STORY: Dark Desires - M/f, BDSM
John Simmons
flunky in a New York law office, the recruiter had asked. After all, it
would take years of sixty hour work weeks as a researcher, law clerk,
then menial associate, before anyone in the firm would treat me with any
respect or dignity. And then what? An early ulcer or a heart attack.
Now, the FBI was a career with a future, with dignity and respect.
Plenty of career advancement was possible with the United States Justice
department, and without the bone-weary hours, the years of being treated
like a lackey, and the constant brown nosing to arrogant, sexist
partners. And best of all, excitement, excitement, excitement!
Well, I'd hated school, every miserable hour of it, sitting cooped
up, dull eyed, in a dull room full of other dull eyed people, listening
to a dull professor drone on about dull old cases that didn't interest
me. The thought of year upon year of paperwork, and toadying to
misogynistic bigshots had been preying on my mind more and more as I
neared the end of my unimpressive tenancy in law school.
So the FBI guy hit me at just the right point in time, and I fell
for it. Off I went, the law school graduate, two hundred and thirty
seventh in a class of three eighty five, skipping merrily down the path
to the FBI academy, to learn all about crime fighting; fingerprinting,
gunplay, hand to hand combat, DNA typing, interrogation techniques,
crime patterning, and... oh yes, paperwork.
So much for avoiding boring drudgery. As for being treated like a
lackey, well, the FBI is a semi-military organization, everybody is
somebody's lackey. The bosses were every bit as sexist as any old law
partner, and the brown nosing that went on was incredible. The only part
of the plan that went right were the hours, and that was because budget
constraints ruled out overtime.
Still, just like at law school, I'd come too far down the road to
just quit. And so I took my place every morning at my ancient government
desk, in a large, grotesquely unattractive room filled with three dozen
other ancient government desks, and shovelled through paperwork and
computer tape. Waiting for something new to come up.
I felt like a deer in the night frozen in a pair of bright
headlights. His eyes met mine, caught them, and then he smiled and I
felt a warmth in my belly which rapidly sank down into my lower abdomen.
I could literally feel my nipples tightening within the cups of my lacy
French cut bra.
“Agent Ryan, this is David Mills,” he said. “From MI5. He’s
English,” he added helpfully.
Idiot.
I nodded as if this had been quite interesting information.
“David is looking for our assistance in an investigation his
department is running in the British Virgin Islands.”
Lovely. It was February, cold, chilly and dry out. Even hearing
name of the Virgin Islands brought a contented image of palm trees,
white sandy beaches and blue waves washing ashore to mind.
“It involves a Hong Kong crime syndicate,” Mills said, his accented
voice so deep and smooth it made my legs tremble and that heat in my
lower belly flare up anew.
“We believe they’re running drugs through there, down through the
Panama Canal, and up through New Orleans.”
All lovely, warm places.
“One of the heads of this group is coming to the United States
tomorrow, to Buffalo, and we want to see what happens.”
My heart sank a little, images of palm trees blown away by a
blizzard of snow.
“The reason Mr. Mills has specifically asked for you is this person
is female, young and female, and likes to party. He feels, and of
course, I agree, that a young female of comparative age would be less
noticeable in the environments she might be likely to ah, inhabit.”
Idiot.
“I’ll be happy to do anything I can to help,” I said.
“A single person alone is far more noticeable in the nightclubs
she’s going to go to than a man and woman,” Mills said. “Do you have
suitable clothing for that sort of thing?”
“Suitable?” I asked in surprise.
“She tends towards the ah, darker forms of pleasure.”
“I don’t understand?”
“The Bureau will reimburse reasonable clothing purchases for the
purpose of undercover work,” Peter said.
I nodded uncertainly, wondering if that meant designer dresses I
could get to keep.
“We’ll have other agents involved, of course,” Peter said. “Male
and female teams where possible.” He frowned, as if the very thought was
unpleasant.
“I’m, as you might have noticed, rather tall,” Mills said, smiling.
My nipples hardened again.
“And so a tall girl helps me blend in.”
I would have resented the term “girl” from anyone here, but he made
it sound so natural I found myself smiling at him.
“I will brief you further later on,” he said.
“Of course, “I responded, a tad breathless.
The briefing turned into a “debriefing”, but more on that later.
We went to a small Chinese café, where he ordered in, so far as I
could tell, flawless Mandarin and then turned deliciously deep blue eyes
on me from across a narrow table.
“You’re quite a lovely girl, Gwendolyn,” he said. “I hadn’t
expected to find a girl as beautiful as you working for the dreary
people at the FBI.”
No one calls me Gwendolyn. “Gwen,” I said, smiling.
