Take Jessica’s two gifts to He Who Must Be Obeyed from Ann Summers.

Exhibit A – A fried-egg mould in the shape of a willy

Actually, this was quite good. HWMBO is the cooked breakfast supremo in the Jessica household and he duly produced a fried egg shaped like a cock. It looked good, even if Jessica was almost too embarrassed to eat it but it was funny and we intend to make one next for Rebecca who will go sweetly pink and make us laugh.

However….

Exhibit B – ‘Sizzling Body Candy’

For those of you born in the eighties and nineties, you will all remember the fizzing candy that we used to eat. Strawberry flavoured, you put it in your mouth and it starts hissing and popping on your tongue. It was a cult thing. We even had it in Wales, where it was rumoured that it made your poo pink.*

So Anne Summer do this candy, which is the same thing. The only difference is that you are meant to spread it on your loved one and eat it off them and the fizzing and popping creates ‘exquisite erotic sensations’.

First off, Jessica sprinkled it on HWMBO’s groin and went down on him. Most of it promptly stuck to his groin hair and Jessica ended up accidentally giving him a sizzling body candy groin wax and ended up with a mouthful of pubes. HWMBO felt pained by this experience, not eroticised. Ewwww.

Secondly, HWMBO sprinkled it into Jessica’s cleavage and breasts and attempted to lick it off. Because Jessica was lying down, it ended up in her hair and got stuck and in her eyes where is sizzled and popped almost taking out Jessica’s eyeballs. HWMBO had to wash and Jessica was not eroticised.

Finally, Jessica tipped the remaining half of the packet into her mouth and attempted to give HWMBO a sizzling blowjob. What actually happened was that half the candy sizzled, as if Jessica had taken a body scrub to HWMBO’s private parts and the other half solidified into sticky lumps on his cock, making him look like he was in the advanced stages of terminal syphilis, complete with red pustules that occasionally sizzled and popped, reducing both Jessica and HWMBO to hysterics before HWMBO had to attempt to insert his nether regions into the bidet to wash off the candy which now resembled rock hard sugar toffee. Neither of them felt eroticised by this although both of them felt better for having cried with laughter.

So all I would say is – novelty gifts are exactly that. Do not try this at home!

***********************************
*This is categorically untrue. Even in Wales.

Outside, it was a lovely October day, blue skies, birds singing.

Inside, there was silence as I waited. Waited to see what would happen.

I could hear my heart beating in my chest. Tentatively, I tested the handcuffs, but there was no escape from them, the cold metal bit cruelly into my wrists. How had this happened? Now I knew why, many years ago, my mother had told me never to accept lifts from strangers, even if my own car had broken down….

Suddenly, I heard footsteps ascending the stairs. They walked down the landing and came to halt by me. Hands, strong male hands, unlocked the cuffs and with a strong grip on my arm, I was forced into one of the rooms. I didn’t know whether to struggle yet. I didn’t want to be hurt. Humans are delicate things, they leak when you hit them, and I was scared, so scared.

In the rooms, I gasped as a chain was thrown around my neck, light but strong, and with a click, it was locked tightly about my throat.

The voice was soft, but firm.

“Take your clothes off.”

I shook my head, mute.

“Take them off. There are two ways this can be done. You can take your clothes off yourself and your pain will not be too great. Or I can do it for you and it will hurt you considerably more.”

There was a pause as I weighed my options. I wasn’t brave enough for the second one. Then slowly, I began to strip off my clothes, taking off my black knee-high boots and tights, sliding down my red tartan mini-kilt, slipping off my black cardigan and top. The top presented a problem, it got caught in the chain, but unseen hands whisked it away. I stood, shivering in the cool room in my bra and knickers.

“And the rest”.

“You said take off my clothes….” I head the note of pleading in my voice.

“All of your clothes. I want you naked.”

“Who are you?”

Silence.

Slowly, I slid off my bra and knickers and stood, naked, cold. I clasped my hands fruitlessly over my breasts. Then I heard water running in another room. Carefully, slowly, I tested the chain about my neck. Tight. And a lot of it.

Then hands were leading me into another room. My bare feet brushed against the cool enamel of a bathtub.

“Get in slowly. Wash yourself.”

“I had a shower this morning!” The complaint burst from me before I could stop it, as petulant as a child.

A soft laugh. “Wash again. I want you really clean”

I stepped into the bath, struggling slightly with my still-blindfolded eyes and knelt in the water. Hands thrust me into a sitting position and a flannel – baby soft – was pushed into my hands and a bottle of liquid soap into the other. I squirted some onto myself. It smelt of baby powder and lavender. Unaware of whether he was watching me of not, I quickly soaped myself, the blindfold and chain making me unwieldy. The hands pulled me to my feet and soaped my breasts and private parts. I tried to pull away, but short of shrinking into the wall there was nowhere to go. Then I was helped out of the bath and patted dry with a towel. Hands guided me away from the bath and then I felt myself laid face down on the bed. The chain clinked and pulled against my throat, reminding me of my capture.

“You’re here to learn obedience. For the next 24 hours, you will do as I say, as soon as I say it, without questioning me. After that, we shall see. But you should know, that if you want to walk out of this room, you must obey me. Understand?”

I nodded, mute. The fear was devastating – my self-preservation more important than my dignity or privacy.

“Now, I’m going to start by showing you what happens if you don’t obey me.”

The towel was yanked away and then without warning, a leather whip lashed across my naked buttocks and back. I wriggled, the chain restricting my movements as the cruel leather bit and burned. The man whipped me firmly and efficiently, leaving no area of my back, buttocks and thighs untouched. I bucked and wriggled, the clinking chain restricting me, making me unable to move as freely as I wanted and for some reason, this made the pain worse. But I didn’t cry, not even when the whip stopped falling and I lay limp on the bed.

