A short story by Alex Jordaine. Alex Jordaine is the UK’s leading Femdom writer and author of the highly acclaimed ‘Mistress’ series of novels. He is regarded as one of the foremost writers of the genre (Romance Reviews Today says Alex Jordaine’s work “gets a Multiple O’s rating. A real BDSM lover’s dream”). Alex was a regular contributor to Europe’s leading fetish magazine, Secret, and his work has also been anthologised in several collections of gay, lesbian, spanking and general themed erotica. He is a regular contributor for the Filth blog so be sure to keep checking back if you love his writing as much as we do.
Patrick was struggling to make sense of things. He had decided that the windowless uncarpeted room in which he’d found himself was basically a cell. It was an exceptionally well appointed one though: expensively, if sparsely, furnished and with its own modern bathroom. It was pleasantly warm too, which was a good thing since he’d woken to find himself stark naked on top of its single bed. The door to the bathroom was open now because he’d opened it himself. But the other door was closed and firmly locked. Patrick knew that because he’d tried it several times without success.
How had he come to be in this place? Patrick asked himself again. His memories were nonexistent beyond a certain time that he could pinpoint. His wife Denise had given him a stiff whisky while she’d had a vodka tonic and, sitting together in their spacious living room, they’d toasted his birthday. “Drink up, I’ve got a big surprise for you,” Denise had said, and he’d finished off his scotch in a couple of gulps. It had tasted a bit strange, he’d thought. And that was about all Patrick could remember. Immediately after downing his drink he’d begun to feel extremely drowsy. Then the world around him had started to darken. Then there had been nothing but blackness. Then there’d been nothing at all.
He’d woken some time later all on his own in this locked cell. But how had he got here? – wherever here was. And how long had he been here? How long had he been dead to the world? Less than a day? More than a day? He’d had no idea.
All he’d known was that when he’d woken up the first sensation he’d experienced was not one of fear or even disorientation but of something else altogether: ravenous hunger combined with an equally raging thirst. Was that one of the after-effects of the powerful sedative he’d evidently been tricked by his wife into taking, he’d wondered hazily, or did it mean he’d been out cold for a long time?
Either way, Patrick had been relieved to find on his bedside table a tray on which were a couple of ham and cheese rolls on a plate and a jug of iced water with a tall glass beside it. Once he’d checked the doors and eaten the food and slaked his thirst with the water he’d gone into the bathroom to shower and shave. He couldn’t have been here too long, he’d decided when looking into the shaving mirror, because he hadn’t developed much more than a five o’clock shadow.
After he’d come out of the bathroom, he’d tried the cell door again but it had still been locked. He’d tried again shortly afterwards, still no good. Patrick had stood and listened carefully for any sounds of life, any clues at all as to where he might be. All he’d heard was silence. All he could still hear right now, right this very minute, was silence.
Patrick felt a surge of anxiety. “Is anybody there?” he cried out. “Please, is anybody there?”
Yet more silence, deafening silence.
He paced across the cell, back and forth, hand twitchily tapping his side. His heart was beating fast. Eventually Patrick stopped pacing, sat down heavily on the bed and waited. There was nothing else he could do, he decided. He tried to relax his body, slow his heartbeat.
All of a sudden he heard the sound of a key being turned in the locked door and it opened. Two people entered the cell, one male and the other female. The male was a good looking auburn-haired man with a lithe lean physique. He was almost naked, his half-erection covered by a black leather G-string. The only other item he had on was a black leather collar with a single stainless steel ring hanging from the center at the front.
The woman was an ash-blonde beauty with violet eyes, full ripe lips and flawless skin. She wore a catsuit of shiny black rubber latex that was so tight it looked as if it had been sprayed on. Her pronounced nipples were sticking out proudly beneath the latex. The outfit clung sensuously to her shapely form from her slender neck down to her sharp-heeled black boots. The catsuit outlined her body beautifully, clothing it in a sensual second skin that shimmered and gleamed.
The woman had a stern expression, almost a scowl, on her face and looked formidable. By contrast the man she was with came across as amiable, kindly even. “There’s nothing to be alarmed about,” the man said, doing his best to sound reassuring.
Patrick didn’t feel reassured though; there was no reason why he would. He felt his heart beating faster again. He could feel it pulsing in his neck. Patrick thought momentarily of making a run for it through the open door but realised that he hadn’t the faintest idea of where he could run to because he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was. An attempted escape under such circumstances would have been a futile gesture, and Patrick wasn’t a man for futile gestures.