Apparently the Brits didn’t have courses in sexual harassment. No
one at work would have dared spoken like that to me. To each other, yes,
whispering in corners, giggling like schoolboys, but not where I could hear.
“What do you know about bondage?” he asked.
To say I was shocked would have been a gross understatement. My jaw
dropped again and my heart gave a little flutter.
“Excuse me?” I asked, drawing back a little.
Frankly, my sex life, such as it is, or has been, was nothing to
write home about. A few very basic, very plain, unremarkable, and not
particularly erotic interactions with a few fairly forgettable men, most
involving a lot of alcohol and varying degrees of physical and emotional
messiness.
“Kim-Le is the woman we’ll be watching. She’s very much into the
BDSM scene.”
“Uh - oh,” I said.
“I take it you’re not on particularly intimate terms with that
particular sexual interest,” he said, grinning as he sipped from his
green tea.
I blushed, which I do with unpleasant frequency and shook my head
rapidly.
“Basically it’s a psychological game of dominance and submission.
One side gets to feel powerful and in control, stroking their sadistic
fantasies. The other side gets much the same, only in reverse. They get
to give someone else control. They don’t have to make decisions, don’t
have to feel guilt. They’re merely the object of the actions and so they
feel a measure of excitement in this.”
“Uh huh,” I said uncertainly.
“Kim-Le” is a dominant.
“You mean she likes to tie people up and spank them,” I said.
“That’s a gross simplification,” he said his eyes chiding me. “I
think we should visit one of the local BDSM gatherings so you can get an
idea of what it’s like. We’ll be going to a few of them when Kim-Le
arrives and I think you’ll rather stand out if you’re gaping and gasping
at everything you see.”
I blushed anew and gave an apologetic little smile. “I guess I’m
very, uhm, Middle-America,” I said.
“Not to worry. You’re an intelligent girl. I’m sure you’ll absorb
the basics fairly quickly. We’ll pick you up some proper wear and visit
one of the local places tonight.” “Uh, proper ware?”
He grinned even more deeply, but there was an amused sense of the
malicious in that grin, and I licked my lips nervously.
“You can’t very well walk into one of these places dressed like
that,” he said.
I was wearing a dark blue suit with white blouse.
“Well, no, but - .”
“And no jeans either.”
“Well what - .”
He chuckled and I frowned at him. I was not used to people laughing
at my ignorance and didn’t like it.
We left the café and were soon driving down Sixth Avenue, Mills
grinning at me every now and then while I kept frowning and feeling more
and more uncomfortable with the thought of what I’d be expected to wear.
“No!”
“Oh come on, Gwendolyn. Let me see it.”
“It’s far too small!”
“It’s your size, my dear.”
“I’ll find something else.”
His voice became less patient. “Gwendolyn, don’t be tiresome. This
is business, not pleasure.”
I hesitated, then, blushing furiously, pulled aside the curtain and
stepped out of the dressing room.
“It’s really quite modest,” he said.
“Are you kidding?”
The leather skirt barely covered my bottom. And I now towered over
him with the addition of eight inch heels. Above the skirt I wore a
studded leather “jacket” of sorts. It was short enough to bare several
inches of belly above the low slung skirt, and had a deeply plunging
front which showed off more cleavage than I had ever shown anyone in
public before. It was so low cut I hadn’t been able to wear a bra, not
that one was needed, for it was tight against my breasts, squeezing them
up and together. I was a thirty-four C, but I now had the cleavage of a
D cup.
His eyes lingered on that cleavage and I swallowed repeatedly,
feeling a flutter in my stomach and a breathlessness which almost had me
trembling.
“Just one final touch,” he said.
He had a studded leather collar in his hand, and before I could
shake my head with a firm “no!” he’d slipped it around my throat and was
buckling it.
The odd thing was, as embarrassed as I was, I felt a hot thrill of
sexual electricity roll through me at the feel of his fingers against
the soft skin of my throat. And then when his fingers slid into my hair
I felt a sudden inclination to thrust my rump back against him.
He undid the long, loose braid I usually kept my hair in and combed
my just past the shoulder length blonde hair out, then turned me towards
a nearby full length mirror.
I looked, I had to admit, quite sexy. Quite slutty, too, and I had
to look around nervously to see if anyone from the office was nearby.
“I can’t be seen in this,” I complained.
“It’ll be quite dark, and believe me, you’ll be wearing a lot more
than most of the girls will.” He nodded at the rows of cupless leather
bras and chain halters hanging from hooks.
