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Her Beautiful Capture
(A shortened version of this was published in Mind Caviar in
November 2001. My thanks to jamie Joy Gatto for her help)
Her Beautiful Capture
By Cate
Sharing a cheap apartment building with half a dozen other women, I had
long ago perfected the art of silent masturbation, but this time I almost
cried out. I was lying on my face in my own bed, my wrists tied behind me,
my nipples and my bush painted with the lipstick she had specified, and
with her clenched in my teeth..
This woman came to me when I was at a low ebb, recently divorced and
just beginning to realise that all the I met now, at work or in singles
bars or clubs, who were around my own age, or older, were either or
had been and had fucked up, fucked around or fucked off. Don't get
me wrong, I would have preferred, at least at first, if it had been a man,
but then maybe I would have been more wary and it would have stuck to being
a telephone thing only. But then, why should I supply telephone sex to a
man? - I was hardly the type. Educated, a good job, pretty particular
really. So why was I doing this? Did I think it was safer with a woman?
The first night she rang I thought it was a wrong number. She said she
was just making initial contact, intriguing me, but I was not even sure if
she knew me, then she rang off saying she would call again the next night
at eleven. I was waiting. She rang while I was in bed. Said, "You're
wearing panties, aren't you?" I said: "What's that got to do with you?" She
chuckled. "There are only two types of women. Those who wear their
panties in bed and those who don't. I know which type you are." "Do I know
you?" I asked. "You've seen me, but you don't know me. You've looked
through me once or twice. Please don't hang up yet and don't ask me who I
am. I can't tell you just yet." "Can you... can you prove you know me?"
"Well, you're about forty two, five three or four, dark with a snooty
expression and pale skin. You're pretty." "Go on." "You keep an apple and
a spare pair of pantyhose in your desk. You've got a small eczema spot on
your lower back, just above your ass." Her voice was intriguing, deep and
warm with a slight British accent, yet something else as well. Australian?
But mostly just American. Was she someone in the office? Could she have
seen me at the changing room at the gym? "Have you got a hair-band, one of
those elastic things?" she asked. Three minutes later I was lying on my
back with my wrists tied together behind my back underneath me. Well, just
with the elastic hairband, but she told me I couldn't release my wrists
unless she gave her permission. And I was beginning to believe her. And
she was telling me, through the phone propped against my pillow, what she
would like to do to me. She would sit high up on my chest, on my throat,
make me surrender to her, and then she would make me eat her pussy. It
gave me an extraordinary feeling. I could never have imagined a woman
could make me feel like this. And just over the phone!
Once, way back when I was happily married, and pregnant with my second
child I had got off on a powerfully submissive feeling when having sex with
my husband. We had gone back to bed one January Sunday afternoon, I was
six months gone. He made love to me, and then, an hour later he mounted
and entered me again. He had never before managed to come twice in one
session and, when I thought of my position, pregnant already and him taking
possession of my body twice, I orgasmed so powerfully that I shocked
myself, screamed out in the darkening bedroom so that my husband was
terrified I had started to lose my baby. Now I felt a similar feeling
mounting in my loins and belly, coursing through my womb.
"I'd have my knees on your wrists," the voice went on. "And my fists
gripped in your hair. I'd wipe that supercilious look off you face, it
would be deep between my legs and there's nothing you could do about it.
You would be mine, got it? Completely mine!" I think I groaned then.
"You're not to come...not until I tell you," she said. I whimpered. Said
I wouldn't...I'd try not to. "Okay," she said. "Here's what I want you to
do tomorrow...." "Please...." I said. "There's a scent called Oriane des
Laumes - I want you to buy some. "Sure, okay." "It's not easy to find.
I'll give you the name again when your hands are free. "Okay. "I warn
you, it's very expensive." "Please...please," I begged. "Okay, free you
wrists. Now turn on your face. And you can use your hands." I thought I
heard another voice then on the line, a complaining then pleading voice,
but I was almost at the point of orgasm, so quickly I could hardly believe
it. "Did you come?" she asked I groaned. "Me too," she said. She gave me
the name of that scent again while I scrabbled for a pen. Then she hung
up.