Silence. Then the electronic whir of a camera, taking photographs of my punished body. Humiliation coursed through me.

His hands turned me onto my back and examined my breasts, tweaking my nipples, gently at first and then harder. He slapped them a little, raising a red blush. Then his fingers trailed down over my thighs and towards my private parts. I winced, tensing. His hand slapped my thigh in an admonitory manner.

“Don’t fight me.”

I didn’t. His hands parted my legs and I felt him pulling my labia lips apart, running his finger over my clitoris, sliding a finger inside me, testing, feeling.

I was wet. Shamefully, horribly wet, despite being scared and unhappy and not wanting to be here with the strange man. The humiliation was devastating and inside me, something small and tiny died. I felt my eyes get wet under the blindfold.

“That’s very promising. Very good! I was right after all then.” he said. He sounded pleased. What did he mean he was right after all?

He flipped me onto my tummy and examined my anus. I tried to imagine that I was at the doctor’s, that this was a clinical examination. It didn’t help. He spanked me again, casually, not devastatingly hard, but hard enough to hurt, especially as I was being good. Why was I being punished when I was being good? Then he used a leather strap firmly across my already sore bottom, whipping the fire back into my backside.

“I’m being good!” I wailed. “You’re hurting me!”

“So?” was the devastating reply.

He left the room, went away and then came back.

“Remember, you have to be obedient. Whatever happens to you.” he reminded me as he slid a towel under my bottom. Then I felt his hands between my legs and suddenly pain, icy cold and yet burning hot exploded through my body. The shock was so great that I burst into tears. I focused and the pain narrowed from all over to the delicate area between my legs and I realised that the man had pushed an ice cube up inside me, the pain managing to both freeze me and burn me from the inside in one insidious blend of agony. I desperately tried to pull away, to pluck the little pain-toy away from  me, but he held my hands down. So I cried, helplessly and fruitlessly, sobbing for breath as the ice cube melted away in the heat of my body, jerking my hips, unable to escape the pain. Even when the ice was gone, the pain remained as I wriggled on the now wet towel.

My sobs slowed. Behind the blindfold, my face was wet and my hair around my ears was soaked where my tears had trickled out. Again, I heard the camera click.

There was a pause. I lay silently, the cool room in the air and the cold water under my buttocks making me shiver.

Then he was removing the towel and helping me to sit up.

“You’ve been good. That was the stick. Now you can have some carrot.” He pushed a glass into my hands, a wine glass. I sniffed it and the aroma of a rich white wine came to my nose, my senses heightened by my lack of vision. I wanted to gulp it, to soothe my pain with a glass of wine…….I thrust the glass back at him.

“I don’t want it.” I snapped.

“Suit yourself” was the reply. I could visualise him shrugging. Almost as soon as the glass was removed, I was thirsty, so thirsty, but I didn’t ask for a drink. I had to have some control….

Things blurred a little then. There was more spanking, more whipping, more strapping. I kicked my legs, displeasing him. I was warned to keep still and take the pain. I kicked again and he proved his displeasure by lashing a cane across my bottom, 12 hard strokes that bit into my sore flesh, causing me to shriek with pain and cry again a little. All the time, he kept returning to examine my pussy, always shamefully wet. I kept hearing the camera click.

He turned me onto my front and firmly thrust a plug into my bottom hole. I wriggled and moaned.

“Stop whinging or I’ll cane you again” was his only comment.

Then, as he turned me onto my back – how I hated this helplessness, this inability to do things for myself – and with the plug still in place, he spread my legs wide and then I felt his cock, his warm human cock, so different from the cold plug in my bottom, slide into my pussy. I gasped at the tight sensation of the double penetration and gritted my teeth, as, eased by my own physical excitement, he fucked me ruthlessly before spending himself as I sobbed underneath him.

He tidied me, washed me where I lay and then pulled me to my feet. He placed some clothes in my hands and told me to get dressed. I did, putting on knickers, bra and a pair of long socks and then stepped into a dress. The dress was short and I couldn’t zip it up myself, so he helped me. The sensation of being clothed again was wondrous. Then he put me into the bed and pulled the covers over my body. He removed the blindfold and I got the first glance of my captor as I tried to focus my eyes in the dim light of the room. He had a nice face, a kind face, not the face of someone who would drag you off a country road and abuse you. What had I expected, him to look like, a drooling monster? Somehow, his very niceness was worse.

“We need to eat, I’m going to cook dinner.” he said.

“I don’t want any!” I said sharply.

“Suit yourself.” he said. Then he left the room, leaving me in the bed. He didn’t lock the door, he didn’t need to, chained as I was. Looking around the room, I could see, even though the curtains were drawn, that is was dark. I had no idea what time it was, my watch was gone and I felt disorientated. My body told me it was evening. I realised that the room had a little bathroom attached and I scurried into it, realising that my chain gave me a certain freedom of movement, but not enough to escape. I had a few fruitless goes at breaking the chain, and then gave up. Looking at myself, I could see I was dressed in long white socks and a short blue gingham dress, with frills on the bottom, a little girl’s dress. Lifting my skirt, I could see my new underwear was white cotton. It all fitted perfectly. Then I heard him coming back up the stairs and leapt into the bed, hiding under the covers.

He came in, lifted each of my arms out of the bed so they were above the covers and put a glass of water at my side.

“Dinner is nearly ready. Will you eat?”

“No” I said, lips tight.

“Fine”.

He left the room and I lay quietly as the smells of cooking wafted upstairs. My tummy growled. I tried to ignore it. Eventually, worn out, I slept fitfully.

After dinner, he came back, woke me brusquely. He was angry that I hadn’t eaten, I could see it in his eyes and it gave me a perverse satisfaction.

