MEETING HER MATCH
By Fidelis Blue
'Just one more,' Jimmy said. 'Burn for me, baby.'
Francesca gave the camera one of her haughty looks, the kind that said, I'm
beautiful but you'll never get to fuck me.
The camera clicked. 'OK,' said Jimmy. 'It's a wrap. Come and have a glass
of wine.'
'No,' said Francesca, 'I've got to go.'
'Oh, come on, just once,' he pleaded.
What was it with photographers? They all thought they had a divine right to
fuck you. They had it too easy. Lots of the girls let them do it because they
wanted more work, and at the beginning she'd given in once or twice, but
Francesca knew she was beautiful and the work kept coming even when she said no.
And now other men were forbidden to her; except under strictly controlled
conditions, of course.
She locked the door of the changing room; Jimmy was quite capable of
bursting in on her when she was naked. She threw off the designer dress she'd
been wearing for the shoot. She had nothing on underneath. From her bag she drew
out her underwear. First on went the little belt of ivory satin. It fitted
snugly round her hips with the four suspenders below. She sat and drew on her
left stocking. Gossamer-thin, it slid sensually over her calf and up her thigh.
She snapped the shiny chrome clips on to the lacy top. 'Shade: near-nude' it
said on the packet, and it was true, you could hardly see the material at all
once it was stretched tight over her skin, though it gave her legs a luxurious
sheen. The only give-away was the seam at the back. Gerald insisted on seams; he
went for anything a little bit retro.
She drew on the other stocking, then stood and craned round at the mirror
to check the seams were straight. Next on was the bra, a flimsy low-cut affair
in matching ivory satin trimmed with chocolate-brown lace that showed almost all
the top half of her breasts and a glimpse of nipple too. Finally the pants, cut
like dainty little shorts but close-fitting. Instead of elastic round the waist
there was a thin satin string which did up in a bow. She'd had to give up
wearing thongs. Gerald said they were for sluts; not that she wasn't a little
slutty herself sometimes, she thought with a smile.
She stepped into her skirt, grey wool and pleated, the hem a modest couple
of inches above the knee. On top she wore a pink sweater, tight enough to show
the shape of her breasts. Gerald liked to see their outline. She knew they were
pretty good, still as bouncy as when she'd been a teenager.
She put on her shoes, brown leather with medium heels. Then it was just a
dash of lipstick, a dab of perfume and she was ready. She let herself out
without saying goodbye to Jimmy.
She leaned back in the cab on the way to the station, letting the cares of
the week slide away, getting herself into the mood. She bought a couple of
magazines and a bottle of water, then found an empty first-class compartment. To
her annoyance, just before the train left the door opened and a man stepped in.
She glared at him. He was tall, dark-haired, well-dressed in a good suit. In his
late twenties, she guessed.
'Nice day,' he said pleasantly.
Francesca looked away quickly, staring out of the window, saying nothing.
The train left and she got out a magazine. From time to time she glanced
sideways at the man. He seemed to be staring straight at her.
'Don't you know it's rude to stare?' she said at last.
'I'm sorry,' he smiled, 'but I think you'll find one of your stockings has
come undone.'
She looked down. It was true. The stocking on her left leg was slack and
crumpled. Should she go to the toilet to fix it?
'Look away,' she ordered.
With a grin he turned his head towards the corridor. She stood up, lifted
her skirt and pulled the stocking up tight, then snapped shut the little
fastener. She sat down and said nothing, burying her head in her magazine. She
knew she was blushing.
The man took a paper bag from his briefcase and held it out to her.
'Apple?' he said.
She stared at him coldly. She knew she wasn't being polite, but she just
wanted privacy. It was so important to get herself in the mood before she
arrived. She could face whatever ordeal Gerald had planned for her, but only if
her head was in the right place. This man was preventing that.
'Going far?' he said.
'Look,' she snapped, 'if I want conversation I'll ask for it.'
She'd noticed he was handsome, though. Dark-brown eyes, long thin nose,
firm mouth. Why was it handsome men always thought women were dying to fall into
bed with them?
He shrugged his shoulders. Francesca went back to her magazine. After
twenty minutes she stood up as the train slowed. She brushed past the man into
the corridor. She heard him coming after her. What did he want now?
