The Collectors (5 page)

“Anything special?” Pat asked.

“Please, whatever you desire,” Jeanne said.

Pat smiled. “Got it.”

She moved away from the sofa and Jeanne and I took her place. There was a thermos of coffee on the table in front of us, and Jeanne poured us both a cup as Pat unbuttoned her shirt and threw it over a chair. Her T-shirt was tight; it stretched over her small breasts and tapered down her long torso. Her arms were muscular, clearly defined, and surprisingly large for someone so lean. She must have worked prodigiously with weights to sculpt them. I thought she looked tireless, and I didn’t know whether to pity Adele or envy her. No, that’s disingenuous. Though I was desperate for Jeanne, I would have thrown myself at Pat’s feet at the slightest invitation. It appeared, however, that for the time being I was to have neither of them.

Pat walked over and plucked earplugs out of Adele’s ears, removed the blindfold and gag, and reached up to unhook her wrist cuffs from the wall high above her head. Adele fell to her side with a loud moan, still attached to the wall by the chain at her waist.

“How long has she been like that?” I asked Jeanne. I whispered, as if we were at the theater.

“Since six thirty, just before I left to pick you up.”

It was almost eleven now. I looked back and saw Adele was having a hard time making her muscles work properly. Pat unhooked the last chain and put her boot against Adele’s flank, nudging her toward the center of the room. She let her crawl at her own pace, but she steered her with sharp taps on her butt and thighs. Then she tapped her on the upper back and Adele immediately stopped, rose to her knees facing Jeanne and me, and put her hands behind her back, her shoulders back and her breasts forward. Pat attached wrist cuffs to the chain still around her waist.

Jeanne and I were seated side by side. She was relaxed and leaning back, while I was eager and leaning forward. I didn’t want to miss anything. Even though I wanted to be in Adele’s place, I was finding watching plenty exciting. I squirmed on the sofa.

“Take your panties off,” Jeanne said, pulling my dress up my thigh. “Take them off and then sit directly on the sofa—no fabric between.”

I did as I was told, smelling my excitement the moment I pulled the panties away. I worried about spotting the furniture, but lifted my dress and sat back on the cool leather.

“And no squirming.”

There was no edge to her voice, no threatening glare, but I obeyed as if she had a gun to my head. I wanted nothing more than to put some pressure on my clit, but I didn’t dare. Maybe, I thought, I could just push downward, ever so slightly, and she wouldn’t notice.

“Do not move a muscle,” she said. “Just watch your friend Adele.”

Pat had returned from a trip to the armoire, one arm holding a number of items, the other dragging along a metal frame. It looked like what I’d seen called a punishment bench, where a submissive is bent over the frame and strapped to it at the wrists and ankles, her ass exposed and held in place with another strap across her waist, two more at her thighs. The breasts are left exposed from below. This bench was about waist-high instead of the knee high ones I’d seen in the catalogs. Pat secured Adele to the frame. Adele’s was the easier bondage, I thought. I had been ordered to stay still without benefit of being tied up or strapped down.

Pat picked up a flogger from the pile of toys on the floor. It was a short, multi stranded whip of broad leather strips. It didn’t look terribly threatening, and as Pat began to lightly stroke Adele’s ass with it I couldn’t see it was having much of an effect. I felt a little disappointed, worried that Jeanne’s style, and hence Pat’s style, was not very intense. I didn’t think I was going to be satisfied with a vanilla sort of BDSM. But then I noticed the flogger landing a little more rapidly, with a little more authority, and Adele’s ass began to redden. I could see Adele’s mouth was held in a grimace, but she didn’t make a noise, even as Pat began to put some arm into the strokes. In fact, the only noise I heard in the room was the flogger hitting Adele’s skin. When Pat briefly stopped, all I could hear was my own breath, rapid and shallow. I thought I would die if I couldn’t press my clit onto something, anything, but I held tight.

Pat moved to the front of the bench and squatted in front of Adele. She reached under and grasped Adele’s nipples, one at a time, as she placed clamps on them. Adele’s eyes grew bigger and she bit her lip, but she still managed to stay silent. Pat picked up a riding crop and started hitting Adele’s breasts, their weight pulling them straight down from the bench, making them perfect targets.