“You know, if the Russians had you, they would just rape you every half an hour and have done with it.” he said.

I bit back, spirit not entirely undimmed. “Well I suppose you’d like to do that if you were actually able to get it up that often!”

His face darkened. “What did you say?”

My tummy twisted with anxiety. “Nothing.”

He grabbed my hair viciously, spun me onto my tummy and then laid into me with a heavy strap, making me scream as he used it with force, entirely without any care. I squealed out an apology and repeated what I’d said.

“I haven’t got started properly yet. I’m breaking you slowly.” he snarled before lashing the strap down again. Then, when I was sobbing on the bed, bottom burning, welts risen, he rubbed some cream into my sore backside.

“Why are you doing that? Why do you hurt me then take care of me?”

“I don’t want to damage the merchandise. Your price will drop.” he said simply.

Then started the torment again. The things he did were too many, too numerous to describe here, but I cried again and again as I was hurt, beaten and used by this man.

Sometime in the small hours, only able to tell it was late by my body clock, he explained his plans. If I proved amenable, he had a private client with very specific requirements, a woman, not a girl, who looked like me and had certain, specific attributes.  He thought I met those. I only had to prove myself in one more way. If I didn’t, well, it was a one way street out of this room. There was no going back. He advised me to meet the client’s requirements, because I would find it easier to be the private slave of a single wealthy man than to be at the mercy of anyone who had a few dollars to pay for me.

I couldn’t cry. I felt empty of tears, like my thirsty body refused to make any more.

“What’s the last test?” I whispered into the dark.

He slid his hand down to pussy and winced at the soreness. But I was still wet. This was the only part of my parched body with any moisture. He started to stroke me and my treacherous body responded. It didn’t take much and soon I was writhing with pleasure, pleasure rather than pain until I exploded in orgasm, the sensations so violent that I bucked and wriggled and cried out to Heaven as my body trembled with pleasure.

The sensations subsided. I felt weak all over.

I felt him smile in the dark.

“Well done. That’s what my client wants. Someone who can enjoy her torment whilst being obedient to his every whim. You obviously can and it doesn’t surprise me – I’m rarely wrong when I pick a woman to take. Forget your old life. This is your new one.”

I slept. My sleep was dreamless. But the chain still held me down.

As I said last week, I’ve been rather worried about my mojo lately, and specifically, my lack of orgasms. But this dream was so lustful that I think it’s coming back! Yippee! The dream was in anticipation (I think) of a play day that He Who Must Be Obeyed was organising for the weekend, a Chateau F day with me and three other girls.

In my dream, I was at Chateau F. Chateau F is a rather secretive organisation where young ladies go to learn the esoteric arts of pleasing a man sexually in all ways possible. The discipline is strict and the training arduous, but a Chateau F girl is highly sought-after, because she is beautiful, compliant, obedient and very, very skilled.

In my dream though, I wasn’t one of the young ladies, who are put under the care of valets, who train them. I was a maid. I was there as a maid because I wasn’t considered good enough to be one of the young ladies, only to be trained as a maid for the Chateau. I was wearing the Chateau F maids uniform – a short, black silky uniform dress with a full skirt and a lacy petticoat, a tiny white apron and a saucy cap. My waist was cinched in very tightly by a black satin corset and I had fishnet stockings on and very high black heels, that I felt a little bit wobbly on.

Pierre, one of the valets, had another three young ladies coming to be trained and he had assigned me to assist him and look after them, as well as doing domestic duties. My first task was to serve them lunch and I realised quite quickly that there was a definite difference between me and the pampered Chateau F girls – as I poured one of them a glass of wine and a tiny drop spilt on the white tablecloth, Pierre called me to him and without blinking, slapped me sharply across the face, causing me to rock back on my heels in shock. One of the girls giggled and I blushed with shame. After lunch, in punishment, he made me bend over in the kitchen and roughly pulled down my knickers, thrust a plug up my bottom and commanded me to keep it in whilst doing my domestic duties. In my dream, I felt the plug in my bottom, pressing on my sensitive parts, exciting me, but I wasn’t to have any pleasure.

Later on, Pierre was training the girls and he called me to the dungeon to hold one of them down whilst he beat her. She struggled against my hands and at one point, sunk her pearly white teeth into the fleshy part of my finger, drawing drops of blood that in my dream was a vivid red. I squealed and released her – only for Pierre to box my ears until they rang, commanding me to hold her down, whatever she did or I would take her place. Later, when she had been thoroughly thrashed and was sobbing and contrite, Pierre decided she deserved pleasure and sitting her on a soft stool with her legs apart, thrust me onto my knees in front of her and commanded me to pleasure her with my tongue, holding my neck and thrusting my face forward against her wet pussy until she screamed with pleasure, grinding her soaking sex against my mouth. When I sat back, breathless, he ordered me into the corner, facing the wall and then, as I stood there miserably, longing for sexual release, I could hear him fucking her and her enthusiastic moans were like shards of glass. When they finished, I was sent for wine and then told to prepare dinner. In the kitchen, scraping vegetables, I longed to touch myself. But I didn’t dare…

When I woke up, the real life urge to pleasure myself was so strong, I ached from need. But I had to get up for work. And then all day, on my journey there and in work, I longed for release, like my maid had longed for release. But I couldn’t have it. And somehow, that made me feel hotter than hell. The sheer force of the denial was so intense, so vivid. And it reminded me of why I like to be submissive. Because sometimes, you really really want. But you don’t get.

*************************************************
*Send any complaints to the usual email address, where I will not reply politely.

