Chpt 6.
Over the next few days Angelique could thing of nothing but the impending weeked
that Martine was due to spend with Mike, and how to stop it. But however hard
she thought about it, she couldn't come up with any ideas.
Her obsession began to have an effect on her teaching, she was more waspish than
ever with the students, and hardly more polite with her colleagues. In the end,
on Thursday evening, she decided that she needed some help with the problem.
Looking in her desk-directory, she found the name of a girl she had had an
affair with when they had been at university together in Paris. It was hardly
likely that Monique would still be on the same number, over twelve years later,
but she decided to give it a try anyway.
The phone at the other end of the line rang and rang until Angelique was on the
point of hanging-up when suddenly there was a click and a throaty voice said
"Hello." She thought she recognised the voice.
"Monique?", she enquired tentatively.
"Yes," the voice replied, "Who's that?"
Angelique was elated! "It's me, Angelique," she almost shouted into the
mouthpiece. "Angeligue Viard, we were at the Sorbonne together, don't you
remember?"
"Good heavens" said the throaty voice. "Is that really you, Angelique? Where are
you? What are you doing these days? Why don't you come on over?"
Angelique started to explain her situation - provinces, university etc. Monique
suggested that she come to Paris for the weekend. "But I'm not living at the
same address any more, I have a house out at St Cloud, I was lucky, I managed to
get the phone number transferred here. How will you be coming, by car?" She went
on to give Angelique instructions for finding the house, finishing by saying,
"I'll look forward to seeing you again, and I think you might have a surprise
when you get here. Bye now.", and she rang off before Angelique could ask her
what she meant. She hoped it didn't mean that Monique was married!
The traffic was heavy on the motorway into Paris on the Friday evening and it
was nearly 8 when Angelique finally found the house. She managed to park down
the street, walked quickly back up to the ironwork gate set into the railings
which surrounded the garden in which the house was set, and rang the bell. As
she waited, she looked up at the house. It was tall, three stories high, the
windows framed with darker bricks than those used on the rest of the
construction. It looked solid, comfortable, a house that had been there for
nearly a hundred years and which was at home with itself.
Her musings were broken off by a voice asking, "Who's there?" It came from the
grill of a small metal box fixed to the railing near the gate.
"Angelique," she said, quietly.
"Hi, come on in," said the voice, there was a click and the gate swung inwards a
couple of inches. She pushed it wide open, moved though and closed it behind
her. Then she walked up the short pathway to a flight of three stone steps
leading up to the porch, with its heavy oak door. As she started to climb the
steps, the door swung open and she went inside. The door swung to behind her,
revealing Monique, who was standing in the hallway. Angelique gasped. Monique
was wearing some kind of leather-like corset which left half the nipples of her
opulent breasts uncovered. Her legs were clad in black, fishnet stockings, held
up by black elastic garters. Between the top of the stockings and the bottom of
the corset there was nothing, just a smoothly-shaven pubis and the merest hint
of pink pussy-lips. She wore high-heeled court shoes and her dark, frizzly hair,
piled high on the top of her head, was held in place with several large clips.
Black gloves covered her arms up to the elbows. Around her throat was a wide
leather collar, decorated with gleaming metal rivets and a couple of D-rings.
"I told you you'd be in for a surprise," said Monique, holding open her arms to
welcome her old friend. The two women moved together and kissed one another in
greeting.
"Come on," said Monique, "Take your coat off and hang it up and we'll go into
the living-room and have a drink."
Angelique followed her into a big, high-ceilinged room with white walls and
modern furnishings. Monique moved to the drinks cupboard, mixed a couple of
Martinis, handed one to Angelique and went to sit on the sofa. She patted the
place beside her and Angelique sat down, half-turned to look at her friend.
"It's lovely to see you again, Monique," she said, "but what on earth are you
doing dressed like that? It's hardly the sort of thing your average high-school
teacher wears." She knew that Monique had taken up teaching after finishing at
the Sorbonne.
