The cab delivered her outside Mrs Atkinson’s house in Belgravia. The woman was of lowly origins, as was her husband, but Guinevere did not in the least look down on her for that. After all, she herself was not an aristocrat by birth, though married to one. Mr Atkinson had made a lot of money in some business which was never entirely clear, and his wife helped him spend it, one of her favourite amusements being the hosting of soirees for ladies who wished to indulge certain tastes with the security of complete discretion. Guinevere walked up the steps and rang the bell. After a short delay the door was opened by a young man with a pretty face and long hair. His name, she knew, was Julian. He regularly attended Mrs Atkinson on such occasions, offering various services, some of which, she suspected, were performed in Mrs Atkinson’s bedroom after the guests had left. But for the moment he took people’s coats, showed them where the facilities were, brought them food and wine and generally attended to their requests.
As usual, Julian was naked except for some small steel nipple clamps, a leather collar round his neck and another collar around his cock and balls. And then, as he turned to conduct her across the hall, she noticed that this evening he was also fitted with a butt-plug, a silver one with a jewel at the centre. She felt a tingle at the base of her belly as she allowed herself to think of the delights in store. Julian himself was off-limits; though one might casually caress his cock or pinch his nipples, he was not available to be taken into one of the private rooms in the house, the official reason being that he was too busy waiting on guests, though everyone knew that Mrs Atkinson regarded him as her private property.
Julian showed Guinevere into the ante-room, where she might leave such of her clothes as she chose. He stood with his eyes cast modestly downwards as she took off her coat, her dress and her petticoat. She turned to pick up one of the little masks which were laid out on a table, knowing that Julian’s eyes would have gone to her bare bottom. In such circumstances, a little voyeurism was only to be expected, though she had never yet caught him out in unauthorised observations of her person. She chose a lacy black mask, covering only the upper portion of her face and leaving eyeholes, but it was enough to ensure anonymity, unless someone knew her very well. She checked in the mirror that the mask was an adequate disguise, and then indicated to Julian that she was ready to be conducted to Mrs Atkinson. He led her to the salon, ushering her into a large room, this evening lit only by candles, which gave it an intimate, even romantic appearance. Mrs Atkinson saw her and immediately came forward.
“My dear Lady Wycherley,” she enthused, kissing Guinevere on the cheek, “I am as ever delighted to see you. I hope we can offer you some amusement this evening.”
“Dear Mrs Atkinson,” Guinevere replied, “I am always happy to receive your invitations. Have you anyone new for me?”
“Indeed I have,” Mrs Atkinson said in a conspiratorial manner. “Later I shall introduce you to a young man who I am sure will arouse your interest. But first, come and have a glass of wine and meet your friends. Julian, champagne for the lady.”
Though Mrs Atkinson recognised her guest beneath the mask, it was the convention that all her visitors wore masks and went by a stage name. Many amused themselves by adopting names from history or legend of powerful, even fearsome, women. Guinevere went by the name of Salome. Mrs Atkinson took her across to two ladies on the other side of the room, engaged in earnest conversation. One of them was her friend Lydia, known here as Delilah. Guinevere embraced her warmly, then Mrs Atkinson introduced her to the other, an older woman, whose alias was Judith. Mrs Atkinson whispered in her ear that she was the Countess of Dumfries. It appeared the Countess had a mischievous turn of mind, and was fond of alluding to the story of Judith and Holofernes with the gentlemen she encountered. Like Guinevere, she was masked, and dressed in a long black shift, almost transparent, under which could be seen her large breasts and the triangle of dark hair at the base of her belly. Standing next to her was a man of about her own age, smartly dressed in evening clothes, except that his flies were open and his cock and balls exposed, tightly bound in a leather strap to which was attached a thin chain, the other end of which was firmly in the hand of the Countess. As she spoke to the others, she tugged on the chain occasionally and the man winced.
Despite, at Mrs Atkinson’s insistence, using an assumed name, Guinevere’s friend Lydia disdained any further attempt at secrecy and wore no mask, but then Lydia was an actress, albeit a distinguished one. She was married to the most famous actor-manager in the West End, and would be regarded by many of those who considered themselves to be high society as only a few steps up from a courtesan. As such, she was happy to flaunt herself, knowing that those who attended Mrs Atkinson’s events were expected to exercise discretion about revealing names or details of what went on at the soirees. And if they did not, well, what was that show business adage? There’s no such thing as bad publicity.
Lydia was naked except for white silk stockings, very like Guinevere’s own, and some little red boots. Her nipples had been painted red to match, and the lips of her shaved cunt were red also, an effect which her friend found both captivating and disturbing, like a hungry red mouth looking for food. At her feet knelt a naked boy, also on a leash, attached to a leather collar.