He Who Must be Obeyed had invited Bex and Lizzie Thomas (a fellow Lowewood pupil) for a weekend play session. We were to be girls at the secretive Chateau F, a story-of-O style place where girls are perfectly trained in sexual submissiveness. I was expecting to spend 24 hours as ‘Violette’, one of the Chateau F maids, generally taking on a domestic role, cooking, assisting the other two with their clothes etc. Fun, but safe. At least that’s what I’d thought.

After Bex and Lizzie arrived, we changed into our Chateau F clothes – long velvet dresses for Lizzie and Bex and a saucy French maids costume with a very tight corset for me. We sat down to lunch with HWMBO, who was dressed up in Regency gear. During lunch, Bex left the table to go to the bathroom, but I didn’t think much of it, until she called me. I walked into the hall, where she was upset. She seemed out of role. I guided her into the living room and I genuinely thought that she was about to cry – she’d had a text from someone she disliked. I was trying to calm her and thinking about going to get HWMBO with the immortal phrase ‘Huston, we have a problem’ when it happened.

Suddenly strong arms were around my throat, yanking me backwards and before I could even make a single sound of surprise or horror, a black hood drooped around my head and was tightened at my throat. The arms pushed me down as a foot tripped me and I fell forwards, strong hand gripping me as I was laid flat on the floor, a heavy weight settling across my back as my hands were grabbed and handcuffed swiftly behind me. I could hear Bex screaming. I could hear chairs scraping in the dining room and Lizzie shouting. I wriggled with pain as the man sitting on me flattened me into the ground. I could barely move. He shifted his weight just slightly. Now I could hear other sounds, thumps, Bex yelling. Inside the hood, it was black and horribly hot. I was blind, immobilised, totally helpless. I was frightened.

Next I was hauled to my feet, the handcuffs were re-positioned so my arms were in front of me and I was dragged into the hall of my house, before being forced into a kneeling position again. No words were spoken by my captors. People were moving around and I struggled to pinpoint how many there were. I plucked at my hood and a hand forcefully struck mine away. I felt like there was at least one watching us. There were thumps, clinking china, bags being moved. Were they real burglars?

“Is that you Jessica?” whispered Lizzie and I realised she was next to me, similarly handcuffed and hooded. I gathered that Bex was on the other side of her, from her swearing and thumping sounds, the captors had to work to subdue her. I wondered about fighting, but decided that as I was immobilised and I had no idea how many captors there were, I would sit tight for the moment.

As I leaned forward slightly to nestle closer to Lizzie, suddenly there was a stunning blow with something metallic across my forehead, which made me groan with pain and I slid backwards, momentarily stunned. Hands helped my back to a sitting position, but my ears were ringing and the place where the object had struck me was burning and I felt beads of blood soaking into my hood as the pain settled to a dull and insistent beat. Now I was really scared. Had one of them just coshed me for moving?

 It certainly put and end to any resistance I might have made and as I was lifted to my feet between two men – I knew they were men, they were taller and stronger than me – I was dragged, unresisting, apart from a couple of sharp kicks to a shin outside the house, smelling the cool autumn air and I found myself being lifted into the air and was bundled into the back of a transit van, my leg catching painfully on the metal as two of the captors dragged me back into the van and laid me flat on some blankets and cushions on the metal floor. For a moment, I was on my own and then another girl was bundled in. I wasn’t sure which one it was until the third girl arrived and from the swearing and cursing, I knew that was Bex, which meant that Lizzie was next to me. I felt a man jump in beside me, the van doors slammed and then the engine started up and we were driven away.

I lay silently, almost unable to process what was happening. In the safe recess of my brain, I knew that this was a game, a roleplay and that HWMBO must be one of the men! But listening to the sounds of driving, the choked breathing of the others, the silence from the captors, I was as unnerved as I have ever been. I felt physically uncomfortable – the handcuffs were tights and biting into the skin of my wrists, the hood was hot and difficult to breath in and I was sweating with a combination of exertion and fear, sweat trickling into my hairline and combining with the slowly drying blood from my painful head. If my mind started racing, my breathing speeded up and made it hard to breathe in the hood. My head was throbbing, the vibration from the van’s engine seeming to vibrate my head. I felt disorientated, almost stunned, my limbs starting to shake from reaction.

We drove for what felt like hours and I had no idea where we were or where we were going. We went through different speeds, so I guessed we were moving from my residential suburb into a duel-carriageway and then back to a slow, normal speed limit. The man sitting by my head then started to speak. He had a thick Essex accent and introduced himself as ‘Burner’. He told us, with little emotion, that they worked for a Russian man, called Vladimir and the three of us had been kidnapped to be shipped to a brothel in Uzbekistan, that specialised in the punishment and erotic torture of unwilling victims. We would be taken to a safe house and ‘tested out’ and the better we performed, the higher the price that Vladimir would pay them for us. Bex, obviously the bravest of us all wasn’t having this. “Fuck you!” she shouted. Another man in the back of the van laughed and I heard Bex give a choked squeal. “Leave her alone Muscles. Not yet. Not here.” said Burner.

I was silent. Genuinely frightened, I was just concentrating on breathing. My eyes were a little bit wet. My French maid’s outfit seemed suddenly short and skimpy and I tried to push it down, sure that my knickers were showing. “Don’t bother’ sneered Burner and I flushed with shame under my hood.

The van stopped. There was some conferring amongst the captors. We were then told by Burner that the hoods would be removed and we were to walk, one at a time, escorted by them, to the safe house. We were not to make a sound or draw attention to ourselves otherwise we would be *very* sorry. We all got the message.

As I was first into the van, I was last out and when the hood was lifted from my face and HWMBO’s face swam into view, I winced from the light. He looked at me and sucked in his breath, face twisting with concern, all vestiges of play suddenly gone. He touched my bruised and painful forehead gently, stroking the small cut with his hands. “That wasn’t meant to happen.” he said ruefully. But then, his face twisted and his voice changed and before my very eyes, I realised who ‘Burner’ was. “Get out. And if you scream, you’re dead.” he said. I didn’t scream during the short walk, down a quiet alleyway.

