Magnet for Human Hearts

So my Japanese water garden is going to have to move over a few feet. Bertrand is already on it, spending all day digging next to the bit that’s been partially back-filled. The hire car was left locked in the airport car park, the Swiss businessman who hired it apparently vanishing into thin air, leaving his luggage and phone inside it and boarding no plane. The phone was wiped clean of henchman fingerprints. Before Lionel was installed as part of the pond foundations his cold hands were borrowed to reapply the prints a forensic team would expect to find. A man who gets paid as much as Lionel is going to be missed but they won’t be finding his body any time soon. A mystery he will be. There is nothing particularly to link him to me. Bertrand aside, the only other person who knows that anything went on between me and the Swiss is already six feet under, sporting a newly shaved head. I got rather a big kick out of his last afternoon alive and it has cost me nothing, so I should be feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Why, then, am I sulking? Well, partly because I thought it time to expand my sexual horizons into the world of the female body, especially since part of me thinks I need to at least be thinking of developing some kind of lasting, more involved relationships and I’m not sure I could do this with any man, certainly without it ending rather abruptly. I thought the obvious answer to my female hankerings was Madam Destiny, since it would merely involve an appointment, plus I could get a few pointers thrown into the bargain.

‘I am neither a lesbian nor a prostitute, Anoushka,’ she primly informed me over the phone. ‘I will occasionally take female slaves but none will have the pleasure of my body. This is for two reasons. Firstly, I am primarily attracted to males. Secondly, my husband does not get off on watching other females give me pleasure.’

What, so that worm Drummond is calling the shots here? Seriously, that bitch Pauline Destiny can be so condescending at times it makes me want to punch her in the tits. So why am I at her house again, not with fists flailing but instead sat in tame submission? You see, for all the looking down her nose she does, I can’t help but turn to her to help solve the confusion that reigns in my head. I have no other but her. Heidi is unapproachable and in the pits of despair, which isn’t very helpful. Pippa is mute and solemn and closed because her two best friends have husbands who have died and she can’t get on with organising parties, which is straining her already tenuous grip on reality. Who else can one talk to about their bondage fantasies? Inspector Stark seems like the only one I could feel comfortable with, discussing the wilder side of life, since he has seen it all. But he is perhaps the main contributor to my confusion.

Madam Destiny is behaving like a reluctant agony aunt. I think she is a bit pissed off with me since I always phone her and demand to come round, even when she is busy, and I don’t listen to her refusals. I don’t care if it is “Drummond Time”, whatever the sweet Fanny Fuckmunch that is. As far as I am concerned it is evening time, that is all - and darkness should be where fun lies. I’ve eaten but I am still empty. I’ve been possessed with the dirtiest fantasies all day, and now I want to do something about it. She has told me that this is the last time that she will see me, although how she can stop me barging in is anyone’s guess.

I slap the wad of notes on the side and tell her I need to talk but she says I shall have to be part of what she has planned for her husband if I want to stay. Well, I do want to stay so she has him stand in the corner whilst she sits me on the special high seat in her dungeon, with wrists and ankles secured, and tells me she is going to subject me to electro-stimulation. It’s not really the kind of thing that sounds conducive to deep conversation so perhaps I will simply have to muse as she goes about her business and try to eke out some answers here and there. Drummond better keep his eyes off my pussy, mind.

So, here is the conundrum as I see it. I love the world of bondage - or the thought of it at least. I want to sink right into its warm embrace. I love the secret naughtiness of it, the endless potential. I love the thought of having the guilt and responsibility taken away. I adore the clothes, especially on the women, especially on me. They make me feel like an omnipotent goddess. They make me think I could compete with anyone. In them I feel unconquerable, like a magnet for human hearts.

Men are cunts. They deserve to be thrashed. They need to be strapped down, humiliated and stripped of their pride and macho instincts. They need to be bound so that they cannot stray. They need to have burned into them the ethos of unwavering love and loyalty. The thought that this still wouldn’t have it sinking in brings forth my red cloud. Much as this thrills me at the time, this cannot go on. It neither sates my raging desire nor quenches my thirst for justice, revenge, whatever you want to call it. And I can’t keep killing every man I meet, it’s just not polite.

