the bathroom was a lot smaller than the folly, and I had the overpowering sense that there was barely enough room inside for the two of us. I could smell the faint, spicy scent of his deodorant, and my arm brushed against his as he moved aside to allow me to reach the basin.

I dampened the cotton wool and diluted some Savlon. I thought of telling him that it would sting but then realised how redundant such a warning would actually be. Bending over and squinting at his behind, I dabbed the three cuts, which were small in size and not as deep as I had initially feared. I guessed whipped bums bled more easily. It felt quite strange touching the cotton so gently to those areas which I'd brutally beaten.

As I tended to his cuts, Simon stood as still as a rock, leaning over the basin, supporting his weight on his toned arms. I noticed that he had tan lines that ran from his biceps to his wrists, and from mid-thigh to his ankles. Perhaps he was a runner. Or a cyclist who wore gloves.

Two minutes later and the cuts were covered with strips of plaster and I had thrown the bloodstained cotton away, rinsed my hands, and left the bathroom.

‘Thank you very much,' he said when he emerged fully clothed once again.

‘I'm sorry about that. If you want to repeat the session, I'll gladly do it at no charge.'

‘It's fine. I'll pay for this one.'

I was convinced, though, that he was trying to be polite and that I'd never see him again. Once he'd settled his bill he didn't linger but instead headed outside. I noticed he was still limping slightly. And then I saw, with a little start of guilt that three of the cats – Sparkle, Bob the Cat, and Cat Four – were perched on the top of his car; a row of furry, inscrutable mushrooms in a deep green field.

Great. Not only had I lacerated his backside, but my pets had left dusty paw prints all over the pristine paintwork of his luxury vehicle.

Simon didn't seem to mind, though. In fact, he spent a minute stroking all three of the cats before lifting them gently off the roof and easing himself, with some difficulty, into his car. The door thunked shut, the engine started with a purr, Simon buzzed the window down and called out a ‘thank you' to Goodness as he opened the gate. And then he was gone.

He hadn't rebooked, and doubtless wouldn't.

I'd had three clients. One who'd been fully satisfied, one who had agreed to compromise with candles, and one who'd left my premises injured and without achieving orgasm. That was not good enough. I needed to do better.

I continued to stew over my shortcomings as a dominatrix while I soaked my cat-o'-nine-tails, whip and belt in a ten per cent bleach solution and carefully bundled up Simon's blood-flecked towel ready for a cold cycle in the washing machine.

Chapter 12

I
t had been ten days since I'd last visited Mark. I'd been in the habit of going on Thursdays – but this Thursday had been busy, and so had Friday. Two extra days of grace – it had felt like a holiday not having to walk through the doors of that nursing home at the end of the week. Still, I had to admit that when I got into my car on Saturday morning the stop-start journey across the city to Rest Haven felt just as endless as ever. In fact, it might even have felt longer than usual, because of all the doubts and unanswered questions weighing on my mind.

Rest Haven itself was, as the brochure stated, a tranquil oasis for care and rehabilitation. It had an actual rehab wing for addicts in a central and separately fenced section, as well as the care home for the mentally impaired, which was nearer the gate.