"Hah!", said Monique. "I gave up teaching very quickly, there's no money in it.
I've found a much better way to make a living."
Angelique stared at her. "Surely you haven't gone into prostitution?", she
gasped, eyeing her friend up and down, taking in her bizarre accoutrements. "I
always thought you were as gay as I am."
"No dear, don't worry, I haven't gone on the game - at least, not in the way you
probably mean. As for being gay, let's say I'm ambivalent, there are times, and
circumstances, when men can be quite entertaining. No, I've become a Femdom, and
apart from the fact that it is making me quite rich, I really like it, I'm
having a lot of fun."
"What on earth is a Femdom?" asked Angelique, bewildered.
"Well, I supposed the best answer is that she is a dominant woman," laughed
Monique. "And in that case, I most certainly am one, 'cos dominate them I do!"
"Dominate who?".
"Men, of course, darling. My clients. There is a certain type of man who, for
whatever reason, wants to be dominated by a woman. Most women are not dominant,
so these men have a really hard time finding one who is. And since the rarer a
thing is, the more expensive it is, I'm doing very nicely thank you."
"But what exactly do you do?"
"Darling, I'd forgotten your penchant for asking questions. I remember now that,
back at university, you asked more question than any five other students put
together! What do I do? Well, - oh the heck with it. I wasn't going to, but the
best way is to show you. I've got one upstairs right now, but I'll have to go
and prepare him first, my clients rely on my discretion. I'll let you in to see
what's going on one condition: you don't make a sound or speak while you are in
the Treatment Room. OK?"
Mystified, Angelique nodded.
"Alright, wait here then, I'll be back in a minute."
In fact it was more like ten minutes before she came back into the room. "Come
on, but don't make a noise on the stairs - in fact, you'd better take your shoes
off down here."
Bare-footed, Angelique followed Monique up two flights of stairs to find herself
outside the door of a room at the end of the house. Putting her finger to her
lips Monique softly opened the door and went inside, beckoning to her friend to
follow her.
The lighting in the room was quite low and at first she had difficulty in making
anything out. Then as her eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light, she saw
that she was in what could only be described as a torture chamber because the
walls were covered with instruments of torture of all kinds. She recognised what
looked like a thumbscrew, a cat-o'-nine-tails, handcuffs, manacles, chains,
whips and others that she couldn't put a name to. In the centre of the room,
running from the wooden floor to a thick beam in the ceiling were a pair of
pillars, each some 12" in diameter and about six feet apart.
Between the two pillars, spread-eagled, stood - or rather hung - a naked man.
Around his wrists there were leather straps, attached to ropes going up to hooks
set into the wooden pillars high above his head. Other straps around his ankles
were tied by ropes to the foot of each pillar, his legs dragged out so that his
feet were wide apart. His mouth was filled with a ball gag and over his eyes
there were swimming goggles, the transparent surfaces painted matt black on both
sides. An ear-plug protruded from each ear.
Angelique stared at the man in amazement and, forgetting her promise was just
going to speak, when Monique again put her finger warningly to her lips, and
then pointed to the man's groin. Angelique bent down to see what she was
supposed to be looking at, and then gasped. She had to look twice to make sure
that she was really seeing what she thought she was seeing.
His balls were stretched down towards the ground by a thick leather strap that
was place around and over them, like a cone with the centre cut out, a device
Monique told her, in a whisper, was called a parachute stretcher. Attached to
the rim of this leather cone were four thin chains which ran down to terminate
just below his knees in a metal ring. Hanging from the ring were a number of
weights, the type used with old-fashioned kitchen scales. Angelique couldn't
make out the numbers on the weights but there seemed to be several kilos
suspended from his balls and it was obvious, from the way they were bunched
tightly together, the scrotal sack pulled thin and shiny in the pale light, the
balls crushed by the weights pulling the edges of the leather together, that
they were under considerable tension. The man had to be in a lot of pain.