Turning to women did seem like a potential solution. They have a different attitude to betrayal than men. However, like Pauline here, I am not a lesbian. The idea of naked females makes me wet but it would not stop this seething hunger for cocks. I don’t know why I am suddenly obsessed with the biggest male member I can find. Maybe because I think to conquer and tame it would be to bring the whole of maledom under my thumb. But how could I trust any man not to walk out on me again? My father left just because I was a little difficult. Imagine how difficult a dominatrix would be. My husband cheated just because he fancied spurting inside a new model from time to time. I cannot now be new. How could I trust myself not to let the red cloud take over, knowing any man could have desires away from me, no matter what I did for him?

So, if spanking the loyalty into them is still not potentially full-proof, the other alternative, if I want to stay immersed in this delicious world of BDSM without being overcome by the urge to murder each new partner, is to embody the M part of it. How, though, can that possibly be lasting? Only tying people down keeps them with you. Being tied means you cannot go after them. Taking their pain means they are only after giving you more of it, in all forms. Slaves can be fooled, used, discarded. I can grow delirious at the thought of Stark’s hand turning my bottom red, of him beating me with his huge cock and using it in me any way he wants, but what keeps him here when he is done? What rope binds us? His eyes are everywhere, I have seen this. He is always looking for more. What slave can truly be a magnet for their Master’s heart? Slaves are there to be hurt and I couldn’t bear the heartache. They can be left at any time, with no power to follow. This is everything I fear. No one must ever run from me again.

‘Ow! Fucking HELL!’

Madam Destiny has just zapped my tits. I guess I knew it was coming because not only has she got a range of hand-held wands designed to shock you with, she also has electrodes attached to my now very hard and tingling nipples.

‘I want you to stay silent, Anoushka.’

‘You shouldn’t pass current through the chest area,’ I chide her, since I have read all about this and know my stuff. ‘It can cause arrhythmia in some and even lead to death.’

She uses one of the wands to zap the delicate flesh of my inner thigh, far too close to my wet puss for comfort.

‘I said I want you to remain silent.’

She plans to zap the will to come visiting her from me, of that I am sure. I thought I was protected in a catsuit but unlike the one I wore for Lionel this one is all zips and she has opened me up like a split fruit now that my limbs have been secured. Drummond is as always not supposed to look at me but although she has him in the corner behind her, she hasn’t made him face the wall. He could see me if he chose to sneak a peek. I seem to walk into this most withering of humiliations every time. I thought I was safe to go through life without having the likes of feeble Drummond perving over my nudity and my slavery to lust.

It is more a lasting tingle than a single shock, but the extra-sensitive areas like the genitals heighten the feel. When a surge of current is fed in it can feel more like a throb. Often the muscle contractions can make it seem like a mini-shock that can cause momentary panic and the suggestion of pain, but it always transfers into warm pleasure. Your skin cringes from the next contact, just like it does with a spanking. You cannot help this. The nerves are alive and on edge. Sensitivity continues to increase and this means your defences seem ever lower. Just like a spanking I can quickly see how this can easily lead to orgasm. As ever, it is about being receptive to it. I didn’t ask her to do this to me but surprise, surprise, once under her spell, I give in so easily.

Drummond sports a cock ring and ball sack pouch very similar to the one I put on Lionel, but his is also wired so that she can send electric thrills through his sensitive parts at various intervals. It is the first time Madam Destiny has deigned to let me observe her husband’s genitals and I have to say she was not lying when she claimed he was well endowed. The current has made his prick stand rigid. The sight has my heart banging, my breath catching. It has me shuddering. Towards me it stretches like a brutish flesh weapon. It is not particularly nice to look at but it is fat and very long, and that alone thrills the really debauched part of me that hungers for such things. The rest of me thinks it must be disgusting because it’s not pretty and it’s attached to him, but the bit that likes it is the bit that gives me orgasms and thus the bit that often holds sway.

Having being chastised for sticking the electrodes to my nipples, Madam Destiny sticks them instead to my bum cheeks, and fires off a series of rippling bursts. However, I think she secretly wishes she had induced a cardiac arrest that could have been put down to a tragic accident. She has smeared lube all over the exposed parts of me, so I know the current can be applied anywhere. The wand is used all around my thighs and belly. She even has me stick out my tongue and has me yelping with just one prickle touch of the wand. Every now and then she skims nearer to my puss to have me tensing. It will come there, for sure, but only when she is ready. All the while she tells me she has wands to put inside me. It makes me tremble and gasp, even begin to plead against it, but I know I can’t wait for it either.

