The Stories of Yvonne Sinclair
The Story Of T
The Sacred Feminine
The Weight Loss
A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Long Weekend Conclusion
Robin's Electrical Torture
Slave To The Cane
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
The Bossy Bank Women
I had been caught red handed. The security guard was lurking behind a pillar. He saw me sliding the gossamer handful of black lady’s underwear into my bag. I was virtually frogmarched into the general manager’s office, past rows of sniggering secretaries, with a “here’s-another-one” expression on their faces.
She was a very feminine general manager. Immaculately groomed, impeccably dressed, and wafting perfume with a face as hard as a diamond cutter. She must have been about 40, a woman of my fantasies. Mature, voluptuous, with huge breasts, not concealed but emphasised, by her harshly cut power-suit. Under a cascade of shiny black hair, her expression was one of total disdain and withering superiority. Clearly in command of this department store.
It took me only seconds to appreciate that she was exactly the kind of dominant female that I had always lusted after; the woman of my wettest dreams and masturbatory delights. She was probably wearing the same kind of underwear beneath that power-dress that I had attempted to steal. Underneath the stern suit a black brassiere, and slightly elasticated panties, were surely hugging her creamy white skin.
I stood shivering before her as she fixed me with a steely gaze.
“What have we here, Jenkins?” she asked the security guard.
“This young rip was stuffing handfuls of our merchandise into his bag. I have been suspicious about him for some time, so I kept him under observation. Yes, I caught him taking the stuff. He walked through the door without attempting to pay.”
“Well done Jenkins, I will take it from here.” He marched out of the room.
She turned to me peremptorily. “Give me your wallet”.
I handed it over. She studied the contents. “John Coward. A student, I see. A young student.”
“Yes Ma’am, a law student in my first year at the university.”
“A law student indeed; not the son of the Honourable Fortescue Coward, our local MP?”
“Yes Ma’am, how did you guess?”
“So Fortescue Coward’s son is a knicker stealing wimp. What will the tabloids say? MP’s SON IN KNICKER STEALING ROMP? Or COWARD PANTING FOR THE PANTIES. The headlines would be much better than that when the splash subs of Fleet Street get to work. They love a government scandal. Especially a SEX scandal,” she said with a sneer. She sat at her desk exuding dominance and sexuality. I could see down her cleavage. It revealed the lacy edge of a black bra. Like an interrogator warming to her task she scrutinised the young victim standing before her.
“Please Ma’am. I intended to pay for everything. I will pay what I owe. I will…”
She ignored me. “So what is this? What did you want to do with these?” she said as she dangled a pair of generous, sheeny black knickers in her hand.
“Why did you want them? For yourself? To masturbate into? To stimulate your sick fantasies”
“I …I don’t know Ma’am. I promise I will pay.”
“Pay? It’s too late for that now. It is my duty to report this matter to the police.”
“No Ma’am. I will do anything. Don’t disgrace me in public. Please don’t shame me…” I begged. I was near crying and yet somehow there was a sweet delight at throwing myself at her mercy. I fell to my knees and looked at the cruelly heeled shoes and the sleek stockings embracing her perfect legs. At that moment I would have abased myself in anyway she wanted just to secure my pardon and release.
She looked at me with total disdain. “I really could not consider anything else. Unless…” she looked at the fawning wimp before her and relished the feeling of total power she had over the young man. He was quite good looking in a timid sort of way. Here was a situation she could really exploit.
You could cut the atmosphere with a knife. I was ready to agree to anything. She wanted a victim. And to be quite truthful I felt a dreaded fascination in putting myself at her mercy. Was this not the stuff of my dreams?
“There is a way,” she was saying, “ if you were prepared to sign this document and abide by its conditions?”
“I will, I will.” I moaned, anything would be better than public disgrace.
She thrust it into my hands. It was an agreement to become her slave.
“Read it. Sign it and become my slave, whenever I have need of you. You can continue to live your ordinary life, but when I summon you to my presence, you will come or face exposure. Note that you are signing entirely of your own free will. Now sign.”
With trembling hands and still kneeling before her. I signed.
“Right now pay homage to my shoes.” Her voice assumed total authority. Clearly was not the first slave to be trapped.
“Kiss, lick, abase yourself”. I grovelled on the ground and put my lips to those cruel shoes. Above me stretched nylon-clad legs that seemed to go on forever. Well not quite. It was dark under that skirt but I am sure I caught a glimpse of white thigh and black suspenders stretched taught along her smooth skin.
“I told you to worship my shoes, not try and see up my skirt…”
“Don’t answer back. I see you have a lot to learn. Treating me like a cheap piece of skirt. Ogling me. Refusing to do what you are told. When we next meet I will make the punishment fit the crime…”
The summons came next weekend, in a perfumed note. Lady Valerie d’Arbalay ‘requested’ my company at her country estate in Berkshire at 8pm on Friday. I would be picked up at the station. It was going to be a long weekend.