“I see your friend is dressed for the occasion,” Guinevere said to the Countess, indicating the gentleman in evening clothes.
“I think he’s a little surprised to find himself here,” she replied. “He wasn’t sure what to expect. I think he’s still not sure.”
“But you keep him on a very tight rein,” said Lydia, laughing. “That must give him a few ideas.”
“I’m the one with the ideas,” the Countess said, laughing too. “My dear, should you like to fondle him?”
“I should love to,” Lydia said. Still holding her boy’s leash with one hand, she passed her champagne glass to Guinevere and took hold of the man’s balls, squeezing them hard. He moaned softly. Then she took his cock in her hand and twisted it violently, so that the man cried out.
“Be quiet, or I shall have to punish you,” said the Countess sternly. Lydia winked at Guinevere. “Would you like to touch him too?” the Countess said to Guinevere.
“Indeed,” Guinevere said. She took the man’s cock in her hand and stroked it gently. It was hard now, jutting out at an angle of forty-five degrees. She had a sudden urge to hurt him. She put down the glasses she held and placed the palm of her left hand under the man’s cock, then brought her right hand down sharply, slapping him hard. He gave a little cry and stepped back.
“Keep still,” the Countess snapped, “or I’ll whip you till the blood flows.” There was a glint in her eye; she looks capable of it, Guinevere thought. She took hold of the man’s cock again and smacked it once more, even harder. The man gave a stifled grunt of pain, but held his position. Guinevere wanted to see pain in his eyes.
“Look at me,” she said. The man stared back. “Shall I hit you again?”
The man muttered something inaudible.
Guinevere smacked his cock again. “Answer me,” she ordered.
The man thought for a moment. “As you wish, madam,” he said.
“Good answer,” Guinevere said. She smacked him several more times. His cock was red. Then she let him go.
“Thank you, my dear,” the Countess said. “Have you no boy of your own?”
“No one regular,” Guinevere said. “But Mrs Atkinson has promised me someone this evening.”
“I wonder if I might ask you a favour?” Lydia said to the Countess.
“Of course, my dear. What is it?”
“My boy is rather bashful. In particular he is shy of other boys. But it is one of my pleasures to see boys perform together, and I am training him to perform such acts as I dictate without hesitation. It is my intention to turn him into a plaything for men or for women. And so I wonder if you would allow him to suck your gentleman’s cock.”
“My boy, you mean?” the Countess said. “They’re all boys to me. But of course. Do as you please.”
Lydia gave a hard tug on the leash of her boy, pulling him forward. “Now, little slut,” she said, “you will take this cock in your mouth, you will lick it and suck it, and you will take it right down to the back of your throat. If you do not do it well, I shall whip your balls. You remember what that felt like last time?”
The boy looked suitably scared of this threat, despite his apparent distaste for the act he was ordered to perform. He bent his head to the man’s cock and kissed the tip. He put his lips around the head of the cock and slowly pushed down. The man’s cock slid in halfway. Lydia put her hand on the back of his head and pushed it firmly downwards. The man’s cock disappeared a bit more, but the boy began to choke. Lydia held his head down until he was red in the face, then allowed him up for air. He gasped, spluttering and coughing.
“Get it in again,” Lydia ordered. “Right in, this time.”
The boy took a deep breath and wrapped his lips around the cock, his head going down until almost all the cock had disappeared. Lydia held him there for a minute or so, then let him come up again. “Better,” she said. “But you need more training.”
Guinevere had been watching not only the boy, but also the man’s face. There was little expression on it, no indication if he took pleasure from the act. Perhaps he’s not allowed pleasure, Guinevere mused. She knew that some boys were very strictly controlled, totally subjected to their mistress’s will, ruled with an iron hand. They were trained to give selfless service, and only that.
Mrs Atkinson approached again, drawing Guinevere to one side. “There’s a room free now,” she said. “Come and meet one of the new boys.” She led Guinevere across the room, to where a boy was in conversation with Julian. “Get back to work,” Mrs Atkinson said sharply to Julian, who scurried away. “Now,” she said, “this is Henry.”
Guinevere saw a boy of about twenty, quite tall, with curly black hair. He was naked except for a tiny leather cache-sexe. His body was smooth, with no hairs on his chest or genitals. He had a pretty face, with large brown eyes and a wide mouth. Guinevere noticed how long his eyelashes were. She saw that his eyes flickered quickly down to her groin, registering her naked cunt. For her part, Guinevere looked him up and down as if he were some sort of exhibit, or an item offered for sale in a market. She liked to put boys in their place right from the start. It didn’t do to treat them in a friendly manner if you intended to abuse them.