'My stop too,' he said.
She walked briskly up the platform. She knew there was only ever one taxi
at this little country stop. When she came out of the station she saw it
waiting. Quickly she walked towards it. She was just opening the door when she
heard the man call out.
'Just a minute. Since there's only one cab perhaps we could - '
She slammed the door behind her.
'Drive off,' she said.
She glanced out of the rear window at the man left standing in the road;
that'll teach him, she thought.
The taxi made its way slowly up the gravel drive of Thursby Hall and
stopped in front of the main door. Francesca paid the man, climbed up the steps
and rang the bell. It was opened by Mrs Carruthers, the housekeeper.
'Follow me,' said Mrs Carruthers abruptly, walking away down the hall.
Francesca hurried after the trim, straight-backed figure in her black uniform,
who led her up the stairs and into the dressing room. Francesca was disappointed
at not being taken straight in to see Gerald, but she knew better than to ask
questions. Once she stepped inside Thursby Hall she was not allowed to speak
until spoken to.
'In the shower,' Mrs Carruthers said. Francesca stripped off. The care
she'd taken dressing had been in vain. She'd be wearing something else by the
time she met Gerald.
In the shower she soaped herself quickly. Mrs Carruthers didn't like it if
she tarried. When she stepped out of the shower Mrs Carruthers dried her
vigorously with a large towel.
'Lie down,' she said, indicating a long narrow table covered with a white
sheet. She put her hand between Francesca's legs, her fingers prying.
'Needs doing,' she said.
Francesca sighed, but not loud enough for Mrs Carruthers to hear. She still
hadn't got used to being shaved by this woman. It was so intrusive. She
complained to Gerald that it was demeaning to be shaved in such a private place
by a servant.
'That's exactly what I want you to feel,' he said.
Mrs Carruthers fetched shaving cream and a razor. Her movements were
brusque, efficient. Francesca felt in no great danger of a nick with the razor;
it was more a question of embarrassment, at having this middle-aged woman
pulling and scraping her most secret places. And today there was something else
to feel shy about, something she wished she could keep from Mrs Carruthers. But
that was impossible. She felt Mrs Carruthers pull her labia upward, spreading
them with her fingers, then she peered down.
'What's this?' she asked.
Francesca blushed. It had been nearly a week now since she had the
piercing, a little silver ring inserted into the hood of her clitoris. She'd
begged Gerald not to make her do it. It won't hurt much, he retorted, but even
if it does I want it done. The very idea of it was terrifying. She'd had to have
three large drinks before she had the courage to enter the piercing parlour. In
the event it wasn't as bad as she'd feared, and when she came out she even felt
a little proud of herself. This would be the first time Gerald had seen it and
she was looking forward to his approval. She just wished she didn't have to have
it inspected first by Mrs Carruthers.
'I had it done last week,' Francesca said. 'Gerald told me to.'
'Has it healed yet?'
'It's fine, thank you,' Francesca said primly.
When she'd finished shaving Mrs Carruthers splashed some eau de cologne on
Francesca's pudenda. Francesca squealed at the sharp sting it produced.
Indifferent to her cries, Mrs Carruthers took a corset from one of the many
drawers in the room. Francesca had worn it twice before. Specially made to her
measurements and of the softest black leather, it fitted like a second skin. Mrs
Carruthers held it up against Francesca's naked body and began to snap shut the
metal fasteners down the back. The corset had only half-cups at the top, so that
Francesca's breasts, though fully supported, were largely offered up to view.
The corset was tight, almost too tight, around the waist, though Francesca had
found that after a while the heat of her body warmed the leather and allowed it
to stretch just a bit. At the back it was cut high, leaving her bottom exposed
in its entirety, while at the front it stopped just above her pubic bone,
leaving her shaven pussy bare.
When she had first worn the corset, Mrs Carruthers had also fitted her with
a butt plug, a large black one attached to a strap which went between her legs
and fastened on to the corset front and back. She told Francesca that Gerald was
of the opinion that her anus needed dilation. However, since then this objective
had apparently been achieved, and so she was no longer required to wear the plug
as a matter of course. On this occasion, it was evident, she would wear nothing
but the corset, except for a pair of sheer black stockings (with seams,
naturally) and a pair of shiny black shoes, with the highest heels she'd ever
seen. When she first stood up with them on, she stumbled and nearly fell.