“Stand up,” said the stern, ash-blonde beauty. “Let’s take a look at you.”
Patrick got to his feet, nervously finger-combing his mop of dark hair. He waited self-consciously while his two captors inspected him in silence. And what could they see? They could see a handsome man with anxiety written on his even features; they could see a man with a fine muscular figure and a big cock – that was getting bigger by the second.
Patrick could feel his penis stirring and realised he’d begun to develop an involuntary erection. Now of all times! He found it so embarrassing that he couldn’t meet the appraising gazes of the woman and the man, and kept his head bowed. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
From somewhere within him Patrick found the strength to lift his head and address his captors. “Well,” he managed to say, looking at the blonde woman almost defiantly. His blue eyes were shining. “Will I do?”
She crossed her arms and stared at him for a moment, looking markedly less stern. “I would say so,” she replied. “You’re a good-looking man – I don’t need to tell you that. Also,” she added, letting a smile slip, “I like the way you’ve been able to rise to the occasion today. Yes, I think you’ll do. You’ll do very nicely in fact.”
Patrick turned to the male. “What do you think?”
“I agree with Mistress Sylvie,” he replied with a smile.
“Actually,” Sylvie said, “it’s what Mistress Helena thinks of you that counts the most.”
“When can I expect to meet her?”
“Later today,” Sylvie replied. “We have other matters to attend to for a while.”
“I will return later on my own and take you through some of the rules we have at this place,” Christopher said.
Sylvie then said “Some time after that I will then collect you and deliver you to the dungeon where you’ll meet Mistress Helena and where you’ll also experience your first bout of discipline while in these premises.” With that Sylvie and Christopher turned away and left Patrick, locking the door of his cell behind them.
Question: What does a wife buy for her husband as an extra-special birthday gift when the couple are as rich as Croesus and he already possesses everything he could possibly want? More specifically, what can she buy for that man if they’re in a pansexual relationship and he’s a hardcore masochist with a recurrent abduction fantasy that turns him on like you just wouldn’t believe?
Answer: she pays three times the going rate, which is already extremely expensive, for her husband to stay at The House of Domination and then has him “abducted”. The House of Domination, owned by top London dominatrix Mistress Helena, was where rich masochists stayed to receive advanced slave training and become officially collared. Helena was aided in the maintenance of its strict disciplinary regime by fellow dominatrix Sylvie and the two women’s trusted personal slave and confidante, Christopher.
The House of Domination was hidden in plain sight in the heart of central London, about five minutes walk from Hyde Park. When viewed from the outside, most of the white stucco Georgian houses in its wide curved street gave very little away about what might go on inside them. The exterior of The House of Domination gave the least away of all of the houses in that smart cosmopolitan crescent. There was nothing to indicate in the slightest what occurred day after day behind the thick closed doors, the tightly screened windows and heavily soundproofed walls of the elegant but anonymous house – what was happening right now, for example, to its newest arrival.
Patrick, who was stark naked, stood trembling before Sylvie in the anteroom to the dungeon. Sylvie liked everything about this new slave, she’d decided. She liked his thick dark hair and handsome aquiline features. She liked his submissive blue eyes, which were covered at present by the soft black leather blindfold she’d put over them. She liked his sensuous lips, currently held apart by the red ball gag she’d buckled behind his head. She liked his athletic physique, pale and smooth and muscular. And she liked his great big hard-on.
Sylvie stroked her hand gently down the musculature of Patrick’s chest and stomach before grasping hold of his shaft. “You are giving me mixed messages, slave,” she said. “You’re sporting a truly impressive erection and yet you’re also shaking like a leaf. Could it be that you are feeling both excited and afraid?”
Patrick nodded his head to confirm that this was precisely what he was feeling.
“That is good to know, slave. It means you are in exactly the right condition to be presented to Mistress Helena,” Sylvie said. “Follow me,” she added, yanking at his erection.
After a few steps Sylvie paused to open the door to the dungeon while continuing to hold onto Patrick’s shaft. After several more steps she let go of his cock. “Get onto your hands and knees, slave,” she said. “Make sure you also dip your back, spread your legs and push your backside out.”
Patrick had somehow managed to stop trembling. In the pitch-blackness behind his blindfold he tried to picture what the dungeon in which he was kneeling might look like. The floor beneath his hands and knees felt like – what? – polished hardwood? Yes, he was pretty sure that was what it was. He could hear two female voices, one of them Mistress Sylvie’s and the other that of Mistress Helena, he assumed. The voices of the two women echoed slightly as did the occasional sound of stiletto heels on the floor, and Patrick could easily imagine that the dungeon he was in was big and cavernous.