Inside the house, Lizzie was sitting against the wall with Bex. I slumped down by them. It seemed to be some kind of abandoned mews house, with stairs twisting away into an upstairs area. We were each allowed to go to the bathroom, one at a time. The window was too small to fit through, but looking out of it, I could see a robin sitting on a fence post, singing. I longed to be the robin….

I was put back downstairs under the watchful eye of ‘Muscles’ who now that we were de-hooded, I could see was Bex’s Boy Interest, who seemed to be taking particular pleasure in poking her with a riding crop. I sat by Lizzie. “Who is the driver?” she whispered. “Shut up!” barked Muscles. I shrugged  – and then the door opened and the driver, ‘Dave’ arrived. I nearly passed out when I realised it was The Lover. The sod told me he had to work this weekend! So that made three kidnappers in total.

We had a brief hiatus for water and then Burner told me to walk upstairs. I was going to be first. My insides clenched with apprehension as I stood and mounted the stairs, the men crudely catcalling as my bottom cheeks flashed under my short dress. At the top, I looked back and saw Burner was momentarily distracted and hadn’t started up the stairs. Quickly, I looked around for a weapon, something to give me an advantage against these men. My eyes lit on a pinboard stuck with pins and I pulled one out and palmed it. In the middle of the upstairs, mattresses had been arranged on the floor, a collection of sinister looking BDSM toys arranged around them.

When Burner arrived upstairs and tried to grab me, I went for him with the pin, jabbing it sharply into his hand as he grabbed my wrist and then sharply into his side. He swore, grabbed my hair and flung me onto the floor and we struggled madly for possession of the small but painful weapon, he shouting for help, causing Dave to sprint up the stairs. With no finesse or kindness, Dave twisted my wrist viciously, wrenching the pin from me as Burner staggered away, blood dripping from his hand. I felt a moment of triumph, but it faded as both Burner and Dave glared at me angrily.

Then the torment began. For me, the worst part was when I was tied into a kneeling position, hooded again and my arms raised above my head, tied to the banisters. Dave dealt with me, slowly stripping me of my corset and maids dress, tugging down my knickers, pinching my nipples and roughly fondling my breasts, thrusting his hand between my legs and finding my (shamefully wet) centre of pleasure. With my bottom arched out and arms above me, he whipped me slowly and thoroughly, the lashes biting into my back and upper arms until I was moaning with pain. Then he untied my arms and laid my flat on my stomach and started to drip hot wax from a candle onto my back and bottom and legs until I was writhing and wriggling and begging for mercy. The hot wax on my back, already hot and painful from the whipping, made me suck in my breath with pain. He did stop and began to pick the rivulets of dried wax from my sore flesh.

“Vladimir’s going to love you.” he said conversationally. “You’re built for this. The perfect package.”

He carefully wiped my back clean of wax and I was struck by the sudden gentleness. Then he picked up the candle again and I heard a match strike.

“No point in dripping it onto you if you’re already covered, is there?” he said casually, as the vicious little torment began again….

We had another hiatus then (for dinner!) and went back to The Lover’s house – it was then I realised what part of London we were in! We relaxed, had a drink, went out for dinner and went back to The Lover’s house. Then we picked up where we’d left off and Burner began to torment Bex and Lizzie with a violet wand, with Muscles also joining in. Dave then dragged me upstairs and flung me on the bed.

“Stick you arse out.” he said, waving a cane at me. I refused and tried to back away and quick as a snake, he grabbed my hair and slapped me hard across the face.

“Do as you’re told!” he growled. I lay down and he lashed the cane into my bottom, caning me hard until I was sore and broken, begging for mercy. Then he unbuckled his belt and I braced myself for the next part of the degradation, the abuse. Which came, with no tenderness, as Dave used me in every orifice and to my shame, I found myself coming with him, crying out in a mixture of pleasure and pain as orgasm after orgasm wracked my body. We slept for a while, then at 6am he woke me, fucked me casually again and then told me to go and join Burner in his room. Broken, utterly degraded and humiliated, I obeyed.

In Burner’s room, I clambered into his bed. I wanted to cry. But dry-eyed, I endured a similar abuse from him and again, found myself horribly, massively and totally turned on by it, orgasms again coming easily and quickly. In the end, I was stretched out naked on the bed, dripping with sweat, aching with pain, bruises already showing on my white wrists. I was satiated. I could take no more. Then HWMBO kissed me gently, like a butterfly, his eyes kind, showing that Burner has gone and HWMBO was back.

“Cup of tea darling?” he whispered. I nodded, mute with sensation, my thoughts a whirl, my body a mess.

Later in the shower, as I washed away the stains of the night, the intensity of the images that flashed through my mind were so strong that leaning under the welcome hot water, I masturbated, coming in probably about thirty seconds and nearly collapsing under the shower as I did so. And today, this afternoon as I write this, I am still smiling. Smiling from pleasure. Smiling from love. Smiling because Bex – dear Bex, the instigator and organiser of this fantasy, the person who actually sorted out everyone with a date, made suggestions and then left it to the men to plan and carry out their evil deeds – actually thought enough of me to organise something that seriously blew my mind.

So to HWMBO, The Lover, Bex, Lizzie and Bex’s Boy Interest, thank you. You’ve made a girl very happy. Roll on next time!

Camilla, sitting quietly with a history book, elegant in a green pencil skirt and black blouse, seamed stockings and black heels was a total contrast. In her case, it didn’t pay to advertise. She was matched to clients; she didn’t need to tout for them. Underneath her elegant outfit, she was wearing a very racy paid of La Perla silk knickers and a matching push-up bra. In her handbag, she had condoms, lubricant, toys and tiny restraints. On the outside, she was a lady.

