An erotic novel set in the 1980's with bdsm, f/f, female submission themes by Bertram Fox.
Party girl Celia wakes up to find a slave collar on her neck and a whole new adventure beginning. The Workshop – Peter the Master, Gabriel the leather dyke, Juno the dominatrix and Jason the sexpert – mean to use their new toy in every way they can. But the Workshop has dangerous enemies, and Celia's adventures get extremely painful before she can rest in the love of her cruel Master.
The shovelhead Harley-Davidson gleamed with polishing under the garage light. The plump nude middle-aged man kneeling beside it was running with sweat as he worked to buff the chromed air filters. He shot nervous glances at the house door, but his half-hard erection belied his look of cowering fear, and when the door banged open he flinched with a complicated mixture of terror and delight.
June was dressed in blue jeans, engineer boots and a leather jacket that hung open around her free-swinging breasts. A wide leather belt dangled from her hand. ‘You not done yet, pig?’ she demanded in a rasping American accent. ‘I oughta give you to the chapter, they could all fuck your pig ass.’ She towered over him. ‘Let’s see...’ She dived on a plug lead hanging loose. ‘You fucked up my hog, motherfucker, you’re gonna pay!’
He was gasping with excitement, his hips flexing and his penis rigid. Usually this was the point where she would offer him “one last chance” and open her jeans to present her bush to his mouth, but she judged that he couldn’t wait that long. She grabbed his thin hair, jerked him up, and threw him over the motorbike’s seat with a force that was much more carefully calculated than it looked.
Tugging a couple of pairs of tights from her pocket, she used one to lash his hands to the foot-peg, wadded the other into his mouth and tied the legs round his head, then stood back, readying the belt. ‘I’ll learn ya to mess with the Dyke Riders, motherfucker!’ The man keened through his nose before the first stroke blazed across his squirming rear.
She lashed him with calculated force till she judged that his jerks and moans had ceased to be orgasmic and were simply pained, then dropped the belt and bent to untie his mouth and wrists. He stood up, red and breathless, and smiled at her.
‘Simply marvellous, Madam,’ he commended. ‘I can never thank you enough.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ she said in equally refined tones. ‘Can I trouble you to show yourself out? I’m a little behind schedule.’
On the estate where June grew up prostitution was a recognised career choice, offering better pay than Asda and more independence than marriage, but the whole business of sex simply didn’t attract her; she couldn’t imagine letting anyone take such liberties with her body. When a boy who considered her his girlfriend tried to explore her already spectacular bosom, she slapped him by sheer reflex and then braced for trouble.
To her considerable surprise he not only subsided, mumbling apologies, but seemed even more attracted to her. It’s like Dad says, she thought: you want respect, you have to show you’re hard.
But she was even more surprised at her own reaction. The memory of her palm hitting his face was a pleasure she replayed in her mind a hundred times, and she only regretted that he was now too humbly obedient, and she too honest, to give her an excuse to hit him again. Her researches took her to small dark shops where a single girl was met with hostile stares, to buy magazines which a less forceful person would have been told were not suitable for her. Greatly daring, she put an advertisement in one of the magazines, and discovered that it was all true: there really were men who would not only let her hit them, hard and repeatedly, they would actually pay her to do it. And she didn’t even have to fuck them.
Even then she could see another benefit of this career. Streetwalkers tried to dress and make up like teenagers; her clients wanted her to look more mature than she was. While her contemporaries worried with the passing years that that they were looking old, June grew comfortably into her role.
A design student who was making her a leather outfit listened sympathetically as she vented her frustration at yet another landlord who, having discovered what kind of work she was doing, wanted a hefty backhander to let her continue. ‘There’s a mate of mine who makes bondage gear, he’s been saying we should club together and get a place of our own with proper workshops we could live over. You should meet him. Maybe you could come in with us.’
Now, as she opened the door to her dungeon, she was once again pleased with the way it had worked out. The room was long, with restraint devices spaced along it and curtained alcoves at both ends. It was papered in imitation grey stone, with black false ceiling beams carrying heavy rings and hooks and electric wrought-iron lanterns along the walls. She had designed it herself, and considered it the height of class; her housemates had never been rude enough to tell her it looked like a stockbrokers’ pub. ‘Mrs. Dillingham! Do come in. We’re all ready to try the new scenario.’
The woman who entered was a few years older than June, stocky and poised in a powerfully tailored grey pinstripe suit, with heavy black-rimmed glasses and brown hair drawn back in a business-like pony-tail; she stood tautly and moved in jerks, her face stiff and her eyes pained. ‘I went to a therapist,’ she had explained on their first contact, ‘to find out why I keep marrying abusers, and we found that I seem to have a need to be punished. Bless her, she said I could work with her for 20 years trying to cure it, or I could find a safe way to get what I needed without messing up my home life.’ After a year of regular visits she claimed to be happy with what she experienced: but June felt there was more to her than a simple masochist.
Now she glanced about nervously, with a contained apprehension like a dentist’s patient. ‘I don't see ... what ...’
‘Just leave it to me,’ said June firmly, and her face cracked into a tremulous smile.
‘I always can, can’t I? That’s what makes this so wonderful.’ She stepped into the alcove by the door and pulled the curtain closed.
June crossed to the other curtain and drew it back. Behind it a stout grid of steel bars was hinged across the corner to form a tall narrow cage, and in the cage was a naked man.