At first I thought I might just tell her I had bought the perfume. (The
fact that she had called it "scent" was not lost on me.) I had no
particular intention at the moment of taking this any farther than it had
already gone, although I adored the insinuating firmness of her voice in my
ear and the sheer voluptuousness of writhing in my bonds in the warmth of
my bed, waiting for her instructions, her permission for the long
shuddering release of my pent-up desire. But I decided I had better ask
around, as my caller would certainly question me. And did I really want
this to stop? She was not the sort of woman to take no for an answer or to
have her requests lightly ignored.. Not if I wanted her to go on calling
me, which, on balance, I definitely did. But that's where I had a slight
problem. Nobody seemed to have heard of the perfume, and I had to endure
the supercilious smiles and stares of the glossily painted women at
the beauty counters in all the stores I tried. One girl, as glassily
stupid looking as most of the others, did direct me to an woman who
was selling some half-obsolete cosmetics for "the woman" in a somber
alcove where beauty gave way to sanitary towels, depilatory cream and
thrush ointment. She was a handsome, grey-haired woman in her sixties and
she told me she had had about three or four requests for this scent in the
course of her career. "I believe it is quite sought after," she said. "By
the more discerning. And I have been intrigued by the prettiness of the
women who requested it. Just like you, you are so pretty too," she said.
"Thank you," I said, embarrassed. This was getting me exactly nowhere, I
thought, but then she said "One lady did return and tell me she had managed
to come across this perfume." From under the counter somewhere she took up
a well-filled black leather purse, and after a great deal of fumbling and
apologetic tut-tutting, managed to produce a small piece of card, which
appeared to be torn from a restaurant menu, with an address still faintly
written on it in pencil. "Take it," she said. "It is definitely a younger
woman's scent." Flattered, I put the card in my purse and hurried back to
the office.
By this time, of course, I was watching to see if anyone was studying me
surreptitiously. I couldn't connect the voice with anyone in the office,
but the building must have had at least a hundred women in it on three
floors and, anyway, it could have been the in the sandwich bar or
someone in the place where I had breakfast most mornings. My caller had
never described herself, of course, and I had gradually evolved a sort of
template into which her face would fit, a vague of what I thought
she was like. Probably a bit like me, dark almost certainly, though
probably not staggeringly pretty - if she was, would she have time or need
for this sort of thing? I sometimes looked up quickly from my work, or
turned around in the corridor, to see if I could catch someone watching me.
I may have perhaps given the impression I was behaving a little strangely.
Who would know the reason?
My secretary, a pleasant little called Julie was hardly
likely to risk playing games with me, she was too and anyway her
voice with its hard country twang would be hard to disguise. Mrs Stronge,
nominally my boss, was happily with grown up children and, though
the voice might fit, was an unlikely candidate. I did not work closely
with anyone in the office as I had two major projects, which were
confidential. One was assisting a consortium of businessmen to buy a
derelict property from a cancer charity which would not have sold if it
knew the consortium was a front for a tobacco giant. The other was a
surreptitious downsizing plan I had been asked to draw up, and I was well
aware that at the end of the day my name could well appear as an addendum
to the names I provided.
It was a tiny clothes boutique a couple of steps down from a secluded
street behind the restaurant and theatre district. There was a fine potted
bay tree outside and a couple of elegant dresses in the window, one in deep
red and the other beige with gunmetal grey stripes. And, yes, there were a
few bottles of perfume in the window, the more expensive of the well-known
makes. The behind the counter, to whom I falteringly read out
the name of the fragrance, smiled and said "I shall have to ask Madame."
The bead curtains parted. Madame had once been very beautiful and had a
slight limp, but otherwise a proud erect carriage. She assisted herself
with a tall, brass capped stick, the sort of thing an old-style Russian
ballet-mistress might have used to correct a plie or a jete or to emphasise
the position of a lift. She was beautifully dressed in oiled silk and her
face was heavily made up, an extraordinary porcelain finish in pink. with
startling lips and melancholy kohl-rimmed eyes. Yes, she looked as
though she must have been a former ballet-mistress or else the oldest and
most hard-working prostitute in the city. She reminded me of the ogres who
sometimes inhabited expensive little stores in Paris and hated selling
anything to foreigners. She spoke in strongly Russian-accented English.