Jeanne must have known I would fail to stay completely still, that my excitement would grow beyond the point I could control it. When I pushed down on the sofa and wiggled my hips, all control gone, she grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me off the sofa and onto my knees. Then she brought my wrists behind my back and held them there.

“I’m not impressed with your willingness to please me,” she said.

“But it’s all I want,” I said, turning my face toward her.

“I know what you want.” She took me by the jaw and pointed my face forward. Pat was unzipping her jeans.

“Remain still. Keep your hands behind your back. Stay on your knees. That’s what I want.”

I focused my attention on remaining still, and then I became engrossed once again in the action playing out in front of us. Pat kicked off her jeans and reached back into the toy pile. She was wearing a harness, all ready to go but for the large dildo she now slipped into place. As soon as she slapped on some lube, Pat grabbed Adele’s hips and entered her. She went all the way in at once, and it looked effortless. Adele cried out, the first sound out of her mouth all evening. There was no doubt it was a cry of pleasure, and as Pat worked furiously behind her, Adele became louder and louder until a sustained cry let everyone know she’d had a bone-rattling orgasm. Or she was an extremely gifted actress. I was quite certain she came, for I was quite certain I would have. I almost did without being touched.

I didn’t know whether Pat had come. She never changed her expression from the time of the first lash to the last thrust. She was so handsome, so focused. She took the dildo out of the harness and then pulled on her jeans. She was just slightly out of breath. She looked over at Jeanne. Jeanne looked at me.

“You may stand up now, Laura,” she said. “I’m going to have Pat show you out, if you don’t mind. I’d like a little time with Adele.”

Chaos reigned in my brain. My desire to obey Jeanne was met with an equal desire to punch her in the nose. How could she throw me out again? This was sadistic. She may never take a hand to me, I thought, and I’d still think her the most sadistic woman in recorded history. I was opening my mouth to say something when she put her finger to my lips and hushed me.

“And remember. Do not touch yourself. Not until I say it’s okay. Do I have your word?”

We stared at each other, she cool and remote, me in a tizzy. I took a deep breath and nodded, not willing to end this by telling her how angry and frustrated I was. Pat took me by the elbow and escorted me across the room. Adele was still strapped to the bench, her gaze fixed straight ahead. As we passed in front of her, she peered up at me and smiled. Smugly.

I hoped for a call from Jeanne the next day. There was none. Day two, day three—still nothing. I worked feverishly on my dissertation, trying to focus on anything but sex. I wasn’t used to not giving myself some relief when I felt aroused. I wasn’t into torturing myself, ironically. It hadn’t occurred to me the torture I’d willingly submit myself to from another woman might include withholding orgasms. I’m a masochist. I’ve slowly come to accept that about myself, even without any real experience. But I’m not crazy. No matter what form my sexuality might express itself in, it’s still sex. There remains a goal we all seek—the indescribably powerful elixir of an orgasm.

After four days of not doing anything about the constant arousal, I knew I couldn’t stand it any longer. I’d taken to smoking cigarettes and stuffing myself with sweets, trying to assuage my craving. I was drinking a bottle of wine every night as I watched my cell phone and waited for her call. I started to feel like a cat in heat. Any second, I would start yowling. On my own, I could not withstand the agony. Once my mind was made up, I literally ran into my bedroom and fumbled in the nightstand for my Hitachi Magic Wand. I fell to my knees to plug her in and then  nearly came at the sound of her turned to the low setting. I managed to hold off long enough to rip off my pants and fall on top of the wand.  One, two, three seconds…and Boom! Explosive, yes, but one of the most unsatisfying orgasms of my life. It was immediately followed by guilt, dread, and a telephone call from Jeanne.

I was still lying facedown on the bed, straddling my lover, the Hitachi, when I heard the warbling of my cell phone. I was too boneless to dash into the living room to pick it up, but I knew somehow it was Jeanne. I didn’t doubt that among her many powers was the power of omniscience. She knew I’d disobeyed her. I was sure she was calling to tell me my disobedience meant she’d never be calling me again.

