The Red Collection Read online

  But there had been something about this John, and the way he’d described his cock and what she’d made him do to it, that had got her going. Unknown to him she’d masturbated furiously throughout the whole diatribe!

  As he’d wanked, she’d rubbed and worried at her clitoris; as he’d described pushing a butt plug into his own anus, she’d reached around and fondled and played with her own bottom.

  As he’d climaxed, gasping and gulping, she’d come too. It’d been bloody hard to keep her own moans in check, but she’d managed it. And she’d also resisted the temptation to call him back, afterwards, so she could take a look at him.

  She felt a pang of regret that the only memento she had of John was the nice pile of banknotes he’d left on the Georgian side table, but there was always a chance he might become one of her regulars. Sometimes that happened; sometimes she never ‘saw’ a customer more than once.

  ‘C’est la vie,’ she muttered to herself, abandoning her towel and counting the payment again.

  Generous John had left a tidy bit extra, and what with that, and her latest cheque for a series of television voice-overs …

  Well, it was time, she thought with a smile, to hit the antique shops!

  It’s a top screen, really it is, thought John, as he arranged his latest acquisition to its best advantage. Technically it was far better than the one that had concealed ‘mistress’ and yet because it hid no mystery, he didn’t like it nearly as much.

  Three weeks had passed now, and a dozen times a day he’d considered ringing her number again, but something had happened that made him even more in awe of her.

  He’d seen her in an advert on the box. Several times. She was beautiful, blonde and sleek, but somehow not quite how he’d pictured her. The voice had been the same though, and he’d almost come on the spot when he’d suddenly heard it one evening while he wasn’t really paying any attention to the telly at all. Deep, dark and complex, it had made a banal advertisement into a siren’s song that had stiffened him instantaneously. It even worked now, just from hearing her in his mind.

  Embarrassed because there were people in the shop, John moved away to his work area, and opened a sale catalogue. A moment later, though, his concentration drifted. A woman was studying the black, lacquered screen.

  Not his mistress, alas. This woman was no television blonde, just an average-looking and slightly dumpy brunette. She looked even less remarkable when she put on a pair of glasses to lean up close and inspect the screen’s inlaid design.

  But when the woman smiled – presumably in appreciation of the screen – the erection that had just subsided twitched into life again. And it jumped even more when the woman looked across and smiled at him.

  ‘A very fine Coromandel screen,’ he said when he reached her, and then found himself launching into a rushed and rather jumbled sales pitch. She wasn’t looking at his crotch, but he had a feeling she was aware that his penis was hard. The woman said nothing, but nodded knowledgeably now and again as he spoke.

  ‘So, are you interested? I think I can make you a very fair price,’ he said in an attempt to stop babbling. The woman was looking him in the eye now – and down at his groin from time to time – in a way that made his head light and his cock as heavy as lead.

  Then the woman spoke. In those rich, measured, perfectly modulated tones he’d heard in every dream he’d had since he’d visited her apartment.

  ‘No, thank you. I have a screen already.’ She licked her lips and gave him a slight, yet powerful smile that transformed her ordinary face into a beautiful icon. Until a few moments ago, he’d never seen that face before yet it was totally familiar. ‘Have you anything else that you’d like to show me?’

  In the space it took to draw a breath, questions were posed, then answered in John’s mind, and he realised that the face you saw on a TV screen and the voice you heard didn’t necessarily have to belong to the same person. And what you thought you wanted to see wasn’t always what you actually wanted.

  ‘John?’ she prompted, her voice so resonant and glorious it seemed to make his cock sing.

  His own voice was thin and light, yet it also had strength. ‘Whatever you want, mistress. I’ll show you anything …’

  She smiled and nodded, and then – his shop and his customers forgotten – John fell to his knees before her and started tugging at his zip.

  The Best of Hands

  YES, I UNDERSTAND perfectly,’ murmurs Madame Guidetty, escorting us into the room. A silver coffee jug stands on a tray, on her desk, flanked by two fine bone-china cups and the usual paraphernalia of milk jug, sugar bowl and tongs. There are just two cups because I won’t be taking coffee.