Monique bent down beside her and with her hand pulled the weights up and towards
her. She winked at Angelique and let them go. They swung down and up again
behind the victim in a wide arc, and as they did so he moaned. Angelique was
fascinated.
Monique straightened up and spoke loudly.
"It's time to add some more weight, darling," she said. It was immediately
obvious that the man could hear her despite the ear-plugs, because he shook his
head.
"Oh yes, darling," the woman said. "I think I'll give you another half-kilo,
that should be pretty interesting. I wonder just how much weight those balls of
yours can take before something gives. Maybe we'll find out tonight." The man
tried to say something around the ball-gag, but the only sounds the two women
heard were gurgles.
Monique took a weight from a nearby table and, bending down, carefully placed
its hook in place on the metal ring. Then, sadistically, she let the weight drop
the few remaining inches. As the extra weight hit his balls the man screamed, a
scream that was clearly audible despite the gag. Straightening up, Monique put
out both hands towards her victim's chest, and as she did so Angelique could see
that there were clamps tightly attached to his nipples. Monique took hold of the
clamps between her fingers and slowly started to twist them. The man screamed
again, a continuous scream as she turned the clamps though almost a half-turn
and then, suddenly, released them so that the nipples sprang back. More screams,
and a little river of spittle ran down his chin from the corner of his mouth.
Beckoning to Angelique to follow her, Monique went over to the door, opened it
and went out into the corridor. With the door once more firmly shut and the
length of the short corridor between them and the suffering victim, Monique
asked her friend what she thought of what she had just seen.
Angelique wasn't quite sure what to say, so as they went downstairs together she
temporised.
"Do you mean to say that men are really prepared to pay you to hurt them like
that?", she asked.
"Of course they are, darling. They love it and they're prepared to pay through
the nose for it. In fact, the more pain I cause, the more expensive it is.
Stupid, aren't they!".
"But you act as though you like doing it," Angelique accused her.
"But of course I do, it's great fun. You can't begin to imagine how much
pleasure it gives me to see them writhing with pain and to hear them scream. My
only regret is that I have to be careful to let them leave here in the same
state they entered the house. If it weren't for the fact that I have a
reputation to maintain, I'm pretty sure than some of them would leave here as
basket cases!".
Angelique was not so much surprised at this declaration as intrigued.
"But why?", she asked. "They haven't done anything to you, have they?"
"Sweetheart, they offend me just by their existence," replied Monique. "Men are
the worse thing that ever happened to girls like us. This is my way of getting
some pleasure out of them, and getting paid for it at the same time. Haven't you
ever wanted to hurt someone?"
By now they were back in the living-room, seated on the settee again with fresh
drinks in their hands. Monique's question was the signal for Angelique to pour
out her story about Mike and the way he was stealing Martine from her.
"There you are then," said Monique when she had finished, "you'd like to do
things to him, wouldn't you?".
"Of course I would," said Angelique, "but I haven't got a hope in hell of doing
any of them, however much I'd like to."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that, sweetheart. You say that he is going to take her
to his place and that he lives in a house out in the country? My devious mind
tells me that this could be just what you want. I'm going to have a think about
it. But before I do so, how about you giving me some thanks in anticipation,
eh?". And with that she started to slide her hand up Angelique's thigh.
On her way home in her car on Sunday evening, Angelique turned over in her mind
the events of the weekend. Quite apart from the ideas that Monique had come up
with, she had allowed Angelique to watch while she worked on her victim. Some of
the things she had done to him were most ingenious and obviously very painful.
But then, as she had pointed out, that was the name of the game. She had told
Angelique of the amazing variety of torments that she held in stock for her
clients, of how she obtained the various instruments, and of the limits that she
had to observe.
"The very best thing," she had said, "would be to trap a victim you really
hated, who was not a client, and on whom you could really go to town."
The big box in the boot of the car full of equipment Monique had lent her, her
head full of ideas, Angelique, as she raced back up the motorway towards home,
could only agree!
