Mistress of Torment

Book 0: The Mistress Series

by Alex Jordaine

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

When dark fantasy turns to darkest reality... Self-bondage addict Paul is submissive to the core but deeply unfulfilled. He despairs of ever meeting a really sadistic woman who will give him the constant hard discipline that he craves. Then a chance meeting with an old friend brings him within the thrilling orbit of top professional dominatrix Mistress Nikki. Paul is stony broke and cannot possibly afford Nikki's expensive services. She amazes him by saying that she's prepared to discipline him regularly without charge - but only as long as he always does exactly as she instructs and never asks why she is doing what she's doing for him. The stunning dominatrix goes on to discipline Paul frequently and in ever more kinky and deviant permutations. On one occasion she takes him to an outrageously uninhibited S&M club where she arranges for the Amazonian Strap-on Jane to use and abuse him. On another occasion she summons him to an anonymous hotel room where, bound and blindfolded, he is sexually tormented by a mystery assailant. Paul has been thoroughly debauched by such experiences and wonders what perverted sexual adventure Nikki is going to devise for him next. He finds out with a vengeance when she hands him over to her friend, the ultra-sadistic Mistress Alicia. This truly formidable dominatrix keeps Paul locked in her dark dungeon where she submits him to constant heavy discipline. Too late he realises that everything that has happened to him has been part of a ruthless conspiracy and that he is now completely at the mercy of the ultimate Mistress of Torment.

Release date: October 5, 2009

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 233

Sample

Chapter One

THE MAN, WHO HAS BEEN blindfolded with a black leather blindfold and gagged with a ball gag of the same colour, lies on his front on the bed in the empty room. He is naked apart from wrist and ankle cuffs, which are also of black leather. The man’s wrist cuffs have been attached together above his head and then tied to the central post of the bed head by a length of black bondage rope. His ankle cuffs, which are attached together too, have been tied to the central post at the end of the bed by another length of bondage rope. Rope has also been used to encircle the man’s thighs and calves. It has been drawn so tightly that it indents the flesh.

The man’s heart is thudding against his rib-cage fit to burst and he is trembling within his bonds with both fear and sexual excitement. He sees himself as he truly is: naked and helpless, unable to make out even a sliver of light because of his blindfold or to do anything more than utter incoherent noises from beneath his ball gag. Escape is impossible and he knows it. His captor can do whatever she likes to him. He is utterly powerless to resist her because of the restrictive bondage into which she has placed him. The door creaks open, startling the dense silence of the room, and making his erection throb. The man knows that she has come for him, that she is going to make him her slave.

His captor is a glacially beautiful brunette who is as sadistic as she looks. Her dark eyes are big but by no means soft. They are hard and cold. Her lips are sensuous and full but are as cruel as a harsh winter. She is naked like the man but could not be less helpless, more unfettered. She brandishes a heavy leather flogger in her hand as she advances purposefully towards him, her unbound breasts jiggling and swaying as she moves. The woman has a lush, sensual body and there is a sheen to her alabaster skin. She positively glows – with malice.

The man struggles futilely against his bonds, terrified and panic-stricken but also incredibly sexually aroused. The woman smiles sadistically and then lets out a hard little laugh. She enjoys the sight of the man’s struggling body as he strains against his restraints. It makes her bring the flogger down on his muscular backside all the more harshly. The bound man emits a muffled cry of pain from beneath his gag and a series of angry red welts appear on his naked flesh.

The next harsh blow lands, bringing another muffled cry from him, more angry welts. Then the flogger lands again. And again and again and again. The man starts to writhe and struggle under the severe lashings that the woman is inflicting on his body with such sadistic glee. He shrieks into his gag as the beating becomes ever more ferocious.