It was doubtless extremely well equipped too. There would be a rack lined with whips and canes and paddles and every other sort of disciplinary implement imaginable; he was sure of it. There would be dungeon equipment such as a St. Andrew’s cross and a number of whipping benches, a horse, and spreader bars hanging from ceiling chains, all of that equipment being – needless to say – of the highest quality money could buy.
“He’s quite muscular, isn’t he, Helena,” Sylvie said.
“I was admiring one of his muscles in particular when you led him in here by it,” Helena replied with a laugh. “That was a nice touch, I thought.”
“I’m sure he thought that too.” There was a sardonic smile in Sylvie’s voice.
“Take off his blindfold and gag now please,” Helena then said.
Patrick heard Sylvie moving behind him. He felt her slender fingers, nimble and efficient, unbuckling his gag and blindfold. As soon as she’d removed the blindfold Patrick blinked his eyes to refocus his vision.
Helena was sitting right in front of him on a high-backed throne and he found himself gazing into her shining eyes, which were as green as emeralds. He quickly averted his gaze, looking first briefly around the dimly-lit dungeon, which was as cavernous and well equipped as he’d imagined it would be, and then down at the long shiny black boots Helena had on, which had pointed toes and were finished with metal-tipped heels.
“Look up, slave,” she demanded, and he obeyed, admiring the lushness of her body in the incredibly seductive outfit she had on: a skin-tight black leather minidress. Her breasts, stiff nipples foremost, asserted themselves against the shiny material. The dress was remarkably short too, passing Helena’s crotch by barely an inch. It showed off to stunning effect the creamy whiteness of her thighs and the perfection of her long smooth legs, as did the gleaming stiletto heeled boots she had on.
“No, look me in the face,” Helena added curtly. And Patrick did, taking in the glossy sheen of her shoulder-length red hair, her porcelain-perfect complexion and the strong features of her beautiful face with its neat straight nose and wide sensuous mouth. There was a faint oriental touch about that face, he felt: the pure smoothness, the hint of high cheekbones, the slant of the eyes. Helena’s demeanor was regal and self assured and he was dazzled by the aura of power and sexuality that seemed to emanate from her like a force-field.
“You know that I am Mistress Helena, slave,” the dominatrix said, “and that I am the owner of this place: The House of Domination?”
“Yes, Mistress,” he replied, meeting her unwavering gaze.
“You have been comprehensively assessed in your absence by myself and Mistress Sylvie and have been deemed to be suitable to join us here for a while – I won’t tell you how long for,” she advised him. “The aim is to send you away from The House when the time is right an even better slave to your wife Denise – or ‘Mistress D’ as I believe you are in the practice of calling her. In fact as long as you keep to our rules you will be her collared slave when you leave here and return to her. That will be a major step forward for you, I think you’ll agree. While you are with us here, you will be obedient to my instructions and to those of Mistress Sylvie or any other Mistress you may encounter. Do you understand, slave?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Patrick said. “Christopher has already explained that rule to me and all the other main ones.”
“And you accept them all?”
“What do you think of your cell?” Helena asked. “Is it adequate for your needs?”
“Yes, Mistress,” he replied.
“Good,” she said. “Because that is what it is intended to be – adequate and no more than that.” She went on, her voice suddenly as cold as steel: “Do you understand that you will be regularly punished while you’re here?”
Patrick felt his shaft pulse and flex. “Yes, Mistress.”
“And that’s something you deeply desire, isn’t it, slave,” Helena said.
“Yes, Mistress,” Patrick replied. He felt a jumble of emotions. He was frightened, elated and incredibly aroused.
“You assume perhaps that such punishment will in every case end with an orgasm for you as you’re used to being the case with Mistress D,” Helena continued. “Is that not so?”
“Well, you’re wrong,” Helena said. “You will not be permitted to ejaculate today, for instance. Is that clear?”
“It is, Mistress,” he replied, a nervous catch in his voice.
“Sylvie, fetch one of the fibreglass canes please – the red one – and stand behind him,” Helena said.
Sylvie immediately went to the rack of disciplinary implements, the metal-tipped heels of her shoes clicking against the shiny dark hardwood of the dungeon floor as she moved.