I said no quite firmly, putting my foot down - and nearly stumbling
on the unfamiliar heels, and he blithely ignored me. I said no even as
we were going outside, the purchases in several boxes and bags. I said
no as he was driving me back to my apartment, and no as we were sipping
coffee and he was explaining to me how the opium was being used to
corrupt the Chinese government which had taken over control of Hong Kong
And I said no even as he was changing, in my bathroom, into the
gear he had brought with him. Although, frankly, the thought of him
naked in my bathroom was making my pussy muscles contract again and again.
And when he emerged he took my breath away. I was expecting some
silly leather jacket with one of those odd little hats. I literally
stumbled back, and that was just in slippers, when he stepped out of the
bathroom.
He was wearing tight, short leather shorts which showed a distinct
bulge in the front, a distinctly large bulge. His legs were heavily
muscled, thick, and deliciously sculpted. I’d never really paid much
attention to mens’ legs before, but his were just beautiful.
But I paid them only scant heed, for he wore little above the
shorts but a kind of strap and chain setup which left his magnificently
muscled chest and washboard stomach almost entirely bare. The straps
across them merely seemed to accentuate the muscular development of his
barrel like chest, the well defined pectoral muscles, and the wide,
heavy shoulders.
My mind went “Ungh!” and I just stared.
“How do I look?” he asked, smiling a little bashfully.
“Uhm, uh, okay,” I said, my voice squeaking a little.
“Now you.”
‘Oh I can’t...”
And of course, I did, and emerged blushing again, feeling very
silly, but at the same time feeling deeply aroused as he pulled me in
against him, his arm on my hip, and we examined ourselves in the big
mirror over my dresser.
“Right pair of perves we look,” he said cheerfully.
“Uh huh,” was my dry mouthed reply.
I squirmed mentally as we rode the elevator down, even though we
were both wearing long coats over our leather. The coat couldn’t hide
the eight inch heels, what my girlfriends and I had always dismissed as
“fuck my ass” heels, heels which lifted a girl’s ass up and pushed it
out invitingly, plump and round and ready.
I hoped desperately that it was “very” dark at this club we were
going to.
Did I mention he was driving a Jaguar? I can’t tell you how odd it
felt sitting in that beautiful car, my body squeezed everywhere by soft
leather, this incredibly gorgeous man sitting next to me giving me
teasing little looks.
Anxiety gnawed at my belly, which was probably a good thing, else
I’d have been so hot he’d have smelled my pussy in the warm confines of
the car. Even with the anxiety I was wondering just how much more
familiar he was with bondage than he letting on, and whether it might be
one of his own personal interests. I let my mind drift just once onto
the fantasy of being tied down spreadeagled on a bed with him over me
and my breasts instantly swelled with heat, my breathing grew deeper,
and I felt my lower belly throb and pulse with hunger.
I tore my mind rapidly away and started thinking about the least
arousing things I could; my parents, my grandparents, the guys at work.
And then we were there, and I felt the pressure on my chest grow
painful as he parked and, like a gentleman, walked around to the
passenger door and opened it, helping me stand.
“Don’t forget,” he said, as if he had ever mentioned it before,
“you’re the slave. I’m your master.”
“What!?”
I craned my head over my shoulder as he pushed me towards the door.
“A collar signifies submission,” he said. “But don’t worry. You
belong to me so no one will touch you without my permission.”
“But - .”
“Otherwise every guy and girl in there would be trying to pick you up.”
Which made sense, but I was still shocked and confused as he opened
a heavy, polished wooden door and led me into a noisy, brightly lit bar.
I gave him an infuriated glare at how bright the lighting was, but
he affected not to notice, his arm around my waist as he led me over to
the coat check.
Had everyone else in the room not been dressed - or undressed - to
the degree they were I would have refused to open my coat. Even as it
was he had to tug it out of my hands and pull it off my unwilling
shoulders to pass it to the goth girl behind the counter.
The room was full of beautiful and unbeautiful people in leather
and chains. Several were not only collared but leashed, and they were
showing, on average, almost as much flesh as you’d expect to see at a
beach. Except this wasn’t a beach, so all that pale flesh looked -
unnatural.
And there were things you wouldn’t normally see at a beach, like
the middle aged guy with no rear to his leather pants, showing off his
entire hairy ass. And the fake blonde (why oh why do all slutty women
dye their hair blonde?) Wearing a leather bra with holes over her
nipples. A chain hung down between her nipples, clipped to them, and I
winced, my hand almost sliding up to feel my own sensitive little pink
buttons.
“Now remember, stay in character,” he whispered. “If you don’t know
what to do then just drop your eyes submissively and don’t speak.”