Numb with anticipation I had hardly got off the train when I was accosted by a handsome but hard faced blonde. She was wearing a leather jacket, a short leather mini-skirt that scarcely covered her crotch and very shiny black boots. She looked at me, licking her thin lips as if I was a saucer of cream.
“I have been sent to fetch you. Her ladyship is waiting”
She opened the door of an ancient Rolls Royce and gestured me in. She did not talk to me as she drove into the country. Finally we arrived at a nondescript, gloomy tree-lined avenue, which led to a formidable mansion. I was ushered up the steps into a huge hall.
“Follow me,” said the booted blonde as she led me down some steps. At the end of a dark corridor was a door. I could just make out the lettering above it. “PUNISHMENT PLACE”.
“Get in there. Take your clothes off put them in your bag. You will not be needing it for the rest of the weekend. Kneel and wait for her ladyship.” With that and a malicious smile, she marched out of the room, her high heels cracking the flagstones.
I looked around me. Tools of torture festooned the room. Whips, paddles, quirts, cuffs, chains, bondage benches, a huge St Andrews frame. This was the torture chamber of a professional, not just a rich lady’s eccentricity, but a place where she could reign supreme and indulge her twisted fantasies. And I had signed myself over to her for the whole weekend.
I knelt naked on the cold floor and waited. I feasted my eyes on the devilish apparatus before me, particularly the oiled, single- tail whip, curled and menacing, right in front of my face. This was it. Yesterday I was a free man. Today my days of slavery were starting. There was no going back. I experienced a mixture of curious fascination and very real horror.
“How did I get myself into this situation?” I kept asking myself as I waited and waited. “Why did she not come?”
Lady d’Arbalay was in no hurry. She liked to make them suffer. She liked to make the suffering last. And she had the whole weekend before her. She felt like a cat, which had caught a mouse, a live mouse that she could play with. A pretty, young slave was in her power: she would make him wait before imposing her will and total control.
I must have been on my knees for more than half an hour when I heard the clack, clack of high heels approaching down the stone passage. The door to the punishment place burst open and there she was, with the booted blonde in close attendance. She was wearing a rich fur coat and vertiginous heels on her shoes, emphasising her dominant posture, pushing her bottom back and her breasts forward. Sheer black stockings disappeared under the sensual fir. In her hands she was lovingly caressing a springy quirt. And behind her was the hard faced blonde, wearing thigh boots and black stockings supported by multiple taught suspenders. She had a cruel leer on her face and carried an evil looking tawse.
I gawped. Never in my wildest dreams had I seen such a dominant duo. They exuded sexual power with every movement every expression. But there was no time for reveries.
Lady d’Arbalay was pointing to her shoes with her whip: “Pay homage” she ordered.
“And from now on you will call me mistress. I am your mistress you are my slave, as I will demonstrate this evening.”
“Yes mistress,” I replied as I pushed my naked body across the floor and embraced her cruel shoes. I kissed and licked, licked and kissed, trying to show total servility. Perhaps she would spare the rod.
Lady d’Arbalay smiled cruelly. “ You will have to do better than that. I said worship my shoes, not make a mess all over them. When I say grovel you will grovel, abase yourself…”
The blonde looked on with withering contempt and ran her tawse through her fingers. “ Shall I give him a reminder your ladyship?”
“Please do Clare.”
I glanced at her. So she was called Clare and very much part of the dominant team. A malicious smile passed her lips as she brought her tawse down across my naked buttocks. Not just one slash, but another and another. Involuntarily I groaned and then actually whinnied as the last stroke landed. My total enslavement had started.
“Right, enough of that,” said my pitiless mistress, “put these cuffs on your wrists.”
I obeyed. I was told to extend my arms. A mechanical pulley pulled them upwards until I was almost balanced on tiptoe. So there I was, totally powerless and exposed. A mirror in front reflected it all. Behind me I could see the reflection of the booted bitch wielding her whip and in front, my mistress, a perfumed fantasy. I was simply a toy for their amusement. They could do exactly as they pleased.
Lady d’Arbalay stood menacingly and asked Clare to take her fur coat. “ I am warming to my task,” she quipped.
Here was the woman of my dreams towering over me on her high heels. Under the coat she wore nothing but a magnificent black basque. Her huge breasts were half naked, heaving sensuously above the wired corsage. Black suspenders traced a tight line to her stocking tops. A small black triangle scarcely covered her well-furred patch. She continued to fondle her quirt. It needed no whip to evoke another groan from my lips.