Beneath her black stiletto-heeled shoes Sylvie had on black rubber latex stockings that were soft and shiny. They gleamed with a polished radiance and were so close fitting they pressed tight against the skin. The stocking tops were especially tight against Sylvie’s thighs, her flesh bulging slightly against the latex. Above the stockings she wore a micro-minidress, which was made of exactly the same clinging fabric as the stockings. The dress was so tight it revealed the tips of her erect nipples and so short it was positively obscene.
Helena watched as Sylvie picked out the red fibreglass cane. “Love you in that outfit,” she remarked, admiring the way the tops of the stockings clung to Sylvie’s thighs and accentuated the contours of her rounded backside, admiring too the rest of her friend’s beautiful body, the skin so pale compared to the glossy blackness that sheathed it.
Sylvie turned, the red cane in her hand, and began striding back. “You look pretty damned good yourself.” She smiled, pouting her lips out.
“Thanks, but enough of the mutual appreciation society – let’s get back to business,” Helena said. “Once you’re behind Patrick give him a very brief taster of what’s coming next. Deliver just the one strike please.”
Patrick heard a swish as the thin fibreglass rod cut through the air. His face twisted with pain and he cried out as the cane inscribed a line of fire across his backside.
“Silence, slave,” Helena snapped. “I want to hear nothing more from you in this dungeon from now until I say otherwise. Understood?”
Patrick nodded that he understood, still wincing with pain.
“Now prostrate yourself more humbly before me,” Helena demanded. “Lower your forehead to the ground and spread your legs more.”
Patrick obeyed her straightaway, bending forward until he felt his forehead touching the floor, at the same time spreading his legs further. With his legs even further apart, his cock hard and pulsing, and his rear thrust into the air, his anal hole clearly exposed, he was acutely aware that he was presenting himself in an extremely humiliating posture. And he loved it, this mega-rich submissive masochist; he adored it.
“Lift your head slightly so you can worship my feet,” Helena instructed, pushing her stiletto-heeled boots towards his face. His mouth up against toes that flexed in shiny latex, Patrick began to use his lips and tongue to worship her feet, doing so as if he was the most abject of foot fetishists.
“That’s enough, slave,” Helena said, pulling her feet away from him. “You’re about to receive twenty strokes of the red fibreglass cane,” she went on to announce. “But let me make this clear. Not only must you not utter a single sound during your chastisement you mustn’t move a muscle either.”
“What about that throbbing erection of his?” Sylvie asked, smiling wickedly. “Do you want him to keep that still too?”
“We’ll make an exception there.” Helena smiled back at her. “Begin now please, Sylvie,” she went on. “Start slowly, build up both your pace and the severity of your strokes and stop after ten. We’ll review how he’s getting on at that point, after which you can deliver the next ten.”
Twenty increasingly painful strokes of the red fibreglass cane, with a break half way through – Patrick was sure he could withstand that. Mistress D had caned him hard many times in the past, God knows. But would he be able to keep dead silent and also keep stock-still during that ever more painful caning? he wondered, his heart beating fast. That sort of thing had never been required of him before. Never. He could only do his absolute best, he decided with steely resolve.
Patrick gritted his teeth as he heard the sound of the red cane flying through the air. It landed with a crack, followed by another hard crack, and another one, every strike burning across his ever more aching backside. Each stroke of the fibreglass cane made him cry out and flinch…inside. Patrick was determined not to utter a sound or move. Sylvie kept applying the stinging stripes, playing the rod faster and harder each time now, and every one of her escalating strikes served to increase his resolve. The set of his mouth remained resolute and his chin firm.
As required, Sylvie paused after the tenth strike and the stinging sensations subsided slightly although Patrick’s rear still felt extremely sore.
“He hasn’t made a sound yet,” Helena said.
“Nor moved a muscle,” Sylvie added with a smile, “apart from – ahem – you know what.”
“When you deliver the next ten strikes, also give some attention to that particular muscle, if you will,” Helena said. “And generally take your time.”
Sylvie took her time, as Helena had said she should do – only more so. She didn’t even start caning Patrick again for a good while. Instead she got onto her knees beside him and began slowly stroking… no, not the length of his throbbing erection, which he’d been expecting, but the mounds of his well-shaped backside.
She started running the fingers of her right hand across the welts she’d delivered with the red fibreglass cane, which she was now holding in her other hand. It was all Patrick could do not to shiver and gasp whenever her slender fingers and sharp fingernails followed the line of one of the cruel stripes she’d delivered across the roundness of his rear cheeks.