That was easy to do, if quite unlike me, and I was anxious enough
to be grateful for the advise as he led me up to the bar. I downed a
brand neat - and fast, and gasping, asked for another. The bartender
ignored me, looking to Mills instead. He nodded tolerantly and I looked
up at him in confusion.
“I’ll decide what you drink, slave,” he said sternly.
I barely kept from rolling my eyes, and instead nodded submissively.
Aside from the dress it seemed a fairly normal bar, but then I
noticed the pounding music was coming from the rear corner, where a
doorway led into a darkened area - another part of the club.
I took the next Brandy, a double, and sipped it more carefully as
we headed for the doorway. I felt my anxiety returning, but with a sense
of relief. It had felt like everyone in the bar was staring at my
breasts and I was happy to see this other area was much darker.
Once past the doorway a heady smell of incense filled the air. We
were in a long, winding hall, the walls and roof painted black. We
emerged in a long dark party room the walls broken up and separated into
alcoves by inch thin partitions. As with the hall, the walls and roof
were black. The lighting was dim an recessed, and made use of ultra
violet and red bulbs to give the place an eerie atmosphere, especially
with the smoke, both tobacco and grass, floating through the air.
The first alcove we came to widened my eyes. There was a very young
girl there, no more than eighteen. She was entirely nude, just standing
there, legs attached to a three foot long bar to keep them apart. Her
arms were bound together behind her back and pulled downwards to attach
to a ring set in the floor so that her back arched and perfect -
obviously phoney - breasts were thrust up and out.
Both were pierced and be-ringed, as was her belly button, as was
her clitoral hood. She was completely shaved, so that her neat, tight
pussy was embarrassingly visible. In fact, I’d never seen a woman in
public who was quite so naked before, even the naked ones. Her eyes were
somewhat glazed and she seemed to sway in place to the music. To keep
her from swaying too far, her (dyed) blonde hair was bound in a braid at
the top of her head and attached to a chain. A sign was taped to the
wall beside her which said “For sale”.
There was a large man standing next to her, easily old enough to be
her father. He was speaking to an even older man with gray hair. The
latter couldn’t keep his eyes off the girl and though I couldn’t make
out their conversation it very much appeared as though they were
negotiating a price. All play acting, I thought. And then wondered.
The older man moved closer to the girl and let his hands move over
her body, starting with the breasts. She didn’t even seem to notice at
first, high on something, and when she did only moaned softly, her
glassy eyes blinking up at him unseeing.
It wasn’t hard to imagine she was some schoolgirl or young college
girl who had been kidnapped and was being sold into a life of sexual
slavery. I knew that was preposterous, of course, and yet the idea grew
in me to the point I wanted to call someone, the local Vice Squad,
perhaps, to make sure.
Other people were fondling the girl in passing, but she seemed
almost oblivious to it. Several asked the price from the large man, but
his reply was always too low for me to make out.
And then Mills stepped closer to the girl. I swallowed in surprise,
then shock as he let his hand cup one of her breasts. The girl showed no
sign she was even aware of him and he let his hand slide down her smooth
belly to her sex. I wanted to slap his arm away but instead just stared
as he began to gently rub his two middle fingers against her clitoris.
In a moment the teenager began to moan and roll her hips. Her eyes
fluttered and blinked as she tried to raise her head and stare at him.
He leaned forward and put his lips next to her ear, then whispered
something which had her eyes widening, or at least, opening. His fingers
continued to rub at her clit, and I could see her chest begin to rise
and fall with growing speed.
I felt embarrassed, for her, for him, and for myself. Several
people were watching, grinning, and I looked for some quiet, dark corner
to hide myself away.
The girl let out a soft cry, arching her back even more sharply,
her head shaking drunkenly from side to side. Mills was still whispering
something into her ear and her own mouth was opening and closing without
speaking. Her eyes closed and she cried out as she pulled too far
against the chain holding her braid and was jerked back.
Mills stepped back then, and the “owner” if that was what he was,
laughed as she continued to thrust her hips out where his fingers had been.
“Let me show you why she’s special,” he said to the older man.
He picked up a whip, a short handled leather thing with long strips
attached, stepped up to the girl’s right, and then swung it at her
upturned breasts. The leather hit with a sharp snapping sound and the
girl cried out in pain, flung back against the hold on her hair, then
forward again. Her eyes were wide and shocky looking as she tried to
discover the source of the unexpected pain.
The man swung again and again the girl cried out, flung back
against the pull of her hair. I could see the thin dark lines the first
blow had left emerging on her pale skin now, and started forward, only
to be grasped firmly by Mills, who shook his head and bent to whisper
into my ear. “Don’t interfere. You’ll see far worse than this later.”