"Have you three hundred dollars?" I had thought of bringing cash, but
didn't know how much. This shocked me, but I was hardly going to walk out
now, covered in embarrassment. Anyway, my caller knew who I was, so I
might as well use my credit card. The ballet-mistress passed my card
disdainfully to her assistant, then lifted a beautifully wrapped package
from a small drawer set in the counter. "Fifteen millilitres," she said,
with an icy smile. "But that's tiny," I said. Again the wintry smile.
"Madame will not be disappointed."
When I got back to my apartment I undressed, showered and put on a robe.
It was only a couple of hours until my call was due. I carefully unwrapped
the box, which was decorated in an elegant cream and black checkerboard
pattern with the name in a flourish of gold script on the top. The box was
a little bigger than I expected for a 15ml bottle of scent, and when I
opened it I found, wrapped around the perfume flagon, a tiny pair of cream
silk panties. At first I thought it was one of those gifts beloved of
cosmetics and perfume manufacturers (they could afford it at that price,
but how would they know the size?) Then I realised that these were used
panties, with a faintly grubby mark in the seat and as I raised them to my
nostrils, a strong bitter-almond scent of the and sexual secretions
that stiffened the soft pad that went between the legs. It was quite some
time before I got around to testing the perfume. I was no expert, but,
from the little I dabbed on my throat and between my breasts, the
predominant notes were patchouli, ginger, mimosa in a very deep musk. That
night, as I lay bound, face down in my bed, I was instructed that, in the
morning, I must pack my own panties, the ones I was wearing now that I
would shortly be masturbating between my legs, into the little box and
bring them to the Russian woman in the boutique. "Then I'll know you even
in the dark," the voice said. "And you'll know me." I was shamefaced
handing the little package to the Russian Madame in the shop but I
summoned up the courage anyway. "Can you tell me...? I mean, can you tell
me who...?" Again that wintry smile. "Our clients are very discreet," she
said.
In the month that followed I was instructed to have my hair lightened. I
didn't like myself nearly blonde, at first anyway, and I was extremely
self-conscious, exciting a mixture of envy and contempt from the other
women in the office. My caller gave me the specific code number of the
shade she wanted and told me the hairdresser I was to go to. She had also
asked me my weight and told me to lose about five pounds, saying she
preferred my figure more boyish. Then, two weeks later, I was told an
appointment had been made to get my hair cut very short. "Please," I said,
"I've always had long hair." "Your stylist will know exactly what is
required" "Please!" I said. "Are your hands tied?" Quite frequently she
had the habit of ignoring me. Of not answering a question. Like when I
began asking her if we could meet. Between my legs my swollen lips. The
knowledge of her ownership growing firmer and firmer.. But there were no
in-betweens with her. It was either yes or no. "Your appointment is for
Friday," she said. "Yes...yes...yes," I moaned, thrashing helplessly in
the bed.
I stuck it for another three weeks, then I was begging her to tell me
her intentions. Were we to meet? This was wonderful, absolutely
wonderful, but I wasn't sure I could go on without some flesh and blood
contact. "No, "she said. "It's too soon." Too soon? I was inwardly
raging. She had made me diet, have my hair tinted and cut, stay in to take
her calls. Stupidly I began to suggest, vaguely, how I might need social
contact, a full relationship, that I wasn't getting any younger. She cut
off. She didn't call again for a week. I was frantic for her voice in my
ear. When she came back, called me again, I was repentant, she forgiving.
I was painted and plucked and tied exactly as she wanted me. Delirious
bondage sessions followed over three nights. Then she told me she'd agree
meet me. "Be at your desk at nine o'clock tomorrow night. Wear your
Oriane des Laumes scent and those nice jade earrings of yours. And
remember, there's no going back from this."