“I want to know exactly why you stole the knickers from my store,” said Lady d’Arbalay menacingly. “I want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And if you lie about anything Clare and I will take great pleasure in punishing you. Is that quite clear?”
“Well why do you steal knickers?”
I could hear myself speaking like an automaton, “I fantasise about the beautiful ladies who wear them.”
“So you commit at least two offences, first theft then lust. It is sheer male arrogance. Give him a couple of reminders, Clare”
She needed no bidding. The cruel blonde was ready. She thrashed her tawse across my backside while lady d’Arbalay watched my reaction with undisguised sensual delight. I could see her tongue momentarily flicker across her lips. And Clare did not spare herself. She relished the suffering of the writhing slave before her.
“Just a reminder to tell the truth, slave. Do you abuse yourself with the knickers in hand? Do you masturbate?” she asked
“How many times have you masturbated since you were caught in my store?”
“Well not very often mistress…
“Liar!” Lady d’Arbalay looked down at my rampant penis before her. It was almost standing upright. She grasped it in her be ringed fingers and gave it a playful squeeze. Despite my predicament I hoped it lived up to her expectations.
She stroked the length of my dick. “It is jerking at me, virtually telling me that you are a liar. How often is not very often?”
“Well only one or two times a night.”
“One or two times each night,” she mocked “each night”
“Yes mistress, sorry mistress…”
“And do you think of me while you indulge in these perverted practices?”
“You mean you have been masturbating several times a night since we first met without thinking of me?”
“Well not really mistress. It is just that you are so beautiful, so dominating, so sexy, I cannot help myself.”
“So you have lied again. You letch after me. You stroke your penis and imagine you can force me to have sex with you?”
“No mistress. It is not like that. I worship you. I want to please you.”
“Silence. You are lying and lying and thinking lecherous thoughts. More serious measures are called for.” She turned to Clare: “ take him down and put him on the rack with his head down the squatting end.”
Clare was already unbuckling me. “Lie down here. Flat on your back. Get your head down.”
They strapped my arms under the apparatus with my legs cuffed and widely spread at the far end. My head rested on the narrowest of boards. I could see their sensual bodies moving just inches above me. Two pairs of rounded buttocks stared me in the face. It was menacingly enthralling.
“Put the electrics on him,” said her ladyship
Clare was already squeezing my genitals into a type of steel cage, pinching, constricting, giving me agony. My erection had suddenly wilted. I could see her clipping some evil looking wires onto the pitiful package of male flesh. “This is an electro- shock machine,” the blonde bitch said with relish, “ we will see how much you can take.”
“Now you will tell me the truth,” said her ladyship, “have you fantasised about me while masturbating?”
“ No mistress, I implore you.”
“Give him 50 per cent,” she commanded and the booted blonde pressed the button with enthusiasm. The pain was intense. My buttocks jumped in the air before collapsing back onto the table. A scream came from my lips.
“Yes mistress. I did. I did. Please stop the pain. I beg you.”
“What did I look like in your revolting fantasy?”
“You looked beautiful, lovely, commanding.”
“Give him 60 per cent. I asked him what I looked like and he refuses to say.”
It was as if I was detached from the torture. I heard the unearthly scream. My scream of agony. I saw the cruel faces smiling down at me.
“Yes mistress I will tell you. You were dressed just as you are now. In a corset and silk stockings. Your suspenders were stretched like elastic down your creamy thigh flesh.” With this Lady d’Arbalay walked towards the narrow board where my head was resting. She was taking off the little triangle that was not even a cache sex. Her dark mysterious patch was inches from my nose. The smell of perfume and female arousal mingled.
“Give him another reminder Clare. I want him to know that I am in command not the puppet of his fantasies”
Clare obliged. I screamed as she lowered herself. I was trapped between her silken thighs. Her furry quim descended on my face. “Was this what it was like in your dreams?” she asked as she rubbed her very core across my face. My nose traced the line between her squirming buttocks. “ Get your tongue in deep,” she exclaimed in a very unladylike manner. She writhed above me. She was dripping wet. She was grinding me onto the board, panting towards one loud orgasm and then another. This was exactly the stuff of my fantasies but I could do no more than gurgle under those silky thighs. I was tongue-tied. No torture could make me speak now.
“I enjoyed that. Do you want a go, Clare,” she said casually, and the booted blonde eagerly took her place. Younger thighs. Firmer flesh, well exercised muscles. And still more obscene commands. “Stick your tongue out. Stick it in my ass, slave,” she was shouting until she too inundated me with her exploding orgasm.
Lady d’Arbalay casually dismissed me.“ We are having a party. I expect you back next weekend, so that you can meet some of my friends. They have some very original ideas. It will be a party you will remember.” I could hardly walk to the car but I knew that next weekend, I would be back…
And that is another story.
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