Mercifully, the woman stops whipping the bound man for a while in order to masturbate. She does this with great vigour, the sounds urgent and liquid. But when she returns to beating the man she does so with even more savagery. Agonizing pain is coursing through him now. And it is exquisite. He wallows in the pain, luxuriates in it, the sensation so intense that he knows he cannot hold out much longer, that he is close to climaxing …

Paul Cooper awoke with a start, breathing heavily, his heart pumping wildly away in his chest. He was covered in sweat and his dark hair was damp against his brow. Paul was having bizarre masochistic dreams like that one all the time nowadays. They were usually variations on the same theme: a beautiful dominant woman was holding him as her captive, and he was helplessly bound. She was sexually torturing him, which he found both agonizingly painful and ecstatically pleasurable.

One thing was certain, though. Paul had never had such an experience or anything like it in real life. No woman had ever held him captive, needless to say. Nothing remotely like that had ever happened to him. But neither had any woman ever blindfolded or gagged him or tied him up, or beaten him. Paul wanted one to do those things to him though. Oh God, how he wanted that to happen. He wanted it to happen to him over and over again, day after day, week after week, month after month…

As Paul lay where he was, flat on his stomach in bed, he was aware of the stiffness of his cock pressing against the rumpled sheet beneath him. His erection felt like it had when he’d woken from the dream. It was so engorged that it seemed likely to erupt at any moment with the strength of his sexual excitement.

Paul was aware of something else as well. He was naked apart from the leather wrist cuffs that were attached together in front of him and the ankle cuffs that were also attached together. He was blindfolded with a leather blindfold and gagged with a ball gag too. No bondage rope held him to the head and base of the bed, though, or tightly encircled his legs. The bondage rope and the beautiful nude dominatrix and the vicious beating she’d administered to his naked body had been figments of his fevered imagination, courtesy of the highly erotic masochistic dream from which he’d just awoken.

That dream had left Paul extremely aroused – that dream he had deliberately precipitated by going to bed in self-administered bondage. It was such a crazy thing to have done, part of him realised that. But it was hardly the first time he’d done it, far from it. He was certainly in no hurry to free himself either – apart, that is, from rolling onto his back, throwing aside the duvet, and unclipping with one of his thumbs the metal snap trigger attaching his leather wrist cuffs together. He carried out this last action, which he knew from previous experience could be tricky when blindfolded, with a well practised manoeuvre.

Paul allowed his right hand, now that it was free, to stray to his erection. He uttered a low groan from under his gag as he began to masturbate, pushing his fist up and down on himself. As he stroked and pulled his throbbing shaft, he tried to recapture the dream, tried to transform into reality the sadomasochistic fantasy his subconscious had conjured up so realistically. But he didn’t have much time because he was already close to orgasm, had been ever since he’d woken from the dream.

Paul felt waves of pleasure engulf him as he got ever closer to his climax. And the closer he got, his hand moving rhythmically over his hard cock, the more intensely he fantasized that it was the sadistic woman in the dream, his Mistress of Torment, who was making him feel this way. She it was who was holding him captive, holding him in bondage, subjecting him to incredible torment. She was showing him no mercy as she sexually tortured him, making him writhe helplessly in his bonds with pleasure and pain … and pleasure-pain. Then the pulse came and he began to shudder and shake without control as his orgasm took him. And as he climaxed – his cries of pleasure muffled by the ball gag – semen shot out of his aching cock in spurts, warm and silky.

Not long afterwards Paul, who remained blindfolded, gagged and with his ankles cuffed together, re-clipped his wrist cuffs one to the other in front of him with another well practised manoeuvre. He started to doze off almost immediately, to sleep, perchance to dream … a very particular kind of dream, all over again.