  ‘Do be seated,’ Madame continues, smiling almost flirtatiously at my Master, ‘and we’ll have our coffee while I outline our range of services.’

  ‘Thank you, that sounds most pleasant,’ my Master answers genially, sinking down into a comfortable, deeply upholstered chair set at right angles to Madame’s spacious desk. He glances at me and I blush furiously. He has noticed my transgression – the fact that I am staring about the room, and at Madame, and at him, when I am supposed to keep my eyes lowered at all times and I realise that I will suffer for it soon.

  It seems that Madame has observed my slip-up too. ‘Perhaps Susan could stand in the corner while we chat?’ she suggests pleasantly, although there is, I detect, a faint thread of excitement in her barely accented voice. ‘In a display position, possibly? I always find that tends to curb a wilful streak quite nicely, don’t you, Monsieur?’

  ‘A good idea, madame,’ returns my Master, his own voice rather vibrant too. ‘Would it offend you if Susan removes her skirt and her slip? I always find a greater degree of exposure more effective … Although if that isn’t your practice here, perhaps I could trouble you for the loan of a couple of safety pins?’

  ‘No need for that,’ says Madame, ‘we too recognise the subduing qualities of partial nudity. It is a measure we rely upon heavily.’ She pauses, and I hear a slight click, then the sound of a bell ringing somewhere else in the house. ‘There, I’ve summoned a maid to take Susan’s slip and skirt.’

  My heart begins to lurch around in my chest. Yet another stranger to see me embarrassed. I colour even harder and feel sweat prickle and run beneath my arms.

  ‘Well, Susan?’ my Master prompts, and with shaking fingers I unfasten my skirt. Just as I am stepping out of it, there is a knock at the door.

  ‘Entrez!’ calls out Madame, and a maid enters, a beautiful dark-haired girl, with a sullen, sultry mouth. Her uniform is old-fashioned and immaculate; her apron is snow-white, and her buttoned shoes shine like polished jet.

  ‘Ah, Florenza, Susan here doesn’t need her skirt and underslip for a while … I wonder if you would take care of them for her?’ Madame speaks to her maid in almost an intimate manner. Against my will, I begin to speculate on the type of duties this Latin beauty might perform. She gives me an expressionless look as I hand her my skirt.

  Sliding down my lace-trimmed half-slip, I become more and more conscious of my undies. They are chosen by my Master, as always; and, as always, they are costly and luxurious. The slip is heavy satin, pure white, and was bought at an exclusive Knightsbridge boutique. I sense both Madame and Florenza silently pricing it, and thus estimating how highly my Master values me.

  My stockings and suspender belt, which I will retain, are both equally extravagant. The former are fine deniered, smoke-grey – to match the formal suit I wear – and with a thick welt of lace; and the latter is white silk to match my underslip. My panties, however, are very plain, just the simplest of white cotton interlock, bikini-shaped, but not especially brief.

  I pass my slip to Florenza and she folds it neatly, placing it upon a chair, on top of my already folded skirt.

  ‘Florenza,’ says my Master, his voice appreciative, although I do not know whether this is in regard to the sight of me, skirtless, or due to the dark girl’s undeniable lovelin
ess. ‘I wonder if you would be good enough to lower Susan’s knickers for her? Just as far as mid-thigh, that will be perfect for our needs.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ replies Florenza dutifully, her voice rather more accented than Madame’s and clearly indicating quite a different nationality.

  I start to shake as her deft hands go about their business. My Master has not exposed me a great deal to the eyes of strangers, so this is relatively new to me. There was of course the time he invited a few male friends around to watch him cane me, but then I was blindfolded, and the resulting darkness calmed my shame.

  Nevertheless, I don’t resist as Florenza eases my panties down my thighs, revealing my belly, and the silky blondness of my pubic grove. I am tempted to try and cover myself, but I fight the need. As if sensing my discomfiture, my Master says, ‘Hands on head, Susan. There’s a good girl.’

  Florenza is crouched beside me, seemingly intent on adjusting the position of my bunched white panties, but what she is really doing, I guess, is studying the sight her Madame has not yet seen. A phenomenon that will soon embarrass me even more. As the pretty servant finally straightens up, my Master abruptly calls out, ‘Turn!’