Mrs Atkinson led both the boy and Guinevere to an upstairs room. She ushered them in and gave Guinevere a big smile before closing the door behind her. Guinevere often wondered if there was some secret place from which those using the room might be observed. She knew there were women who enjoyed being voyeurs; it was not, as so often supposed, a habit exclusively of men. If so, she intended to give the spectator a good show.
“Down on the floor, on all fours,” Guinevere said to the boy. He had a slight smile on his face, as if it was all a game. Guinevere’s first objective would be to wipe that smile off.
“Do you know the submissive position?” Guinevere said.
“Yes, lady,” said the boy. He had a cockney accent.
“You will address me as miss,” Guinevere said. “Adopt the position.”
Henry stretched his arms out in front of him, with palms downwards, and pressed his face to the floor. He opened his legs about six inches, and raised his bottom, arching his back. Guinevere walked around him slowly. She put her foot on one of his hands, pressing the sharp heel down hard. Henry gasped. She lifted her foot and put it on the back of his neck, pressing down again. “Do you know what you are?” she said.
“No, miss,” he said.
“You are my sex-toy,” she said. “Something with which I may amuse myself. You will do as I say, and only as I say. Do you understand?”
“Yes, miss,” he said.
She walked around him again and stopped to press the point of her boot against his anus. “Have you been buggered, boy?” she asked.
“Yes, miss,” he said.
“By men or women?”
“Which do you prefer?”
“It’s not for me to prefer, miss,” he said.
“Good answer,” she said. “Have women fucked you with a strap-on?”
“Yes, miss,” he replied.
“Have you been whipped by a woman?”
“Have you been abused by a man while a woman watched?”
“You’ve been a busy little bee, haven’t you!” Guinevere said. Then she kicked him in the balls, lightly, enough to scare him but not hurt him much. “Stand up,” she said.
She took off the cache-sexe he wore and spent a few moments examining his cock. It was a good size, not unduly large but more than adequate. He was uncircumcised and she peeled back his foreskin. The head was a good shape; he was fully erect now, and the skin on the head of his cock was glassy smooth. She smacked it in the same manner she had used for the Countess’s man. The boy whimpered.
“Oh, shut up,” Guinevere said. “There’s a lot worse than that to come.” She went over to a chest against the wall, which contained a wide selection of equipment: restraints of all kinds, such as gags and straps, nipple clamps and cuffs, as well as whips, paddles, floggers, canes. Guinevere took out a length of soft cotton rope. She folded the rope in two, then looped it around Henry’s balls, drawing it tight and making a knot. She set off around the room, pulling the boy behind her, tugging hard on the rope. He followed meekly. When they came back to the chest she took out some leather wrist cuffs. She fastened them on his wrists, then clipped them behind him.
On the wall, at about head height, was an iron ring, set securely into the wall. She looped the end of the rope through the ring, then pulled hard until the boy was standing on tiptoe, his balls straining upwards as he faced the wall. She tied the rope to the ring, then stood behind him and took his nipples between thumb and forefinger. She pinched, lightly at first, then harder and harder, digging her nails into the boy’s flesh. He cried out.
“I don’t like a lot of noise,” Guinevere said. “Every time I hear a sound from you I shall lash you full force across your ass with a cane. I promise you it will be nasty. I’ll give you one now so you know what to expect.”
She went to the chest again and returned with a long thin cane. She swished it to and from. It was flexible but not too much so. She knew what sort of pain it could deliver; the last time she had used it on a boy he had screamed. But this time the boy was not allowed to scream. She stood behind Henry and tapped the cane against his bottom, measuring the distance. She raised her arm high and brought it down swiftly. The cane whistled and there was a sharp crack as it struck the boy’s naked behind. There was a sort of stifled, agonised gasp. A livid red line appeared across his buttocks.
“I’m going to whip you now,” she said. “It won’t be as bad as the cane, but it will hurt.” She fetched a martinet whip from the chest. She trailed it down his back and over his bottom, watching as the goose-bumps appeared on his skin. Then she swung the whip, landing it across his shoulders. She knew the pain would be uncomfortable, more than was pleasant, yet bearable, at least for a time. She worked down his back, paying particular attention to his buttocks, until they were glowing red. Then she worked down the back of his thighs to his calves. He started jumping about and lifted up a leg.
“Keep still,” she said. “Or it’s the cane again.”
Henry did his best not to move, but it was hard. The whip was stinging like crazy now, as if it was taking little bites out of him. He enjoyed pain delivered by a beautiful lady, but he had his limits, and they were fast approaching.
Guinevere paused. She was breathing hard, not so much from the effort of flogging, but because nothing aroused her so much as hurting a pretty boy. She loved to hear their stifled gasps and cries, loved to see them hop about even though it was forbidden to move or make a sound. Her sadistic streak enjoyed forcing them to break the very rules she set out.