But really, she was a whore.

Her phone buzzed.

‘Hi Camilla. Graham here. I’m in room 426. Come upstairs, let yourself in and bend over the end of the bed. Don’t take too long. Graham.’

Camilla finished her drink, charged it to the room number and made her way to the lifts. It was an ‘overnighter’ this time, but it looked like her new client, Graham, didn’t want to hang around. She smiled. It was Friday and he’d probably had a stressful week at work.

She found 426 easily enough, and pushed at the door, which was slightly ajar, then closed it quietly behind her. The inside of the suite was airy and cool, lights low. Her client was sitting on the sofa, sipping his drink. She flashed him a smile, dropped her handbag onto the coffee table and strolled confidently past him towards the huge bed and sliding a couple of the pillows under her hips, bent over them and waited.

Silence. It stretched. She wondered what he was waiting for.

Suddenly he was behind her, slowly sliding her skirt up and over her hips. When her bottom was exposed, he stroked the silk knickers, patting and straightening them so they lay neatly over her bottom cheeks.

There was a series of electronic beeps and Camilla smiled slightly. Photos as well? Well, she didn’t mind the odd one of her bottom, but if he wanted anything else, it wasn’t going to happen. You never knew where those ended up.

She heard him pull up a chair so he was sitting by her bottom and his hand slid between her thighs, spreading her legs. He stroked the gusset of her knickers. Camilla was already wet and whimpered a little as he teased her clit through the silk.

“You took a long time to obey my text Camilla. That was naughty, wasn’t it?” he whispered.

“Yes” she said quietly. The first stroke of the paddle, whilst not taking her entirely by surprise, was harsh and stung her naked flesh. Quickly and moving with confidence, he set up a rhythm, paddling the entire expanse of her bottom, over her knickers and on the bare skin that they didn’t cover until Camilla was gasping and wriggling. Then he stopped and went back to his maddeningly exciting stroking.

“My, you really are exquisite.” he said admiringly.

This time his fingers trailed under the gusset of her knickers, sliding between her labia lips, briefly slipping a single finger into her moist sex.

“Let’s try another strap shall we? I like the way your arse goes red.” he said.

This time the strap, although smaller, was a lot stingier. Quite quickly, Camilla was jerking her bottom away from it and she felt his hand in the small of her back, forcing her to remain still whilst he punished her vulnerable bottom. Then he resumed stroking her, alternating his fondling with strokes of the strap as Camilla felt a curl of excitement run through her. She was enjoying this now.

Graham stopped and there was a second series of electronic beeps. Then she heard his belt being undone, his zip going down and the distinct rustle of a condom packet and then, Graham was behind her and without further ado, pulled aside the gusset of her knickers and thrust himself into her hard and fast. Camilla was ready for him and thrust back with pleasure, revelling in the sensation of his hips thrusting against hers, against her red bottom. Graham was now only interested in his own pleasure and he drove himself vigorously and rapidly towards orgasm and it wasn’t long before she felt him orgasm strongly, thrusting against her, gripping her breasts through her bra, emptying his lust inside her.

He withdrew.

She didn’t move. He went to the bathroom and she heard water running. Then he was back behind her.

“Pull your skirt down. I think I’ve got an appetite for dinner now – have you?” he smiled.

Camilla stood, rearranged herself and smiled back. “That would be nice.” she said demurely.

He waited whilst she brushed her hair and re-applied her lipstick, and then courteously opened the door of the suite for her.

Once again, it was a gentleman escorting a lady to dinner.

But later on, again, it would be the gentleman fucking his whore.

Camilla, meet Mr Adams at the Dorchester at 7pm tonight for a five-hour booking. Room 325. He’ll meet you in the bar. He wants the works – drinks, dinner, then I’m sure you’ll find something to do for him upstairs. He likes stockings and suspenders, corsets and any kind of uniforms and he’s kinky, so make sure you’ve got a few implements. He’s new to the agency, loaded and could be a regular booker, so make sure you give him a good time. Don’t be late!  Carlo.

Camilla frowned. She’d already worked three nights that week, had covered her rent and was quite happy to have a night off. Trust Carlo, the man who ran the agency (or if you wanted to put it in balder terms, her pimp) to not give her any notice. She sent back a quick text.

Is Delores free? I’m knackered. I’ve done three visits this week. C xx

The reply was brief.

He wants you. Don’t argue, JFDI. Carlo.

She bit her lip. ‘JFID’ meant two things. The acronym meant ‘Just fucking do it’ and getting it in a text meant she’d pissed Carlo off, which was never a good way to start a weekend. She texted back quickly, saying that she’d do the appointment and then went upstairs to check out her wardrobe.

A couple of hours later, she set out for Central London. The tube journey was long and soporific and her thoughts wandered. At £300 an hour, hiring Camilla wasn’t at all cheap, and she’d take two-thirds of that for herself, with Carlo taking the remaining amount, so she’d make a grand for this evening’s job. She mentally went through the contents of her small bag that contained the tools of the trade….implements, spare pair of stockings and underwear, condoms, lubricant and a few other bits and pieces. Her phone vibrated and she pulled it out of her handbag.

Are you on your way? Carlo.