Mrs Carruthers did her make-up. There was eye-shadow and eye-liner and a
touch of mascara. Mrs Carruthers applied lip gloss, a bright scarlet. Francesca
thought it just too bright, and a little tarty, but she knew better than to
comment. What came next was even worse. Mrs Carruthers took a little pot of
rouge and carefully painted Francesca's nipples, first pulling them out of the
top of the corset and pinching them hard to make them big. Then she made
Francesca lean back against the table with her legs apart and outlined the labia
of her sex in rouge. Francesca caught a glance of herself in a mirror. You look
like a painted whore, she thought. But of course it would have been Gerald's
instructions.
All that now remained were a few dabs of perfume, between her breasts, at
the apex of her sex, between her buttocks, on each wrist. Then she was ready.
'Mr Gerald is in the study,' said Mrs Carruthers. 'He has a guest with
him.'
'A guest?'
'You'll see,' Mrs Carruthers said.
Francesca walked gingerly downstairs in her heels, making for the study.
Gerald had not mentioned a guest when he had made the appointment with her. But
the presence of another person was not entirely surprising; indeed, it seemed as
though that was the way things were going. Six weeks ago Gerald had taken her to
a club. He'd dressed her in a PVC bra and hot pants, with a leather posture
collar. It was the first time he'd taken her out in public. They'd watched a
woman being whipped by her master, then fucked by several men in turn. After the
performance a man came up to Gerald and asked if he might use Francesca. To her
surprise Gerald had said yes. The man had taken her into a side room, bent her
over a couch and taken her quickly. It was all over in ten minutes. Afterwards,
Gerald said he hadn't intended such a thing to happen; it had just been a whim.
But, he said, it had given him ideas. And so last week, after she and Gerald had
dined together at Thursby Hall, Gerald had taken her into the library and
blindfolded her.
'A man will enter,' he said. 'He will use you as he pleases.'
Sitting waiting in an upright chair, she had heard the door open. She
sensed someone standing in front of her, then she heard the sound of trousers
being unzipped. She could smell the odour of a man under her nostrils, then a
voice told her to lean forward and open her mouth. The man pushed his cock in
and, holding her head in both his hands, began to fuck her in the mouth. When he
had come he simply walked away. Francesca sat there with the cum still in her
mouth. Should she swallow or spit it out? Should she take off her blindfold?
Then Gerald came in and took it off for her. He gave her a handkerchief and she
spat into it.
'Don't ask who it was,' he said.
Gerald had led her over to the sofa, pushed her down across one of the arms
and lifted her skirt. Pulling her knickers to one side, he entered her and
fucked her gently, reaching round between her legs and making her come with his
finger before he ejaculated in her.
Is this going to be the pattern now, she wondered? She could have no
objections; Gerald was entitled to do with her as he pleased. But her photograph
was everywhere now. If she was going to be given to strange men, was it only a
matter of time before one of them would recognise her? At some point she might
have to talk to Gerald about this. For the time being, she would go on doing
exactly as he said.
She knocked on the door of the study. After a pause she heard Gerald tell
her to enter. She closed the door after her and walked towards him, seated in an
armchair next to an open fire. There was another man in the chair opposite. With
a start Francesca realised that it was the man on the train.
'This is Roland,' Gerald said. 'He's my guest this evening. He's a business
acquaintance with whom I've become friendly. The other week he invited me to
dine with him, and afterwards to use his submissive. So tonight I have extended
a reciprocal invitation.'
Francesca said nothing. She was only supposed to speak in reply to direct
questions.
'Come closer,' Gerald said.
She moved until she was standing between the two chairs with her back to
the fire. She could feel its heat on her naked bottom.
'She's exquisite,' Roland said.
'Open your legs wider,' Gerald said.
Francesca did as she was told. Gerald bent forward, peering at her.
'She's just been pierced. Can you see?'