Chapter Two

PAUL WAS WOKEN UP by the shrill, insistent sound of his alarm clock going off. It was time to get up and go to work after a night in bondage that had been anything but restful and which had run to a definite pattern: sleeping, dreaming, waking, wanking, sleeping, dreaming, waking, wanking, sleeping … With one final well-rehearsed manoeuvre he unclipped the metal trigger attaching his wrist cuffs together and gropingly switched off the noisy alarm clock. Then he took off his blindfold and gag, removed his wrist cuffs, and unclipped and removed his ankle cuffs. He cleaned the gag and put it and the other items back in what he thought of as his ‘Fetish wardrobe’, the one that held his steadily growing supply of BDSM accoutrements.

Wearing just his towelling bathrobe, Paul had breakfast and digested for a while, flicking absently through an old magazine. He then carried out his ablutions and after that went back to his Fetish wardrobe from which he selected two items. The first was a black silicone butt-plug and the second a chastity device constructed of lightweight aluminium, which had a key closure and a drainage hole. After he had lubricated the head of the butt-plug Paul eased it into his anus – a brief and, to him, satisfyingly painful experience. He then locked himself into the chastity device. It felt good to have his anus filled and his genitals imprisoned like this.

But it didn’t feel right, not really. Paul wished for the umpteenth time since he’d got into self-bondage that a dominant woman was doing these things to him … and more, much more. But no such woman had ever come into his life. Instead he had to be content with the elaborate masturbatory alternatives he’d devised for himself.

And that was OK when all was said and done, Paul told himself reassuringly. It was more than OK. He felt a tremor of sexual pleasure at the feel of the butt-plug deep inside him and the grip of the chastity device that tightly encased his genitals. Paul put the key to that device on top of his bedside table, got dressed for the outside world and set off for work. He groaned to himself at the dismal weather as he walked out on to the street. It was an overcast day, rain hanging in the air, and there was a sharp little breeze.

Paul would have been the first to admit that he was an underachiever at work, that he was a long way from being some kind of thrusting young entrepreneur. What he was was a very small cog in a great big wheel. He was one of a legion of copy-editors who worked for UK publishing giant, Palmerton’s Publishing, which had its head offices in the heart of London. Because of modern technology Paul was able to work most days from his home, which was a small ground floor flat in Islington. This meant that he could sit at his old but serviceable home computer, working on one manuscript or another. It also meant that he could do this nude and in bondage of some sort, which was a big advantage as far as he was concerned. Today was one of those fairly infrequent days when Paul had to actually go into the office. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t put himself into appropriate restraints. So that was what he’d done. After all, who was to know? What the eye doesn’t see …

Wait a moment though. Wasn’t this all more than a little excessive? – Bondage throughout the night, bondage during the day, whether at home or in the office. This was obsessive behaviour by any standards. And Paul was indeed a man thoroughly obsessed, there was no getting away from that. In fact he was an obsessive person by nature. Frequently images would get stuck in Paul’s head and go round and round in a loop like some insistent sequence of film. But the masochistic images that now spooled through his mind were something else again. They were constant, never ending, all-consuming.

But what had triggered this major obsession on Paul’s part? Had he experienced some trauma during his childhood that had returned to haunt him in this extreme way in adulthood? No, it hadn’t been anything like that at all. It had been an old book, of all things, that had acted as that all-important trigger – a trigger to something that had in fact always been innate to his being, deeply hard-wired there, had he but known it before.

One day Paul had been browsing around an antiquarian book shop in a gentrified corner of Bethnal Green in the East End of London. He had found in the shop what looked to his unpractised eye like an early edition of the erotic classic, Venus in Furs. It had been on sale for next to nothing. Paul had bought the musty old book for no other reason than that he’d thought the bookseller could conceivably have missed a trick, that such an old copy might have been worth something. But when he’d got home and started reading it he’d soon forgotten about any additional monetary value it might or might not have had.

The story had held Paul completely in its thrall. He’d found that he identified entirely with the male protagonist. The idea of being held in bondage, both actual and metaphorical, to a cruel Mistress had an instant appeal for him. From the day he read Venus in Furs a fundamental transition began for Paul Cooper.