Whatever second thoughts I had, and I had plenty, I was back, after a
quick dinner, at my desk around eight thirty the following evening. It was
possible to work and leave the office up to eleven o'clock, but not to get
in after eight without a special pass. A middle-aged called Joe Carey
was still working at a desk on my floor, drinking whiskey out of a paper
cup. He had a failing marriage and tried never to go home. The building
opposite was completely glass-covered and I could see another office light
reflected in it, on the floor above my own. I took the elevator up and
found a woman named Christine Ellis I knew slightly working in her office
with the door open. She seemed surprised to see me. Christine was a tall,
dark haired woman, quite pretty in a severe sort of way, I knew she had a
marriage behind her and her sexual status was somewhat vague. "Hello," she
said, dumping some files back in the cabinet, "I'm just leaving - can I
help you?" "No," I said, "I'm going soon myself. See you soon." Back at my
desk I saw the light from her office still reflected across the street. On
impulse I picked up the phone, wondering what her voice was like over the
phone. There was no answer, and, when I glanced across the street again
the reflected light was no longer there. I expected someone, maybe
Christine, to walk into my office at any moment. The thought it could be
Christine quite excited me, but I wasn't at all sure of the voice Then my
phone rang. It was my caller. She gave me instructions. I hesitated.
Then I said :" Okay, I'll do it."
Was I crazy, what I had agreed to do?. I was a timid person in some
ways, but I had an exhibitionistic streak and I was sometimes sexually
daring. When Bob and I were first we were buying a house built
along with four others on an expensive site between a golf-course and a
wood. During the first hot Summer Bob and I used to make love in the back
garden, then, even more daring, in the wood. Then one night, just as Bob
had emptied himself in me, we were hit by the light of a torch from one of
the houses and, a few moments later, we were on the run, stark naked, from
our neighbours, plunging deeper and deeper into the woods. Then I turned
off the path and hid in the bushes, while Bob plunged noisily on. Three
men rushed past, breathing heavily, along the path, lights from their
torches dancing in the trees. I made my way back to the house, threw on a
dress and got the car out. I drove around to the other side of the woods,
just in time to pick Bob up. As I started to drive home, McCulla, a
retired jeweller, walked into the road and flagged me down importantly with
his torch. I shouted at him we had seen the revellers too and were trying
to cut them off. "Where's Bob?" McCulla asked suspiciously. Two other
grizzled neighbours were panting up the bank. I had Bob covered with a rug
on the floor in the back. "Bob's followed them," I shrieked, "He saw their
asses in his flashlight!" "Perverts," McCulla whooped and the three of them
headed off into the woods again. Tonight I again felt that wonderful
adrenaline surge.
Of course I had known I was taking a chance when I undressed. I could
have been set up for a rape, but I knew I wouldn't back out now. I had
only barely got my clothes off, dropping my bra and on top of my
suit on the seat, in complete darkness as I had been instructed,
when I heard the outer door click and then I was joined in the cubicle.
She had come for me at last. She stood naked behind me, her bare
pressed against my back, her thighs cupping my buttocks and I felt relief,
after a brief moment of panic, that it definitely was a "she". The faint
scent of Oriane des Laumes was unmistakable. She ran her hands up my
midriff and cupped my breasts, playing gently with the nipples. I felt the
hair raise on the nape of my neck as the hands slowly moved down over my
body again, cupping my navel, then caressing the fronts of my upper thighs,
carefully avoiding my crotch at first, although brushing lightly against my
pubic hair as they passed down. Then I was held gently about the waist
with one arm, the hand caressing my navel again, while the other hand went
behind me. I could feel the back of her hand against my ass and I knew she
was fingering herself. Then a finger was held under my nose, placed on my
lips. I could smell her, then I sucked, tasted her juices. A stronger
aroma of the faint, exciting scent I had inhaled from her panties.
There was no doubt whatever it was my lover.