‘You want to slurp upon my luscious cunt, don’t you, Anoushka? You want to suck upon my perfect tits and even push your face into my gorgeous bum and lick me there.’

God, yes. The first touches at my labia come from the wand and have me wailing. Drummond will hear my pitiful sounds. Surely he will not be able to resist a look? Another shock comes and I cry out. Just like a spanking, even as your pulse races and your brain fights to manage the assault on your nervous system, you are already silently begging for the next contact.

‘But you will never know what it is to taste me, Anoushka. You will never have my velvet cream slipping down your throat. You will never feel the heat of me inside, the softness of me.’

Her lubed fingers are creeping between my thighs, pushing at my wet opening and sliding in so easily, stirring around as I whimper to coat me and make me ready for any electric toy she wishes to put here.

‘That joy is reserved only for my loyal husband, Anoushka. And for my darling boys, Castor and Pollux - and only them to remind my husband how easily I could leave him if he thought for one second he might disobey me.’

It is desperate jealousy I feel now, along with the bliss of her fingers. It’s hatred of those that have feasted upon her, been inside her. She knows this animosity is just making me quiver more. Drummond can hear all this. His mind will be racing with the images of what I look like, of the pictures she creates. His prick is so swollen, so fearsome. His spunk let fly now would be like a bullet. One look at me might send it shooting, but he keeps his eyes to the ground, however much this rips at him. The wand she eventually chooses for insertion is the thinnest she can find. At first I think it must be for my bottom, with a much fatter one chosen to stretch my begging puss, but no. She knows I need fatness so she gives me the opposite.

The current inside me is the gentlest her machine will supply. It is no more than the feel of the champagne bubbles within me that day Samson met his end. It has me shaking and wailing and begging for, well, for anything.

‘I told you to stay silent, Anoushka,’ she says, like I am a naughty child.

‘Please let me have it,’ I say, my self-discipline shot, not even knowing what “it” is. I know somewhere in my mind is the vision of the Queen of Pleasure.

‘What - you want my husband’s cock? You want to feel all of him up inside you?’

That does silence me. I can’t shriek my objections because my mouth simply won’t let me. Although it cannot bring itself to say yes, it also refuses to say no. I almost cry at this, with the desperate need I have for a release and the mortifying thought that it might be Drummond that makes it happen. Imagine him hearing how hard he has made me come. I could never look at anyone again, not least myself. It is going to happen though. She has gone to him with a blindfold. She is leading him across to me, his eyes covered and looking ridiculous in vest top and naked below this apart from grey ankle socks. Ridiculous apart from that monster prick, of course.

She guides him right to me, has him step within the under-frame and slide in to perch upon the lower struts designed specifically to hold the weight of a person, for just such eventualities. I am suspended above him in my seat, legs held apart and pussy open. He will be able to smell me. His cock stretches up from his lap, so great in length I might be able to feel the heat of its head on my puss if I wasn’t already like a furnace there.

‘This chair is fitted with hydraulics, Anoushka. At the press of a button I can make it fall to its lowest level. It will drop you right onto my husband. All of his prick will go inside you at once. You are too wet and slippery to stop it. Imagine him filling you in an instant, more than you have ever taken in your life. It is big, isn’t it, Anoushka? I did warn you but you just would not stay away. Other buttons make it rise and fall, more slowly. It is designed for this. I can make you fuck my husband even if it is the last thing in the world you think you want. When I am satisfied you have taken enough in your pussy I can have him fuck your bum too. Can you imagine all that meat filling your tight bum, Anoushka? You might never walk again. Something has to make you stay away and leave us alone. This will break you. Once you have been made to take my husband inside you there is no way you could muster any pride to think of yourself as a goddess. I am going to finish you, Anoushka, in all senses. I am going to count down from five. Five...’

Alarm is all through me, vying with my desire.

‘Four...’

I don’t know what she wants me to do. All I can see is Drummond there, his face not much below mine - that stupid face and that ridiculous vest that will never leave my mind once that cock has been inside me. That cock!

‘Three...’

Am I supposed to beg for freedom? She hasn’t asked, or told me my choices. She has just started to count. She is just adding that expectation as she always does, so that when the time comes you are at your limit of endurance.

‘Two...’

Just say no! Just make your mouth work and say the word! I’m paying for this so if I don’t want it I just have to let her know!

‘One...’

Too late.