The book had a profound effect on him, bringing to the forefront of his mind previously unformed masochistic fantasies and desires. It also made him anxious to know more about sexual masochism and he used the internet to research this major new obsession of his. Paul discovered that there were numerous websites catering for those with sadomasochistic desires. There was one that caught his attention early on. It was the website for a Portsmouth-based company called AQL Limited.

The initials stood for Affordable Quality Leather and that, Paul discovered when he started ordering items from them, was exactly what they supplied. And not just leather but metal too and rope and chain and pretty much anything related to BDSM. With a few notable exceptions their products were genuinely affordable as well, which was of particular importance to Paul since he did not earn a great deal. Also AQL’s products did what they were intended to do. Paul discovered that fact by trying them on himself by means of self-bondage, an activity he soon found thoroughly addictive.

But what they didn’t do was provide him with the partner he so desperately wanted to find who would use them on him. What Paul needed was a woman he could trust who would dominate him sadistically: tie him up and gag him, and beat him black and blue, constantly. But that was easier said than done. Much easier said than done.

Paul looked on the internet again and found a number of Fetish websites with contact sections. Among the women looking for men category for the London area there were various females, several undeniably sincere if one took at face value what they’d put on their profiles, who stated that they were looking for males to dominate and discipline. But Paul didn’t think he could put himself in the hands of a complete stranger. What if, despite all appearances to the contrary and her sincere-sounding profile, the woman turned out to be some psycho bunny boiler? The time to find out was not when he was tied up and at the woman’s complete mercy.

What other alternatives were there? Paul wondered. Find himself a nice girlfriend with a dominant personality and casually work into the conversation when the time was right (and when would that be exactly?) that what he wanted out of their sex life was for her to regularly tie him up and beat the shit out of him. Yeah, sure. Dream on.

So Paul continued with his copy-editing job, work that, while it kept him fairly busy, was well within his comfort zone and not at all well paid. It brought him in sufficient funds to pay the rent on his modest flat, though, and to meet the cost of utilities, groceries and the like. It also brought in enough money to enable him to keep his small second-hand Fiat on the road. There was just enough left over from Paul’s meagre income after that to allow him to add steadily to his collection of bondage equipment like the butt-plug and the chastity device he had in place today. Both of these items were recent purchases from AQL, the chastity device having been his more than usually generous birthday present to himself.

Paul could dream and fantasize as graphically as he liked about being put into bondage by a dominant woman and cruelly used by her. And that’s what he did all the time obsessively, night and day. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. He felt fundamentally unfulfilled, felt an ever-stronger need to find someone to do those deliciously perverted things to him for real, over and over again. But how could he make that happen?

Paul went back to looking at the contact sections of the Fetish sites on the internet. Perhaps he could post his details on one or more of these, saying precisely what he was looking for from a woman. But no. It was the same thorny issue. He’d end up having to trust himself to a complete stranger when he was entirely helpless. It was simply too risky, too risky by half.

What about visiting a professional dominatrix, Paul asked himself. She would have to be a good one of course, to avoid disappointment. The problem there was that for good read expensive– he’d seen the sort of prices quoted on pro-domme websites. If Paul visited such a dominatrix, he knew exactly what would happen. Given his obsessive nature combined with his deep craving for what such a woman had to offer, correction sell, he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave it at just one visit, or two or three or four … He’d end up hopelessly addicted to his visits. And homeless. He could afford to pay his rent. He could afford to visit a professional dominatrix on a regular basis. He couldn’t afford to do both. It was as simple as that.

That, therefore, was the position in which Paul Cooper found himself as he ventured off to work on that wet and windy morning – as far away from a solution to his problem as he’d ever been.

Chapter Three

PAUL CURSED THE DAMP, blustery weather as he set off for the office that day. But he couldn’t help feeling grateful for small mercies. It wasn’t raining as hard as it had been, just drizzling, and he didn’t have to walk far at either end of his train journey – good news given what he had jammed up his backside! He raised the collar of his coat against the drizzling rain and walked around the corner and up the road to the station. It was rush hour and throngs of people were disappearing from sight into the underground as if being sucked into a quagmire. Paul joined them.