Another blow slashed across the girl’s breasts, with similar
results. She was sobbing now, twisting her body from side to side,
pulling at the chain binding her wrists down. Another blow flung her
back and she screamed.
The man barked an order, and she steadied herself, and then drew
her arms back, pushing her breasts out further. The whip snapped down
and she shuddered her head thrashing. Another blow and she let out a
long, guttural moan. Her breasts were red with pain now, and the man
swung again. She hissed and shuddered. Yet she kept her back arched as
the whip cut into her tender flesh once more.
Then her head snapped to one side, and her hips began to buck
forward in a frenzied fashion. One of the men standing nearby slipped
his fingers in and thrust them into her and she cried out in a way which
could not be misinterpreted.
She was having an orgasm.
It stunned me to watch. The girl’s “owner” continued to whip her
red breasts and chest as her head rolled bonelessly and her hips ground
her pussy forward onto the fingers digging into her body.
Then Mills was tugging on my arm, leading me away.
“These people are sick!” I gulped, sweating under my leather top.
“We all have our likes and needs,” he said blandly.
“What were you doing?!” I demanded, glaring at him.
“Blending in.”
“Everyone else wasn’t groping that poor girl!” I said accusingly.
“And what were you saying to her?”
“I was reminding her that everyone was watching her, and what a
filthy little slut she was.”
I stared at him in surprise.
“She found that very arousing.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t be so middle America. The whole idea here is to cast away
inhibitions and glory in the forbidden.”
To our right was another alcove. Another naked woman was bent over,
wrists attached to her ankles. I turned my head away, blushing, then
turned back, feeling terribly embarrassed by the scene. For she wasn’t
alone. A man was thrusting into her from the rear, and another knelt
before her, pulling her face into his groin as he drove his erection
into her mouth.
Further along, several people were gathered in a small group,
sipping their drinks and chatting. One of the participants, a plump
redhead, went to her knees and undid the front of one of the men’s
trousers, then began to suck him as the others looked down and laughed.
Similar types of scenes were everywhere, and as the shock value
eased I started to feel a bizarre fascination with it all, and no small
amount of sexual arousal. It was impossible to picture myself doing any
of the things they were, except in a fantasy, yet I found my pussy
beginning to quiver beneath my short skirt.
There were small tables set up here and there, where sexual toys
and fetish wear were being sold. They held everything from enormous
dildos to multi-coloured, multi-speed vibrators, chains and handcuffs,
ball gags and hoods, and fake vaginas which looked ugly and almost
laughably silly.
“How deep is she?”
We turned to see a large Black man standing before us, wearing a
leather vest. Next to him was a tall, striking looking black woman with
long hair combed straight back wearing a black leather cupless bra. Her
breasts were large, and the leather straps of the bra squeezed in around
their base to thrust them out firmly. Small bells were clipped to her
large brown nipples.
The man picked up one of the biggest, thickest dildos and pressed
it against the woman’s belly.
“Alex can take this one easily,” he said. “Thirteen inches long.”
“I prefer to use her for more natural implements,” Mills said with
a smile.
The instant I realized what they were talking about my face went
red, and if I weren’t so shocked I would have said something.
“I understand,” the man said, cackling with laughter.
Again, it was only the surprise which saved me from reacting when
he reached out and ran a hand up the back of my thigh and squeezed my ass.
“You let her arms free?” he asked in surprise.
The Black girl had her wrists neatly strapped together behind her back.
“It’s a reward for good behaviour,” Mills said.
“You don’t reward them with freedom,” the man said as if to a
simpleton. “You punish them for not behaving properly.”
“We each have our own ways,” Mills said.
“What do you think of these?” Mills said, nodding at a collection
of ball gags on the table.
“I like my bitch’s mouth to be free to work,” he said.
“But the sight of a ball gag is so sensuous, don’t you think?”
“Some people like it,” he said, looking at me suspiciously. “But
that slut of yours looks like her lips ought to be wrapped around
something more than leather or rubber.”
I opened my mouth at that point, but before I could say anything I
found it filled with something. Mills had deftly slipped a thick penis
gag through my lips, and just as deftly spun me around and pulled the
straps in behind me.
The Black man laughed, and I reached up to yank the thing free,
only to have my wrists pulled back behind me and pinned there with a
pair of leather restraints.
Mills spun me around again and I glared furiously at him, trying to
push at the rubbery tasting thing in my mouth to no avail. It was
pinning my tongue down. When I tried to twist free of him Mills gave me
a smack on the ass which made me squeal in pain.
“Don’t forget your place,” he said, glaring at me.
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From the ebook: Dark Desires, by Veronica Beacher. Available at
http://www.ebookblue.com/veronica_beacher_library.htm