The desire to turn around and into her arms, face to face, was almost
ungovernable. She was biting lightly into the place where my neck met my
shoulder. She was still playing with me, teasing me, Then her hand took
possession of my sex, and she very gently made me ride her finger, her
mouth relaxed and wet on my neck, a faint, possessive growl coming from her
throat. I tried to stifle a groan. Then her hand was removed and she took
both my wrists gently, moving my hands back between us , and just as I
thought I was being invited to touch her sex, my wrists were crossed behind
me, I felt a loop being slipped over them.
My wrists were tied behind my back and secured to one of the supports of
the cubicle partition, or rather wound around it several times and tied,
presumably, to another support in the next cubicle so that I couldn't reach
it to try to untie the knots. I was still in complete darkness. I was
crying and I was terrified. Although I was a relatively anonymous employee
so far as most people in the office were concerned, I would certainly have
had potential enemies, but who would want to punish me as cruelly as this?
She had left, refusing to speak and I knew she had removed my clothes,
because I felt the rough touch of my suit against my back as she squeezed
past me. An hour passed, my hands going more and more numb from the
bindings on my wrists. Realising what a wild chance I had taken, I thought
about that wild night in the woods with Bob when we were chased by those
three perverts and how bitterly this night had turned out by
comparison. Occasionally I heard sounds far off, muted, like in any
building late at night. Then, incredibly, I thought I heard a door bang,
something rattling in the corridor.
The door of the ladies' room was bumped open and the light went on. Two
startled looking women stood there with a large aluminium trolley
carrying paper tissues, cleaning materials and towels. They both wore
white coats and white cleaners' caps and released a torrent of excited
Cantonese at the sight of a naked women with her hands tied behind her,
kneeling on the damp floor of the stall. I was sure they would call
security and, of course, I had no means of identification. "Please," I
begged. "Speak English? English?" "What you do here?" the one, in
heavy glasses, demanded. I realised I hadn't the faintest idea how I was
going to explain my situation, yet I had to do it, either to a woman who
spoke hardly any English, or to someone in security. I took the only way
out I could think of and burst into bitter tears. I knew I had very little
chance of preventing this matter going much further but in a way I was
relieved. If I had to be seen naked and humiliated, it was preferable this
way than being found by one of my colleagues slipping in for an early
morning pee.
The woman then started making soothing, cooing noises and began to
untie my wrists, releasing another burst of Cantonese at her companion who
took off the white coat she was wearing over her sweater and jeans. Then,
after helping me on with the coat, with a final burst of instructions to
her assistant the cleaner led me up to the ground floor and out to
her van in the covered carpark. I had no keys to get into my apartment and
I didn't know if I dared walk in looking the way I was with just a flimsy
cotton coat, no shoes and ruined makeup. The woman drove rapidly
when we reached the quieter streets. After about fifteen minutes we went
up a ramp, then, sickeningly down again and we were in an underground
carpark under an apartment block.
I was expecting a squalid room somewhere, but her apartment was small
but well furnished in that rather cold Oriental style. She let me shower
and gave me a robe and a strong dry martini. Then she went to shower
herself. I was beginning to unwind a little, though still cold and
trembling with shock. Then the phone beside me rang. After it had rung
about six times she called from the bedroom. "Answer please" I picked up
the phone. "Get on the bed." It was my lover's voice. "Where the hell
have you...?" I began "Look in the bag on the table near the door," she
said. I reached for the cloth laundry bag the woman had brought in
from the van. In it were my underwear, my suit, pantyhose and shoes.
"I...I don't understand," I said into the phone "Get on the bed, bitch."
she said. Then for the first time I heard her giggle.
She was in the doorway, her white body stark naked. Like most
women her calves were almost too slender, but she had beautiful meaty
thighs, a narrow waist and chubby, provocative breasts. Without the heavy
spectacles her face was handsome, though hardly beautiful and her hair hung
down almost to her waist above her high and very prominent ass. She had a
beautifully rounded belly with a sweet little cup around the navel and,
below, her pubic hair was coarse and luxuriant. She pushed me down on the
bed and then climbed up after me and straddled me. Again I caught the
scent of Oriane des Laumes. "My lovely bitch," she said. "The bitch who
ignored me when I smiled at her." "Please." I said,. "The bitch who didn't
even see me," There were straps and leather cuffs attached to the rails at
the top of the bed and she expertly cinched both my wrists before leaning
back to survey her handiwork. "I must tell you a little about myself," she
said. "Yes?" "Please?" I said. "Okay. Born in Hong Kong. I came to this
country with who was killed in a gang war. Married, to a much
man. Inherited his property. Started a cleaning business." "You own this
apartment?" I asked "I own the building," she said. "Two others as well."