I staggered out of the bedroom, naked except for my “Clit-Lit” T-shirt, and stared at my phone. There was a message from Jeanne.

“Laura, it’s Jeanne. I’d like for you to join me at nine. Sharp. Just come to the front door as usual. Mrs. K. will see to you. And remember. Don’t touch yourself. I’ll be disappointed if you have.”

If we closely examined it, the truth was I didn’t touch myself, nor was I touched by another person. The Magic Wand was the only thing that made contact with my pussy. This may be considered a technicality, but it didn’t make it any less the truth. Technically. What if she threw me out because I couldn’t follow this one simple order? Despite my orgasm (which was nearly medicinal, something akin to a diabetic needing insulin), despite the disregard of her express wishes, I was still desperate for Jeanne and desperate to please her. I felt miserable.

I spent an inordinate amount of time on my makeup and clothes preparing myself for her. I wanted her to find me delicious. At nine o’clock, I rang the doorbell of her house and the ever dour Mrs. Kirchberger answered. She motioned me to follow her and we walked toward the rear of the house and down some stairs. I wondered if Jeanne had a dungeon down here, something more sinister in feel than her playroom upstairs. I hoped so. Mrs. K. knocked on a door, and within seconds, it was opened by a woman talking on her phone. She waved at Mrs. K., pulled me in by the arm, and closed the door with a push from her bare foot.

“No, no, Margaret,” she was saying. “I’ll be there by eleven. I’m working, I’m sorry. No, I’ll see you there.”

She disconnected and threw her phone on the coffee table in front of us. As she looked at me, I took a quick look around and saw we were definitely not in a dungeon. We appeared to be in the small living room of a garden apartment. It was beautifully furnished. The woman in front of me was also beautiful—about forty, with long auburn hair, a dancer’s body, a lovely face with simple makeup.

“Hello, Laura. I’m a friend of Jeanne’s, and she’s asked me to go over a few things with you before she meets with you tonight.”

She was friendly, but she spoke very rapidly. Whatever she was going to do with me, I felt like she’d done it plenty of times before.

“I didn’t catch you name,” I said.

She laughed. “Oops. It’s Veronica. Sorry, I’m a little distracted tonight. Let’s get started, shall we?”

She motioned me to sit beside her on the sofa.

“I’m not here to talk to you about Jeanne or to try to explain her ways to you. Nor am I going to give you instruction on ‘the life.’” She said this while making quotation marks in the air. Her tone was matter-of-fact, sort of like a tired tour guide.

“Jeanne has her ways, as do all of the best tops, and she’s asked me to help prepare you so you’ll be most pleasing to her.”

This was a blow. I thought she was very pleased with how I looked. And if she wasn’t, why was I even here?

“I don’t understand,” I said, and I know I sounded hurt.

“Of course you don’t. I’m told you have zero experience. Just try to listen to me and don’t get defensive. Your job is to do as you’re told, which is easier if you don’t have too many feelings floating around. Trust me, they’ll just make things complicated.”

She took my face by the chin and moved it from side to side.

“You’re pretty,” she said. “Just a few things to work on up here. We’ll get your clothes off and see what else needs to be done.”

She led me toward the rear of the apartment and into an enormous bathroom, more like a spa, really. Veronica then spent the next hour going over every inch of my body. She tweezed, squeezed, and pruned. She shaved, waxed, and trimmed, leaving me with a delicate triangle of pubic hair, unbelievably smooth legs and underarms, and a hairless ass crack. I didn’t even know that could be an issue. I was mortified.

It only got worse when she took me into the shower area and I saw an enema bag hanging from the shower faucet. It looked huge and extremely menacing. I’ve never seen enema equipment and I’d not read much about it in any book in my collection. I guessed men were more into enemas than women. But I wasn’t naïve. I knew why a top would want me clean.

By the end of that experience, I was deeply humiliated, but I was also fairly certain nothing Jeanne would do to me later could make me feel worse. And yet, the fact that I was submitting to these indignities reminded me Jeanne was waiting for me. The thought of her thinking about what she’d do to me kept me excited. It was unlikely I’d say no to anything at this point.