  I obey.

  ‘Quel cul ravissant!’ cries Madame, as her eyes light upon my mortifying secret. A naked bottom that’s already a brilliant pink.

  I feel the scrutiny of all in the room fix on me. They study my soreness, the warmed state of my buttocks. The evidence of my intractable behaviour … There is silence for a few moments, then Madame dismisses Florenza. That she has allowed the maid to see me at all is a punishment in itself.

  ‘Yes, I have already had to deal with her,’ observes my Master as the door quietly closes. ‘Susan is often disobedient and disrespectful in public, but I find a smacked bottom tends to settle her somewhat. We never leave the house without making sure she’s nice and red.’

  How true that is! I think if my Master had his way, I would spend my whole life with a hot, crimson bottom. Dinner parties, the theatre, the ballet; every function I attend, I attend it feeling sore. Every time I sit down, I’m reminded of his preference.

  Today is a typical example of my life. My Master came to collect me at my work place, and when he was ushered into my office, and we were alone, he locked the door. Within moments, I was face down across my own desk, skirts up, pants down, whilst he belaboured my bottom-cheeks with my own plastic ruler. The snapping impacts soon raised a glow of stinging pain.

  ‘An excellent regimen,’ comments Madame, her voice approving.

  ‘You may move to the corner now, Susan,’ says my Master.

  Again, I obey, my steps rendered tiny and awkward by the pants that are bundled around my thighs. I hear the tinkle of spoons and china, and smell the delicious aroma of fresh coffee. As Madame and my Master enjoy their refreshment, she outlines the facilities offered by ‘Maison Guidetty’.

  ‘As I described on the phone, Monsieur, we provide a service to dominants like yourself, who, for one reason or another, are unable to attend to their charges themselves. Whether it is due to family circumstances, or to foreign travel or work commitments, we administer discipline, in your stead, and to your exact specifications.’ She pauses, then goes on with pride, ‘Or if you prefer, we will create an appropriate programme for you … We – that is my husband, my son, my daughter and myself – are all extremely experienced with all devices, and conversant with all classic scenarios.’

  I can well imagine. Madame is very handsome, with her elaborately chignoned hair, and her Parisian clothes, but she exudes an exciting air of hidden strength. Beneath her hand, a hapless bottom will sting and burn furiously, that’s evident. And her eyes, beneath her long, dark lashes, are those of a true, impassioned zealot.

  ‘And we offer a variety of arrangements to suit every need,’ she continues, warming to her theme. ‘For instance, a charge may simply attend once or twice a week for a sound punishment to see them through until the next visit. On the other hand, we also offer boarding facilities, for those submissives who require continuous attention.’

  ‘I think an arrangement somewhere between those two will suit Susan best,’ interposes my Master. ‘She has commitments … Employment of her own. I wouldn’t want to interfere with that … Perhaps she could come to you each weekend?’ he suggests.

  Yes, employment of my own. How ironic. What would my colleagues and subordinates think if they knew I was chairing a meeting with a bottom still raw from the lash? That beneath my Ralph Lauren skirt I was pantieless, because my inflamed cheeks could not stand the slightest brush of underwear? That my buttocks were bruised and wealed by the man I love?

  ‘Of course,’ says Madame, concurring. ‘Many of our clients specify “weekends only”. I would say it’s our most popular option.’

  They go on to discuss the finer details. And money, which seems so meaningless in this strange and special world. My Master specifies Madame herself to be my disciplinarian, and that my ‘treatments’ be morning, noon, and night. Especially night. It seems that even though night will not occur at the same time for us during the next few months, he wishes to dream of me lying in my bed with my buttocks scarlet.

  Madame coughs delicately. ‘And is she to be provided with …’ Her voice lowers. ‘With “release”?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I think so,’ replies my Master. ‘Perhaps Florenza could oblige?’ he suggests, his voice playful.

  I shiver in dread anticipation. The dark-eyed servant does not look very kind to me. Pleasure with her might be as testing as the pain.

  ‘A splendid suggestion,’ agrees Madame. ‘And perhaps I might supervise, to ensure it is correctly dispensed?’