The tube train was crammed with people looking tired and depressed. Paul knew that the majority of them were, like him, on their way to work only because they had to earn a living. Paul was grateful for another small mercy, though. He’d managed with a small stroke of luck to grab a recently vacated seat.

Even so, he really didn’t want to be on that crowded train full of disconsolate commuters. Who in his right mind would? He was thankful that most days he worked from home and therefore didn’t have to do this disagreeable journey often.

Paul let his imagination take him away from the packed and heaving train carriage as he fantasized about being the captive of a predatory dominatrix. How would this sadistic Femme run him down? How would she snare him? What would she do to him once she’d got him into her lair? But did he need to ask that last question, Paul said to himself excitedly. He could see all too clearly in his mind’s eye what she would do to him, could see himself bound and heaving, rock hard, sobbing, as his Mistress of Torment did her very worst with the heavy-duty whip she was using so savagely to belabour his already severely punished body.

The butt-plug inside Paul’s anus and the tight chastity device encasing his genitals shifted rhythmically with the movement of the train. It felt nice and it felt nasty; it felt nice and nasty. He squirmed slightly in his seat so as to emphasize the sensations and carried on with his erotic fantasy, utterly absorbed by his lurid imaginings to the extent that he almost missed his station.

Paul got off the tube train at Oxford Circus in the nick of time, left the busy underground station and walked the short distance to the huge grey tower block that housed Pemberton’s Publishing. He took the lift to the twelfth floor and walked over to his work station, with a nodded hello to a couple of nearby colleagues. He removed his coat and settled himself into his seat.

Paul was aware once again of the butt-plug shifting inside him and the tightness of the chastity device. All that fantasizing during the train journey had left him erotically aroused. If he hadn’t been wearing the chastity device, he’d have gone off to the Men’s room, entered a cubicle and masturbated to climax, no question. That option wasn’t open to him; he was locked into the chastity device. Best think of something else, Paul reasoned. Hey, here’s a novel idea, he smiled to himself. How about doing some work! And he did, he worked very diligently. When he next glanced at his watch it was coming up to one twenty. He was feeling quite hungry and more than ready for a well-earned break.

Paul took the lift down to the ground floor, left that monolith of an office block and went in search of a bite to eat. The day remained unprepossessing. The sky was the colour of a dirty dishcloth and the air still felt damp. However it had stopped raining altogether – wasn’t even drizzling – and the wind had gone right down.

Just off Oxford Street Paul entered a café he’d frequented before where he knew the food was pretty good and the prices reasonable. He sat on his own at a table for two at the window, ate his light lunch and then sipped at the remains of his glass of water. Paul shifted in his seat a little, which caused his butt-plug to also shift and his cock to pulse within the constraining embrace of the chastity device. He allowed his mind to drift off…

What would his Mistress of Torment do to him once she’d got him well and truly in her clutches, well and truly enslaved? He knew what she’d do all right, he knew …She would bind his wrists behind him and get him grovelling down onto his knees. Then she’d press on his back so that he bent right forward with only his curved rear in the air for her to feel and to spank. She would spank him really hard, so hard (Spank! Spank! Spank! Spank! Spank!) that his backside would turn as red as an angry sunset.

She’d then put on a strap-on dildo andpush into his anus that would be so tight around the painful intruder. Then she’d start thrusting into him with ever increasing fervour. She would grip him by the hair as she pounded into his anal hole, entering and re-entering faster and faster. She’d pound into his anus so hard that it would make him shake all over and whimper with lust mixed with mind-fuck shame mixed with …

Suddenly someone tapped Paul on the shoulder, startling him out of hisfeverish sexual reverie. A voice said, . . .