She stood behind him and pinched his nipples some more. She nuzzled up against his ear, whispering to him as she squeezed and twisted. His nipples were hard, like cherry stones. “Does it hurt, little boy? Oh dear. Do you want the cruel lady to stop? But she is having so much pleasure from hurting you. The more you suffer, the more aroused she becomes.” He groaned as she dug her nails into his nipples. “Oh dear,” she said. “I told you to be quiet, didn’t I? I fear you must be punished again.”
“Oh please,” he whimpered. “I’m doing my best.”
“Your best is not good enough for me,” she said sternly. “You need encouragement to do better.”
She picked up the cane and swung it, striking him almost exactly where the first stroke had landed. The boy let out a cry.
“Still you make a noise?” Guinevere snapped. “Then you must have another stroke.”
Henry was trembling. Truly there was nothing like the cane, aimed by an experienced woman, to make a boy afraid. The cane lashed down, once more across the centre of his bottom. Henry bit his lip, trying not to cry out.
“That’s better,” said Guinevere. She untied the rope from the ring on the wall and, pulling on it hard, led him to the bed. She told him to lie down on his back. She could see that his balls were a deep purple now, but she had no inclination to release them, not yet. Still wearing her corset, she got onto the bed and straddled him, facing towards his feet. Slowly she lowered her hips, carefully positioning herself so that as she sat on him his nose was pressed into the crack of her bottom, and her cunt was forced down against his mouth. She let her full weight press down on him. After a while his face grew red and he tried to move in order to get some air. Guinevere took up the rope around his balls and pulled it hard.
“Keep still,” she said. His face got redder still. At last she lifted her hips just enough for him to suck in some air. Then she lowered them again. “Now, boy,” she said, “it’s time for you to get to work. I’m going to pull on your balls and pinch your nipples until I have come as many times as I wish.” Still pulling hard on the rope, she pinched a nipple with her other hand. She moved a little on his face, grinding her cunt into his mouth, finding just the right position so that her clit pressed against where his upper lip covered his teeth. She needed something firm against which to rub her clit. Once she found it, she knew she could bring herself off as soon as she liked. But it was much too pleasurable to conclude quickly. She continued to pull the rope around his balls, switching her other hand from one nipple to another, occasionally letting him gasp in some air but then closing off his breathing once more. Face-sitting, she decided, was one of her favourite things.
Finally she came, pressing her clit against him with full force, grinding out an orgasm. She lifted off for a while, allowing him to breathe again, but then settled back on his face. The second orgasm was usually the best, when the first fierce stab of desire had been staunched, and she could relax, taking time over her pleasure. She came again, more slowly, more luxuriantly. Then, after a brief pause, she came again. She didn’t really need a third orgasm, it was simply greed, and the pleasure of continuing the ordeal of the boy between her legs.
At last she got off and untied the rope round his balls. “Follow me,” she said. Henry got unsteadily to his feet and padded after Guinevere into the bathroom. She ran the bidet. “Get some soap and wash me,” she said, taking off her corset. She sat down and splashed water on her cunt, then lifted up a little. Henry took a bar of soap and began to wash her between her legs, carefully working the lather into every fold. He loved this, handling the cunt of a beautiful woman. He knew she would not let him fuck her; such women almost never did. Denial was part of their pleasure. But his cock got hard from the contact. She sat down, her soapy cunt in the water, so that he could rinse there. Then she stood up, water trickling down the inside of her thighs, drops twinkling in the dark, clipped hairs above.
“Dry me,” she said. He spent rather more time than was strictly necessary wiping all the water from her, but she was in the mood to indulge him, if only a little. She took hold of his cock, which was still erect, and led him back into the bedroom. She pushed him down on the bed and sat beside him, still holding his cock. She began to rub it, very slowly. She knew he would need more stimulation than this to come, even though he was excited. She bent and kissed the tip of his cock, then circled it with her tongue. She pressed it lightly against her nipples, first one then the other.
She resumed stroking his cock with her hand, a little faster. His breathing grew deeper. It was something she always enjoyed, learning just how far you could take a new boy before the point of no return. She liked to listen to the sounds they made, observe the movements of their body as the muscles tensed, sense the semen boiling in their balls and beginning to rise. Henry groaned and lifted his hips, panting hard. He was close. She rubbed his cock a little more, until it began to twitch in her hand. At what she deemed the exact moment, as he began to cry out, she took her hand away. With a smile she watched his cock twitch again and again, straining to expel the semen trapped inside, but in vain. The orgasm was arrested, “ruined”, as the expression was. At last one small drop emerged from the opening at the tip and rolled slowly down the shaft.
“What a pity,” Guinevere said. “So near, and yet so far. Next time, perhaps.”