With the fingers of one hand he prised apart her outer labia. The two men
looked intently at her open pussy and at the little silver ring Gerald had
revealed.
'It's charming,' Roland said.
'Yes,' said Gerald. 'I don't care for tattoos, but I wanted to mark her in
some way, as proof of ownership.'
'May I feel?' Roland asked.
'Please do,' Gerald said.
Roland reached out his hand and put it between her legs, fondling the ring,
twisting it slightly, tugging on it. He glanced at Francesca sharply and she
looked away. What must he think of her? Would he tell Gerald of their earlier
encounter? Gerald was such a stickler for politeness. He'd be angry at how she
had behaved.
Roland sat back in his chair. 'A most delightful cunt,' he said. 'Just as I
like them, the lips full and well-defined, but not too fleshy all the same.'
Despite the compliments, Francesca found it humiliating to be inspected
like this, as if she were some prize exhibit in a livestock show. And yet the
shame was arousing too; not least because she knew that it excited Gerald to
treat her in this manner.
'Turn round,' Gerald said.
Francesca turned and faced the fire.
'Lovely,' Roland said. 'Truly one of the finest asses I've seen. Trim and
firm, but perfectly round and ripe. I imagine it must be hard not to beat such
an ass excessively.'
'Indeed,' said Gerald.
'What do you use?'
'Well,' said Gerald, 'When I began with Francesca, she was recalcitrant and
obstinate. I started with a strap, then moved on to a whip. But I soon realised
that what she really needed was the cane. Nothing else had quite the same
galvanising effect. I usually get her warmed up first with a bit of
hand-spanking and perhaps a leather belt. After dinner you shall have a try, if
you wish.'
Francesca didn't like the sound of this. Of course she was used by now to
the regular beatings from Gerald. But he knew how to arouse her at the same time
as he beat her, so that pain and pleasure were mingled; the more she had of one
the more she wanted the other. But she had no way of knowing how Roland would
deal with her; perhaps he would not have Gerald's finesse in these matters. And
perhaps he might not care about her pleasure. He might simply want to punish
her. She wished she hadn't been so rude.
Mrs Carruthers entered to announce dinner. They sat on three sides of the
table, Francesca between the two men. From time to time Gerald put his hand out
and stroked her thigh where it was naked between the stocking and her corset.
Once he put his finger up inside her, while still continuing his conversation
with Roland.
After dessert they took their coffee in the library. Gerald poured Roland a
large brandy and lit himself a cigar. Roland, it appeared, did not smoke. The
two men chatted for a while about business matters, ignoring her. Gerald knew
how much she hated this, to be treated as if she wasn't there. Was he doing it
to demonstrate to Roland his absolute mastery of her?
Gerald got up to pour Roland another brandy.
'So,' he said, 'are you in the mood to use Francesca?'
'Oh, yes, very much so,' Roland answered.
'Good,' said Gerald. 'I shall give you carte blanche. If you follow me I'll
show you the facilities.'
The two men got up to leave the room. Gerald snapped his fingers for
Francesca to follow. That was something else he knew she hated, to be
imperiously ordered around as if she was of no account. But she walked after
them dutifully, moving carefully on her high heels.
They went up the stairs and along the corridor. Gerald opened a door and
turned on the light. There were no windows in the room. Along one wall was a
series of wooden cupboards. Opposite, metal rings were set into the wall, some
above head height, others lower down. In the middle of the room was a large
wooden bench, and at the far end a wooden rail, waist-high, securely attached to
the floor. Francesca had become well acquainted with these furnishings in the
course of her visits.
'I think you will see that there is everything here for your convenience,'
Gerald said.
He began opening the cupboards. Inside one were racks of various
implements: whips, paddles, straps, canes. In another cupboard was equipment for
restraint: cuffs and collars, gags and spreader-bars. A drawer contained a
variety of ingenious devices for the infliction of pain: nipple clamps, larger
clamps for the labia or tongue, needles, some items of electrical equipment. Yet
another drawer held vibrators and dildos of various sizes. Francesca had not yet
been subjected to all these items, but she imagined that in the fullness of time
she would experience most of them.