"Hell," I said, "you gave me one fright." "Later," she said, "you will eat
my pussy? Right?" I nodded. "You will beg to be allowed to eat my pussy?"
I nodded again "Say it, please" "I... I will beg to be allowed eat
your..p...pussy," I stammered. She reached down and began to knead my
breasts. "You are mine now," she said. "Okay?" "Yes," I said. "Say it
please!" "I am yours...now. I am yours," I said, feeling a sudden surge of
desire in my womb and between my legs, in my under her insistent
kneading. "You are my beautiful capture," she said. I nodded dumbly.
"Your English is good," I said. "Sorry, my English is perfect," she said.
"We speak mostly English in Hong Kong." "I know, I'm sorry," I said,
wincing at the quick touch of asperity in her voice. I was in no doubt now
that my owner was a very powerful lady.
She sighed and got off me. Then she stood beside the bed and took my
left leg and raised it up, attaching it with another strap on the top
right-hand bedpost. Then she went around and cinched my right leg to the
other bedpost, so that I was jack-knifed with everything on display. She
fondled my ass for a few minutes in a proprietorial sort of way, then
inserted her thumb in my and at the same time seared a long
fingernail into my asshole, pressing firmly until she gained entry. I had
never felt so totally at someone else's mercy in my life and she knew it.
She smiled down at me. When she released me she went to a chest of drawers
and took something out. I thought it was a vibrator, but she inserted a
needle into it. "I forgot to tell you my name," she said. "It is Amy Wong
Howe. I am now going to tattoo my name on your ass as a symbol of my
ownership." This time she did not ask me if I agreed - it was taken for
granted. "Amy Wong Howe - That is eleven letters, so you will know how I
am getting on," she said, with a tiny laugh. She pressed a button and the
needle whined into life.
It was painful, but bearable, and she talked as she carefully delineated
the letters of her name with the ink-filled needle, her voice pleasant and
cultivated above the insistent whine of the electric motor. "I have a
large contract, several hundred buildings," she said. "About once, maybe
twice a year I try to visit each, as an ordinary cleaner. That way I see
much that is left undone. That is how I saw you, of course. I decided to
have you." She was probably about ten years than me, in her fifties
somewhere and her dark eyes were extremely beautiful, probably the most
exquisitely shaped eyes I had ever seen with a warm depth to their
darkness. "Now I have got you. Right?" she said. "Right," I said "I am
much too busy to go to singles bar, places," she said. "This might
have seemed a lot of work to get a girl, but look at all the time I would
spend chatting up people only to find we were unsuited. All the wasted
nights." "You have a point" I said, feeling another surge of desire as I
remembered our phone conversations, feeling a delicious rush of
anticipation at what this woman was going to do to me. "Instead a few
minutes on the phone and, if all goes well, fifteen minutes a night until
it is time to meet. Easy?"
I knew then that she had done this before. How many times? I
remembered when she was talking to me on the telephone I had heard, a
couple of times, another voice, someone weeping. And I knew this woman
would have exactly what she wanted and that some day I would very likely be
lying beside her in bed, possibly bound and helpless, and I would hear her
on the telephone, directing some other to get her hair dyed and cut
and to wear Oriane des Laumes. I would know they were lovers and that they
were masturbating together. I couldn't bear it and put the thought from my
mind.
She had finished putting her name, her mark on my tender ass. She had
released my ankles from their bonds on the bedposts. She was sitting
astride my throat and my nostrils were filled with her powerful odour of
arousal. I was begging, begging... I was almost delirious with desire
when she finally lowered the centre of her womanhood to my beseeching lips.
The End.