Patrick’s erection continued to pulse as Sylvie carried on stroking her fingers and nails slowly over his smarting backside. He felt her rubber-clad thigh brush against his own naked thigh as her fingers caressed his backside and her fingernails scratched across his welts. He held his body as tightly rigid as he could and kept his mouth clamped shut, all too aware that he mustn’t move a muscle, mustn’t utter a sound.
Sylvie remained in no hurry. Her fingers carried on exploring the welts on his behind with excruciating slowness. Belatedly she switched the cane back into her right hand and used her left to take hold of his hard cock instead, gripping it firmly. She began to rub his shaft, her fingers moving rhythmically back and forth. At the same time she at long last resumed caning him. Patrick was relieved at first but the sensation didn’t last long.
This was because Sylvie’s final ten strikes were infinitely worse than her first ten – and not due to their being delivered with more force. If anything the opposite was true. The problem for Patrick – and it was a major one – was that she left long gaps of time between each strike of the fibreglass cane and that between these strikes she rubbed his erection harder and harder. Now Patrick had three things on which he had to concentrate all his attention as if his very life depended on it: not making a sound, not moving a muscle and not climaxing.
With her fingers working his shaft ever more vigorously, the pain Sylvie delivered with the red cane – landing it smartly on his backside and then leaving another agonizingly lengthy interval before her next strike – began to seem neither here nor there to Patrick. All his senses were concentrated on the mantra now running feverishly through his head: Don’t make a sound, don’t move a muscle and don’t climax.
However as time went on he couldn’t help feeling he was inevitably destined to fail. Increasingly he had the sensation that he might very well ejaculate at any moment despite his most conscientious endeavours to do otherwise. How ignominious it would be, he thought in desperation, to mess up completely like that during his inauguration – to moan and shudder in release as jets of hot cum burst from his aching, pulsing cock. Don’t make a sound: failed. Don’t move a muscle: failed. Don’t climax: failed.
He must not let that happen, Patrick told himself frantically, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. And yet the more he thought about it, the more he was aware of the swift movement of Sylvie’s palm over his shaft and the more inevitable his climax seemed to become. He was fighting the laws of physics here, he thought. He didn’t have a chance, not a fucking chance.
Suddenly though, and not a moment too soon as far as he was concerned, it was all over. Sylvie stopped caning him, having delivered her tenth and final strike without him even realising she’d reached that number. At the same time she immediately stopped masturbating him too, releasing her grip on his throbbing erection and moving her hand away. She got to her feet and strode away from him, her stiletto heels clicking noisily on the dungeon floor again. After replacing the fibreglass cane in the rack of disciplinary implements she stood next to Helena who remained seated on the high-backed throne.
“I congratulate you, slave,” Helena said. “You’ve got off to a very good start. You may move now and you may speak. OK?”
“Appreciated, Mistress,” Patrick panted, stretching and flexing his shoulder muscles. He rolled his head around, easing his neck, feeling weak and almost tearful at what he’d managed to achieve. But he knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet. His backside felt exceptionally sore, suffused with pleasure-pain, and his pre-cum soaked cock was so hard and pulsing he knew ejaculation remained a distinct possibility unless he was extremely careful to avoid it.
“What have you to say to Mistress Sylvie, slave?” Helena asked.
“Thank you very much for the discipline, Mistress Sylvie.” Patrick turned his head toward the blonde dominatrix, lifting his chin up.
“You’re welcome, slave,” she said. “There’s plenty more where that came from. But not today.”
“That’s right,” Helena further clarified. “Your inauguration at The House of Domination is over. Now get to your feet and Mistress Sylvie will take you back to your cell.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Patrick replied in huge relief, standing up. What an outcome. Don’t make a noise: achieved. Don’t move a muscle: achieved. Don’t climax: achieved.
It was right when Sylvie grasped his erection and pulled on it to lead him out of the dungeon that it happened – Patrick ejaculated in great bursting spasms all over her fist and onto the dungeon floor, gushing out a deluge of sticky wetness.
“Get back down on your knees, slave, and lick your spunk off my fingers and off the floor” Sylvie ordered. “Lick it all up and swallow it down.”
“Yes, Mistress, and a thousand apologies, Mistress,” Patrick replied, cursing that final lapse of concentration, which had proved to be his undoing. He got onto his knees to do as he’d been instructed. Don’t make a noise; don’t move a muscle; don’t climax. I suppose two out of three’s not bad, he told himself, trying to make the best of things – but in truth wishing like hell he’d managed to keep his wits about him right to the very end.
– END –
Image lovingly borrowed from https://www.flickr.com/p