June swung back the grid and led him out into the middle of the room. His head was covered by a leather hood with strapped pads over the mouth and eyes, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He was young, broad chested and slim-hipped, with deep golden-brown skin that was almost hairless except for a neat pad of black curls round his dark genitals. He dropped to his knees beside June as the woman emerged from behind the curtain.
She was nude but for a rag of sacking around her hips, and her hair hung loose over her shoulders, but the greater change was in her bearing. The power and energy were gone; her head dropped, her shoulders sagged and she moved in small frightened steps. She saw the kneeling man and recoiled, eyes wide in horror.
June strode forward, a riding crop swinging from one hand, and grabbed her by the hair. ‘Don’t try and act innocent, slut! Why’re you here?’ With a jerk she forced the woman to her knees.
‘Ow! – To be punished, Mistress!’ With an angry growl June flicked her bare breast with the crop.
‘Course, to be punished, but why? Because you’re a slut, a shameless, hot-tailed whore!’ The woman shook her head, protesting, and June flicked the other breast. Although both flicks looked careless, each had been a bulls-eye hit on the nipples, which rose in response. ‘Like this animal!’ She dragged the woman, shuffling on her knees, toward the kneeling man. ‘Look at this randy brute of a slave, getting a hard-on just from smelling your hot cunt, slut!’
Planning a scenario like this, June often thought, was like designing a white-knuckle ride. The thrill for the clients was to play at danger while being almost sure they were safe. The woman could see she was going to get fucked; but the man who was going to do it was a helpless tool under Mistress Juno's motherly control. ‘Horny animals!’ June snarled over the woman's denials. ‘I was going to whip both of you, but it’s too much trouble, so I’m just going to punish the horniest one. Is that you, slut?’ She denied it wildly. ‘We’ll see.’ June left her to take the man by a heavy ring stitched to the top of his hood. ‘Down, beast!’
The man stretched obediently on his back. Crouching beside him, June unbuckled the cover from his mouth, and with practiced speed rolled a black condom onto his erection; then she half guided, half dragged the woman onto him and threw a couple of straps around their bodies to bind them together heads to groins, the soft white body over the hard brown.
The woman screwed up her eyes and twisted her head away from the stiff black shaft under her face. June gripped her hair and forced her down, the other hand pushing the shaft against her lips. ‘Open up, slut!’ Whimpering, she stretched her jaw wide to take in the bulbous head. ‘Now, I’m going to be fair. Whichever of you slaves can make the other one come, won’t get whipped. Understood, brute?’ The man grunted wordlessly. ‘Understood, slut?’ The woman gave a hopeless gurgle. ‘Begin!’ Her crop swished and cracked across the woman's plump bottom.
The woman gave a gurgling yelp and jerk as the leather-covered head came up between her thighs, and tried unsuccessfully to squirm away from the probing tongue. June whipped her bottom again. ‘No cheating, slut! If you want to win, start work on him!’ With a moan the woman closed her lips on the shaft that gagged her and began to flex her head up and down. ‘Harder!’ Another red line burned across her white rump. ‘You're not trying!’ For a little while her head pumped faster, but her eyes were wild and her hips were beginning to flex uncontrollably against the man's mouth. ‘You’re losing, slut!’ She closed her eyes and glugged helplessly around her mouthful of hard flesh, bucking wildly until she slumped down and let the shaft drag out of the corner of her mouth.
By the time she recovered herself enough to kneel up, the man was standing against a post in the middle of the far wall, while June expertly passed ropes around him with both hands lacing him back to the post from ankles to shoulders. She tied the ropes off to a ringbolt above his head and finished the job by passing one through the ring on his hood to complete his immobilisation. She took a many-thonged scourge from a hook on the post, and strode to where the woman knelt watching.
‘A whipping-post for a slut,’ she sneered. ‘Get onto it!’
Encouraged by flicks of the scourge, the woman lurched to her feet and staggered weak-kneed up to the post. Hitching up on tiptoe, while pulling the man's stiff upcurving shaft down, she struggled ineffectually to bring herself onto it. Finally, with an impatient growl, June threw an arm round her waist and lifted her off her feet, pushing her against the man's bound body. The glossy black head slotted into her gaping slit, June set her down again, and with a yelp she threw both arms round the man to hold herself from falling backwards, her toes straining to keep her as high as possible.
‘Good,’ purred June, stepping back and hefting the scourge. ‘Now, dance, whore!’ She lashed one thigh and the other, making her victim twist and jerk, then settled down to thrash her back and buttocks with fast hard strokes that left blazing trails a handspan wide. The woman wailed in hopelessly entangled pleasure and pain, her lashed hips flexing ever harder against the shaft that impaled her. Without letting up her attack on the squirming red-striped rump, June sidestepped till she could reach her free hand down between the two mated bellies and get her fingers into the entangled hair. She rubbed hard and expertly, and the woman threw back her head and howled in shuddering release.
When Celia came up the basement stairs she paused at the top then moved more slowly into the kitchen. The man at the table in immaculate grey slacks and white shirt put down his coffee cup and gave her a smiling survey.
‘He-llo!’ he breathed. ‘This is going to be a better day than I thought.’
‘Hello,’ said Celia uncertainly, suddenly very conscious of wearing nothing but her collar. ‘You must be Jason.’