  ‘Of course,’ concurs my Master suavely. He well knows how it shames me to be watched while I lose control.

  ‘And now, perhaps a brief tour of the facilities? And a demonstration?’ offers Madame, her soft voice full of anticipation. My instincts tell me she can’t wait to get her hands on me.

  ‘Yes! Capital!’ My Master can’t wait for her to get her hands on me either. ‘I would like Susan to be fully acquainted with the tests that lie ahead of her.’

  With that, Madame escorts us from the room, still describing the many advantages this establishment offers. I follow, at a slower pace, hampered by my underwear around my thighs, my pulses racing at the prospect of further treatment to my already smarting rump. Progress up the stairs is particularly difficult for me, with my hands still on my head, but my Master gently guides my faltering steps.

  The first room we enter offers quite a sight. A young woman, completely nude, is draped over a thickly upholstered couch. Her bottom is a blazing pink, all over, and she’s sobbing. Behind her stands another young woman, a breathtaking beauty; her face is flushed, her arm is high, and in her narrow, patrician hand she grasps a paddle.

  ‘My daughter, Mariette,’ announces Madame proudly, and the enchanting disciplinarian bobs a curtsey.

  ‘Charmed, Monsieur,’ she answers prettily, her fingers moving on the paddle she still clutches, as if she is anxious to continue with her task. Her fine eyes settle momentarily on my semi-nakedness, and her lips – so like her mother’s – quirk with longing.

  ‘Pray do not let us disturb you, chérie,’ encourages Madame. ‘Monsieur here is anxious to see how we deal with our charges … He will shortly be putting Susan into our hands.’

  ‘Of course, Maman,’ says the young woman pleasantly, returning immediately to her task. She lifts her arm and the paddle descends with unexpected force. Mademoiselle Guidetty is far stronger than she looks. The owner of the unfortunate, becrimsoned bottom wails piteously, her hips shifting and weaving against the surface of the couch. She bears a fresh patch of deeper red on her rounded left cheek, and beneath her pelvis the moquette upholstery is visibly damp. I bite my lip to contain my moan of sympathy.

  In the next few minutes, the younger Guidetty treats us to a virtuoso display with the paddle, whilst her charge puts on a show of equal viv
acity. The round tongue of leather crashes down with almost metronomic regularity, its point of impact constantly circling its chubby target. The punished girl bucks and heaves across the couch, her strident squealing unrestrained and deeply stirring.

  ‘Valerie has much to learn,’ observes Madame Guidetty, and just as she speaks, Valerie howls loudly, her torso stiffening.

  It is clear what has happened. Remaining rigid for a couple of seconds, the girl then flails her legs and pumps her crotch against the edge of the couch.

  ‘Oh, Valerie,’ murmurs Mademoiselle, accusingly, as the body she has been chastising jerks in orgasm. As we leave the room, she is lifting a cane from a selection in a drawer.

  ‘My daughter is quite a stringent disciplinarian,’ says Madame fondly as we move along a corridor. ‘I believe she inherits her gift from me.’

  My Master nods discreetly, in congratulation. I hobble behind them, my bottom bare, my flesh aroused. Other rooms pose other tests to my frazzled nerves …

  In one, an exquisitely good-looking young man is hand-spanking an older woman whom I seem to know. I start to sweat again and I gasp, recognising her as a formidable adversary across the bargaining table – my opposite number in another prestigious company. Briefly craning her neck she looks up at me, her eyes languorous, her mouth working as the pretty youth pounds her cheeks. If she recognises me, it seems to be of little importance to her. All that matters now is the growing torment of her reddened bottom.

  As we leave, Madame names the gorgeous boy as her son, Jean-Louis. I feel a sense of awe that in just one family there could be such fearsome gifts.

  We do not see Monsieur Guidetty. Although we hear his work …

  Before a closed door, we pause, listening to the sounds issuing from the hidden room beyond. I hear a heavy thudding slap, a ponderous doleful sound, then a low, weak groan. The slapping comes again, and the answering cry is ragged, extenuated, redolent with suffering. The slaps repeat. And repeat. The voice of their recipient gurgles. There is no way to tell whether the cries stem from agony or reflect a state of bliss.