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George was pushed into a large room with only two small barred windows set high in the bare concrete wall. The far end of the room was separated from the rest by steel bars creating a prison cell but in the middle four wooden pillars were spaced evenly along the centre line of the room. Against three of them, three other, younger, men were already tied. The fourth pillar now served for him.
The three others were dressed much as he was, one wore a suit, one a shirt and trousers, the other a t-shirt and jeans. All of them were handcuffed with their wrists behind their backs. All of them were gagged; one with tape strapped across his lips, the other two with strips of cloth pulled cruelly tight. George looked around in panic, pulling against the handcuffs and the chains that held him to the pillar; grunting into whatever it was that was gagging him. The others seemed to accept their fate, neither struggling nor attempting to make a sound through their gags. George was puzzled by their quiescence but in time he realised that his struggles were having no effect other than to make his own wrists sore.
It was some time before the door to the room in which he was imprisoned opened again. It was the same two women that had pulled him from the car, but now they were dressed quite differently. They had discarded their jeans and crop tops and now wore matching outfits in a menacing black that gave them the look of members of some sinister secret police force. Both wore peaked caps and sun glasses, tight, short-sleeved shirts, shorts that looked as if they were sprayed on, dark sheer tights and high heeled boots that came to just below their knees. The taller of the two, the blonde, flexed a riding crop between her gloved hands, the other, the brunette, carried a leather leash and collar.
George watched in fear as the women strode across the room. The other men seemed not to acknowledge their presence, keeping their heads bowed, and their eyes to the floor. The two girls walked to the last pillar. The one with the leash used it to slap the man’s face before fastening the collar around his neck. She pulled a ring of keys from her belt and unchained the man from the pillar. As soon as she did so, George watched him drop to his knees. The two women took him from the room with a word to any of the others. They stood perfectly still. Only when the women had left and the door had slammed shot with the clang of a fastening lock did one raise his head and stare towards the door.
Time passed. Perhaps a quarter of an hour later. George heard the sounds on keys in the lock of the door. The women reappeared, dragging behind them, now naked, the man that they had taken from the cell earlier. They chained him back to his pillar. George saw in horror that his buttocks were criss-crossed by welts from a severe beating. The tape that had gagged him had been replaced with a red rubber ball gag like George’s own. The girl that had pulled him in, unfastened his collar. The other gave him a final cut with her riding crop and the two of them turned their attention to the next man in line, releasing him from his pillar and dragging him from the room.
If George had been disturbed by the return of the first man, the return of the second did nothing to reassure him. Once again the man had been stripped naked and his gag replaced with a red rubber ball. His buttocks were bright red, evidently the result of a severe beating. Two curious metal clamps seemed to have been clipped to his nipples and a leather hood had been pulled over his head. George watched fearfully as the man was secured back to his pillar and the third man taken out of the cell.
While the second man squirmed in pain at his pillar, George renewed his efforts to free himself but without avail. His groans of frustration, distorted by the gag that filled his mouth brought only looks of disapproval from the other two men who seemed to accept their lot stoically.
After the reappearance of the first two men, the return of the third, together with the fear that he was to be next for whatever the women had planned, heightened George’s concern. Again the man had been stripped of his street clothes; again he appeared to have been beaten. Instead of the t-shirt and jeans that he been wearing when the women took him from the room, now he wore a woman’s corset with suspenders and stockings on his legs. His feet had been pushed into high heel shoes and he teetered unsteadily as the two women, laughing, pulled him back into the cell and chained him once more to his pillar.
As they finished dealing with the third man the two girls turned to face George. He saw that each had evidently exerted themselves in the treatment of his predecessor, the blonde had unbuttoned her shirt to the waist and he watched, unable to tear his gaze away, as a bead of sweat ran down from the girl’s neck to trickle down into her bra through the cleft between her breasts. “Now what are we going to do with the new boy?” she asked, hands on her hips, evidently not expecting any response from the gagged and helpless George who shook his head and tried to pull away from the pillar.
“Seems like he has a lot to learn,” the brunette responded, with a smirk, flexing a riding crop between her hands. “I’m sure we can help him.”