'Take your time,' Gerald said. 'Francesca is inclined to make a lot of
noise, but you will not disturb anyone in here. The room is well sound-proofed.
Although she will protest, you should take no notice. She is a strong girl with
plenty of stamina. Which is just as well; she can be stubborn, which means that
extreme measures are sometimes required. She can also, as you tell me you have
already discovered, be rude, even insolent. But I expect you know how to deal
with that.'
Francesca flashed what was intended to be a withering look at Gerald. So he
knew what had happened on the train after all! And all this time he'd pretended
not to! It was so deceitful. Gerald saw this look, and replied with a sardonic
smile, which made her blood turn cold. I'm for it now, she thought.
'Well, enjoy yourself,' Gerald said.
'Are you not staying?' Roland enquired.
'I like the thought of her being used by someone else, but I'm not sure if
I'm quite ready to watch it yet. I might be a little squeamish, which you would
find inhibiting.'
With that, Gerald went out, closing the door behind him.
In the corner was a large armchair. Roland sat down.
'Well, Francesca, what have you got to say for yourself?'
Francesca gave him a defiant look, but kept silent.
'I think some punishment is inevitable, but it could be considerably
mitigated were you to offer an apology.'
Still Francesca said nothing. Roland was undeniably good-looking, but she
didn't care for his air of arrogant condescension, as if she was a wayward
schoolgirl. Even to Gerald she found it difficult to humble herself. She wasn't
going to do it with Roland.
'Come here,' he snapped.
Reluctantly she inched forward. Roland reached out and took hold of the
little silver ring between her legs. Without warning he twisted it hard.
Francesca let out a gasp and instinctively brought her hands down to her sex.
Roland let go and stood up.
'Stand there,' he said. 'Don't move.'
He went to one of the drawers and returned with two leather wrist-cuffs and
a leather collar. He fixed the cuffs on Francesca's wrists, then linked them
together behind her back with a small padlock. He buckled the collar round her
neck. He went back to the drawer and found a short metal chain with clips at
each end. He drew her wrists up and chained them tight to the ring at the back
of the collar.
He opened another drawer and rummaged around. Francesca wondered what he
was looking for. At length he found it, a long thin chain, with a small clip at
one end. Bending down, he carefully attached the clip to the ring between her
legs and stood up, the other end of the chain in his hand. He tugged suddenly on
the chain. Francesca cried out in pain.
'Now,' he said, 'we've established who's in charge. That's some progress,
at least.'
He moved away, then pulled again on the chain, harder this time. Francesca
cried out once more, then stumbled towards him.
'I think Gerald has been too soft on you,' he said. 'If you were mine, you
wouldn't go around with such a haughty manner. I'd see to that.'
He yanked the chain once more. Francesca wanted him to stop doing that. But
she couldn't bring herself to plead. Not yet. Roland came closer, standing with
his face an inch away from hers, staring into her eyes. He began to pull the
chain upwards, harder and harder. Francesca stood on tiptoe, but still he pulled
upwards. Her eyes were watering with the pain. She was afraid she might tear,
the pain was so bad. At last she screamed. Roland let go.
'I think I'm getting through to you, aren't I?' he said.
He unclipped the chain. He sat in the chair and told her to stand beside
him. He put his hand between her legs and toyed with the ring, twisting it
lightly this way and that. After the pain it was soothing to be touched in this
way. Then he slipped his finger into her cunt. He moved it around and in and out
several times, took it out and examined it.
'Strange,' he said, 'how pain can get the juices flowing.'
He led her to the wooden rail at the far end of the room and pushed her
over it. Attached to the floor was a leather strap. Roland clicked the end of
the strap on to the front of Francesca's collar, then adjusted the strap so that
her head was nearly touching the floor. At the base of the two posts that
supported the rail were more leather straps, which he fastened around her
ankles. She was now securely pinioned, bent double, tightly restrained hand and
foot, her legs slightly apart, her bottom naked and defenceless.
'Listen to me carefully,' Roland said. 'You're not dealing with Uncle
Gerald now. I'm going to give you just one minute to make a proper apology for
your behaviour on the train. If you do so, I shall limit your punishment to just
a dozen strokes of the cane, though they will be pretty stiff ones. If you don't
seize this opportunity it will be worse, much worse. And if there's been no
apology then once I've started your punishment no amount of begging or crying
will make me stop until I have given you what you deserve. So, it's your
decision.'