She sent a text back, her fingers jabbing the keys, irritated. Bloody Carlo. All he did was arrange the appointments and raked in a third for himself whilst she did all the work. Not that she’d be complaining anytime soon. Carlo started off nicely enough. That was the problem. When Camilla had met him, she’d been ordering a drink at a West End nightclub and he’d complimented her on her looks and bought her the drink. Camilla, a student at a top London university with bills to pay had been more than happy to let the older man buy her cocktails and had ended up going back with him to his Knightsbridge flat. Sex with him was exciting and incredibly kinky and he still had the power to excite her as he led her from a simple spanking over the knee to more serious BDSM. They’d done more or less everything you could possibly imagine a nice middle-class girl and an older roué might do. She’d never known what he did for a living and when, after they’d been seeing each other a month and she’d been bemoaning her lack of funds, he’d had a good suggestion for her. He could fix her up with a nice chap. Respectable. Undemanding.  He’d pay for her company. Maybe she could give him a bit of a cuddle. The money was really good.

And that’s how it started. It wasn’t until Camilla was hooked on the money, the easy money, that the tenor of Carlo’s ‘nice chaps’ started to change. They were nearly always kinky now and expected sex – it wasn’t an option anymore. She’d complained to Carlo. And it was then that Carlo told her, for the first time to JFDI. Camilla, indignant, had refused. So Carlo had sweetly had mentioned the photos he’d taken of her. And the video. Did Camilla want those sent to her Dean of Studies? Or her father?

Of course she didn’t.

So now, she had a job, a part-time job, one of Carlo’s girls. Oh yes, there were plenty of others. Carlo controlled her like a puppet, rewarding her with sex and treats when she got it right and beating her like a stern guardian when she hacked him off. Camilla knew now she’d been a fool. But at least, as time went on, she was becoming a better-off fool, paying her bills and even managing to save. And it was an all right way to earn a living. Most of the chaps were nice. Apart from the off one or two. Like Dave….she hoped this new chap, this Mr Adams, wasn’t like that.

Camilla shivered, forced her thoughts away from Dave and looked out of the tube window at the bright August sunshine.

*****************************************

At the Dorchester, Camilla made her way to the bar. It was an opulent set-up, leather and mirrors and she picked a quiet corner table and ordered a champagne cocktail, putting on the tab. She was slightly early and quickly re-did her lipstick and smoothed down her long blonde hair. Her drink arrived at the same time as her client did.

“Camilla?” he said, smiling at her. She smiled back at him. He was medium height, older, black hair, nice face. Camilla relaxed slightly. Nice-faced chaps were ok.

“I see you’ve got a drink. Put it on my room bill.” he said as he summoned the waiter and asked for a martini.  He sat down next to her. “You look even more edible in the flesh than in your photos. I hope you’re feeling like some fun tonight?”

“Of course I do Mr Adams….isn’t that a bit formal?” she said.

“Call me Marcus,” he replied.

His drink arrived and they started chatting. Camilla had often found that people who booked her wanted to know all about her and to tell her about themselves, and usually, moan about their wives or girlfriends not understanding them. Unusually, Marcus Adams didn’t moan about his wife, even though he had a chunky wedding ring on. He came straight to the point and told her that he hired girls like her because they were pliant and uncomplicated.

“You are pliant, I hope Camilla? Carlo assures me that you are?”

He looked at her and Camilla felt a tiny curl of excitement. “I try to be,” she whispered.

 “Good. Let’s start by seeing what you have on under your skirt. Part your legs for me – discretely.” he ordered.
Camilla gently let her legs fall apart, her tight skirt becoming taut. Mr Adams, one hand on his glass, slid his other hand up her thigh. His fingers lingered on the welt of her stockings and the metal suspender clip.

“Very nice.” he smiled. Then his has slid a little further to the delicate flesh above her stocking. “Very smooth and soft.”

Camilla sipped from her glass, trying to keep her face straight. This had never happened to her before! Certainly not at The Dorchester! Marcus’s hand moved further up until his fingers were brushing against the crotch of her knickers. He stroked her there and she couldn’t stop a tiny gasp coming from her lips.

“My my. You’re very warm and damp down there Camilla. Are you excited? Are you getting wet thinking about me fucking you upstairs?”

Camilla nodded, unable to say a thing.

“I think you’re a very naughty girl. Only naughty little sluts get all excited when a man touches them up in a public bar,” he whispered. He continued to stroke her gently and she felt herself getting more and more excited. Then he withdrew his hand and sipped his drink.

“I think I’d like to work up an appetite for dinner.” he said. “Take your knickers off and give them to me.”

Camilla blanched. “Here?” she stuttered. He nodded.

Casting an anxious glance about her, Camilla slowly worked her knickers down her thighs under her skirt. Then she bent at the waist and under cover of the table, slipped them down her legs and off, handing the damp silk to Marcus Adams. He tucked them into his pocket and then handed her a room key.

“Go upstairs to my room – 325. Get on the bed, put some pillows under your hips, spread your legs apart and wait for me. Don’t take any of your other clothes off. I’ll be up shortly – I can’t wait much longer, I have to fuck you.”

Camilla, blushing madly at the unexpected situation and at his blunt words, stood up. She started for the door of the bar, but Marcus Adams called her back.

“Oh and I hope you don’t get tired easily Camilla. I’ve had a long week and I’m looking forward to this. Off you go.”

Camilla went. She wondered if anybody else in the bar realised what she was and why she was going upstairs……..

A few stops after me, somebody new got on and sat opposite me. And not just anybody. A gorgeous man, in his mid-thirties, who looked like he should really be wearing a toga and lounging around on Olympus. He was tall, long black hair, bright blue eyes, tanned skin, fit body….

He realised I was staring at him. I looked away and felt myself flush slightly. I almost wished that I wasn’t wearing my work ‘uniform’ of black trousers and a white blouse. I wished I’d put some make-up on and washed my hair. I sneaked a glance at my reflection in the tube window to see if he was still looking at me. He wasn’t. He was looking at his paper. So I looked at him again.