It was then that George heard a third voice from the behind the two of them. Erica Wilkie was standing in the door to the cell. “Oh, goodness, Mr Franks, that’s where you have got to. I’m so sorry. Deanna! Darla! Girls, please unchain him immediately.”
A rather distressed George Franks was sitting in Erica Wilkie’s lounge drinking tea. He had been freed from his pillar and brought upstairs from the cellar.
“I’m so sorry Mr. Franks, so sorry,” Erica apologised. “I can’t imagine what they were thinking about. I wondered where on earth you had gone. It never occurred to me…”
George, polished his spectacles and looked bewildered.
“Do, have some more tea, Mr Franks. Are your wrists very sore? Let me explain.”
“Oh, I think I understand Ms Wilkie, I think I understand very well.” George might have been unsophisticated but he wasn’t stupid. “You are, presumably, what I believe is called a ‘dominatrix’. I imagine that this is your business rather than your hobby and I assume that you wanted me to do your accounts.”
Erica nodded. “You are right of course. Well, I am sorry about what happened just now. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to proceed.”
“Why wouldn’t I wish to proceed, Ms. Wilkie? To the best of my knowledge a business of this kind is not illegal. Since you were so keen to ensure that your taxation affairs were in order, I have no reason to be concerned professionally. Not everyone might approve of it but I try not to make moral judgements about the business of my clients. I quite understand that your associates must have mistaken me for one of your customers. I’m sure it was an honest mistake.”
“That’s very refreshing Mr Franks. I only wish more people were as open minded.” Erica found herself impressed by the quiet man’s straightforward approach. Most people, Erica thought, would find it difficult to be as understanding.
“I am afraid that I don’t make enough money from my business than to be anything other than open minded,” Franks said, stuffily. “Of course I could not condone criminal activity such as prostitution but my understanding of a business like your own is that it is unlikely to transgress that law at any rate.”
“Correct,” said Erica, “neither I nor my fellow counsellors would countenance any direct sexual contact. Domination is most certainly not prostitution as you so rightly say. But perhaps you have had experience of similar services?”
“My word, no!” exclaimed Franks, scandalised by the suggestion.
“I’m sorry, Mr Franks, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“That’s quite all right, Ms Wilkie,” George replied, pulling with one finger at his collar. “No offence taken, I can assure you. Now I know that you said you were hoping to show me around but, if I am honest, I think I have seen enough of the facilities to allow me to understand the accounts. I wonder if it would be convenient to run me back to town?”
“Of course,” said Erica. “I’ll just make sure that the girls can manage on their own and I’ll be right back.” She left him to finish his tea.
As George went to leave with Erica for his lift back to town he was waiting in the hall of her house. He looked down at a small stack of business cards. Unlike the one for EW Therapy Services that Andrea had given him, these carried a small logo with a riding whip and a high heeled boot, the words “Mistress Erica” and a telephone number. He picked one from the pile and dropped it into his pocket.
Later that night, George Franks lay on his bed on top of the sheets staring at the ceiling. The room was stuffy from the summer heat. Opening the windows had not had any effect. His green and white striped cotton pyjama top was buttoned up to his neck but the cord of his pyjama trousers lay untied and loose, snaking across the sheets. Franks gripped his thick, short cock in one hand and a wad of Kleenex in the other. He was pulling and stroking at his cock rhythmically but his body seemed almost rigid, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling but somehow not focussing upon it. Beside his head on the pillow were two business cards. The one that Erica had given him on their first meeting and the other that he had taken from her house. “Oh, yes,” he could be heard to say quietly, “Mistress Erica. Oh yes of course, I’ll obey you. Whatever it is you desire of me.” His cock swelled and shuddered, spurting grey cum over his hand before he had the opportunity to catch it in the tissues. He coughed and lay still for a moment before getting to his feet, cradling his cock in a wad of Kleenex and shuffling off to the bathroom, his pyjama trousers around his knees. When he came back he fell into bed, pulling the sheet over him and trying to sleep. The business cards stayed on his pillow.
© Freddie Clegg 2010
All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission
All characters fictitious
E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com
Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/femdom_fables/
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