He glanced at his watch. Francesca's emotions were a mixture of fear,
indignation and pride. She sensed that Roland was capable of meting out far more
severe treatment than any she had received from Gerald; she didn't yet know
quite what her limits were, but she had little doubt Roland could go beyond
them. Yet she resented his conceit and presumption, and she hated the thought of
humiliating herself before him. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of giving
in. And below all this was something more, the strangely perverse desire that
always came upon her at the thought of whip or cane, the knowledge that
exultation would come if only she could bear for long enough the searing pain
upon her naked flesh.
'Time is running out,' said Roland. 'Only twenty seconds left.'
Francesca counted the seconds down. When there were five left she took a
deep breath.
'Fuck off,' she said.
Roland gave a little laugh, as if disbelieving of her defiance. He went
over to the cupboards and inspected the implements hanging up. He took hold of a
cane and tried it, swishing it viciously through the air. Despite her
determination not to show fear, Francesca could not stop her knees trembling.
Apparently dissatisfied, Roland tried another cane, cutting a swathe through the
air, then tapping it lightly on his palm and flexing it. This one would do.
'I'm afraid that this time there won't be any gentle warm-up,' he said.
'It's punishment, not titillation.'
He stood behind her, at right angles. She felt him touch the cane lightly
against her bottom, finding the range. She could just see him out of the corner
of her eye as his arm rose above his shoulder. She held her breath, heard the
cane whistle down and smack against her backside. For a split second there was
no pain, then it cut into her like a knife, full across both buttocks, forcing
the breath out of her in a moan.
Roland stood still for several seconds, allowing the full force of the blow
to seep into the tender flesh. Then he raised the cane again. Francesca gritted
her teeth. The blow struck her almost exactly in the same place, doubling the
agony. She tried to hold herself firm, tried to stop her body shaking. She
closed her eyes, imagining the cane rising again, but not wanting to see it. The
third blow was slightly below the first two, but no less fierce. She had never
felt anything like this. The pain seemed to go right through into the bone.
Again the cane struck her, and again. She could feel that he was making a
pattern, two in one spot, two just below, then two above. The cane was slicing
into her, lacerating her bottom. She wondered if he was drawing blood.
Though she still felt pride and indignation, she knew she couldn't stand
this to go on for ever. Sooner or later she would have to beg. Either that or be
beaten senseless. As the strokes rained down she tried to rise above the pain,
to float free of her body, to breath deeply and absorb it, not fight it. But
none of this was working. It hurt too much.
The blows went on, each stinging as badly as the one before. She lost
count. Was it twenty or thirty? Pride or not, she now cried out at every stroke.
But just when she thought she could bear no more, the miracle happened, as so
often before. Her buttocks had become inflamed, burning, and the heat was
surging through her loins. As the cane continued its pitiless scourging, her sex
caught fire, throbbing with desire. Now she gloried in her martyrdom, rejoiced
in the excruciating rapture of her torment. Each stroke now was testament to her
triumph and fuel to her blazing passion.
At last Roland laid down the cane. She could hear him breathing hard, above
her sobbing.
'Now,' he said, 'I'll hear that apology.'
No, she thought, I cannot give in now. Yet she knew that if he started
again it would be unbearable.
'Come,' he said. 'Surely you cannot endure more.'
She was silent. She wondered if she had him now.
'Very well,' he said. 'A truce?'
'Yes,' she whispered. 'A truce.'
He stroked her buttocks with his fingers, delicately tracing the weals the
cane had raised. His hand felt cool on her burning skin. He loosed her chains
and unbound her wrists. She stood up, stretching herself, gingerly touching her
bottom.
'I'm impressed,' he said. 'I don't mind admitting.'
'Then I'll admit I was a little rude,' she said.
'Perhaps I was intrusive,' he conceded.
She gave him a steady look. 'I suppose you'd like to fuck me now.'
He was silent for a moment.
'Only if you'll let me.'
She smiled. 'Only if you're very careful.'