The fantasy came up on me so suddenly; I didn’t consciously think about it. He got off the tube at the same stop as me and as I stepped into the crowds, I felt something being pressed into my hand. I looked down and it was a business card, with his name and number. On the back, he had written ‘Room 214, Landmark Hotel, Marylebone Road, 7pm tonight. You look like a naughty girl….’

All day long, I wondered if I should go…

So that night, at 7pm, I presented myself to a total stranger in his hotel room. As soon as I got through the door, I was pressed up against the wall of his room and kissed thoroughly and meaningfully. His hand plucked at my trousers and slid up inside my blouse. I resisted slightly and he knocked my hands away. “Careful” he growled. “Do as you’re told or I’ll do a lot more than spank you.” He let my trousers drop to the floor, yanked down my wet-with-anticipation knickers and then with one thrust, impaled me against the wall like a butterfly, pinioning me with his cock as he thrust in and out of me, and I gripped hard against his shoulders at the sensation, longing for the moment when his hand would crack against my naked skin…

At that moment, the tube stopped and the man looked up and caught me staring at him. Again. This time, I blushed fiery red, embarrassed by my lustful thoughts….

…..he smiled at me. Did he know what I was thinking?

Then he left the train. I haven’t seen him since.

I was with a female friend. We were both known on the BDSM scene and we received emails from a Lady Cerene to join her exclusive BDSM club.  They didn’t take everyone. It was invitation only. On Saturday, if we wanted to join, we were to go to the Cabman’s Shelter* on Kensington Park Road in London and hand over our email invitations to the woman behind the counter and then follow instructions.

So that evening, nervously, we presented ourselves, in sexy yet elegant dresses, at the Cabman’s shelter. Handed over our emails. And then, after about ten minutes, a cab driver came up to us.

“You ladies need a lift to The Club, I hear?” he said.

Eventually we arrived at The Club, which was in the heart of Mayfair. We were greeted by Lady Cerene, who explained that tonight was our initiation night. Most of the people there (about 75%) were just going to watch. They were ‘watching members.” We were supposed to becoming ‘doing members’. We would have to take part in seven scenes and at the end of those, our suitability would be judged.

We were then split up. The dream was quite fluid at this point and I can’t remember all my seven scenes. The ones that stuck in my mind though were…

-Presenting myself to a tall dominatrix, who looked Latin-American. She sneered a little at my clothes. Then she spanked me over her knee with a slipper.

-A scene with two gay guys, both dominant. My duty, I was told, was to arouse one of the guys sufficiently, using my mouth only, that he was ready to fuck his lover. This I managed and was then presented with the frustrating sight of hot sex, which I could only be an unwilling voyeur to.

A scene with an older gentleman, smartly dressed in tweeds, with a moustache and little glasses. This was the hardest scene for me. He wanted to cane me. Then he wanted to watch me have a pee in a chamber pot. I nearly couldn’t do it, but the threat of another caning on my already sore and welted bottom persuaded me. The tinkle of pee on china seemed to resonate through my dream.

Eventually, sore and bruised, excited and used, my friend and I faced the panel.

“You’ll do.” we were told. “Welcome to The Club”

Why can’t I dream like that every night?
*************************************
*Cabman’s shelters were built in the Victorian era to provide sustenance for cab drivers who weren’t allowed to leave their cabs.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a missionary girl as well. But there is nothing as gorgeous as the feeling of thrusting your nates backwards to meet the cock that’s about to plunge into you and fill every inch.

I’m sure it’s a submissive thing somewhere along the way. Although I’m much more likely to cum from lying on my back, I adore the posture that I have to adopt for a rear-fucking, face on the bed, shoulders down, back arched and bottom thrust up, both holes available for the dom to use at his pleasure.

The hand that caresses your bottom cheeks. The teasing, the playing, the heart-racing as you wonder which orifice the dom will avail himself of – or will he use both? The feeling of him pounding into you, thrusting hard (often against sore and welted bottom-cheeks), the knowledge that your bowed head and dipped back acknowledge your wholesale submission to his whim.

In particular, I love the command to ‘spread your cheeks for me’. Because that’s usually a sign that the dom is about to use the very tightest hole of all – which induces such a gorgeous feeling which is so good, but at the same time so very bad, that it makes me weak at the knees. And you can only really do that when you’re being taken from behind.

Hmmm. Now where did I put my magic wand?

At a loose end last week, and in our garden, I thought I’d have a moment to have some er…quiet time to myself. Outside in the lovely fresh air. So, laying down my book, I unbuttoned my jeans and started to explore myself…

Hmmmmm. Nice.

Then there is a clank from next door. Yes, Man-Next-Door is in his garden. Well that’s ok. I’m very quiet.

Another clank. Ok, Man-Next-Door is climbing up ladder to the side of his house. Damn it. If her turns round now he will see, fall off ladder and break his leg.

I will go inside.

In bed. Vibrator to hand. Spanking story from wank file to hand.

Hmmmm. Nice.

Shouts from outside. Local school children passing, screaming and swearing as usual.

Grrr. Get out of bed, close window. Try again.

Hmmmm. Nice.

He Who Must Be Obeyed shouts from downstairs. Have I seen his glasses?

Turn off vibrator. Shout back. No, have not seen his glasses.

Turn on vibrator. Hmmmmm, nice.

He Who Must be Obeyed shouts from downstairs. Are you wanking again Jessica?

Grrrr. Chance would be a fine thing! Shout back. Yes, and I’m trying to finish!

Hmmmmm. Nice.

Ooo. Nearly there. Ooooo.

Phone goes, shattering the feeling. Buggeration! It’s my mother. Must answer. Turn off vibrator.

Mum (full of beans): Is now a good time dear?

Jessica (grinding teeth): Go ahead. I wasn’t doing anything important….