I close my eyes. The burst comes right at my clit and I almost scream, such is the joy there. I buck and wriggle and the orgasm racks my body, buoyed by the current passing through my most sensitive place. The chair did not drop at all, of that I am dimly aware. A large chunk of me feels robbed by this. My insides are screaming to be filled but the climax goes on nonetheless, enough to have me wracking with joy and shame. For maximum cruelty she could remove the wand now and leave me still needing more but, ever the professional, ever one to want to be unforgettable, she keeps it pressed to me, keeps the pulses coming, keeps me coming. For the most incredible feeling ever she could drop me onto her husband now, whilst my empty puss clenches and contracts. The shame would burn briefly but it would be no matter because the bliss would kill me anyway. Death solves so much.

I am left in the chair for I know not how long. Not more than mere minutes because this is Drummond Time and her attention needs to be put back on him, especially since he thought he was to have his cock engulfed by my lovely puss. I was, yet again, little more than a passing distraction to aid her husband’s teasing. I was, yet again, left speechless with pleasure and totally beholden to her. She really is good, I can’t deny it. I am already untied and thus free to zip myself up and leave, assuming my legs will work. I feel bitterness and massive gratitude, all rolled into one. She possesses my mind and has me coming with the slightest of touches every time. I love her for it. I hate her absolutely.

‘I do not want you to come here again, Anoushka,’ she tells me. ‘There is no more I can do to help you. It is time you found your own way.’

I nod, weakly and meekly. I have found my own way, as it happens. It is a way that produces confusion and red clouds in me, and cuts the life-expectancy of certain men dramatically. This is why I came to her in the first place, to show me a precise direction. But all she does is confuse me more. She teaches me nothing about being a goddess and everything about being a slave. She sends me away so humiliated and wretched that all I can think of is lashing out to try and regain some self-worth. She uses me and mocks me and has me masturbating furiously to thoughts of gorging upon her. Worse still, she has me masturbating to thoughts of taking pleasure from that worm of a husband of hers - and that, Madam Smug Bitch Destiny, will never do at all.

I am going to press a vibrator to your clit whilst you suck my balls and lick my arse.

That is the text message awaiting me from Mr Anonymous when I get outside. I am close to shrieking with my outrage and frustration and desire. It isn’t just the text message, or even this latest rejection. It is everything from all the years. It is all the bullying and abuse and the being cast aside and the fighting and the sexual restrictions and heart-aching missed opportunity and the shattered dream. Nothing seems capable of giving me a release. If I could just cry now maybe that would help, but I haven’t done that since I pulled my mother up off her knees having watched my father drive away.

Mr Anonymous is clearly Bertrand. The reference to pressing buzzing sex toys to me is just too obvious, what with me having made him do it to me so recently. To think I let that scumbag in. I let him see me as I am, share in me. I should let all my ire crash over him but he is part of my secret now and needed because of it. He knows how to excite my dark side, as unthinkable as letting him closer is. I need him though I hate him, just like with Madam Destiny. Her rejection of me has pulled my insides out. I thought we would revere each other as goddesses, with her as the teacher at the start but always a little in awe of me.

I thought I would become essential to her. I imagined us ruling over our own little kingdom, sating our dirtiest desires within our dungeons and then retreating back to each other’s arms. I thought she would show me how to collect slaves who knew only devotion to their Mistress, and I would eventually be able to pick the one I loved best and return to something like normality, except with the knowledge that I would not be let down this time. Instead she wants me nowhere near her or her husband. They are probably smirking now, thinking of how easy I am to play and dupe and humiliate. He is laughing at me. She hurts me and I go back to her and she hurts me again, then she casts me adrift. It’s maybe just jealousy on her part but it feels like cold indifference. Can’t she appreciate what I could have been for her? Why is my value always so invisible?

I pull into the blackness of the drive, only one long rectangle of light cast over the gravel from above the door. It is cold and the house is unwelcoming emptiness. My head is a maelstrom. I am going to burn everything, just for the light and warmth it will throw over me. I might kill the next person I come across. I don’t even see the BMW parked there since my eyes have no focus. I let out a weird shocked warble as I walk straight into the solidity of him. His height is a clue but I know him as much by the smell of his cologne as from anything else. We have not quite fallen into each other’s arms, more tried to avert this happening, so our hands rest on each other’s forearms, mine gripping tight with the residual shock.

‘Mrs Van Peer?’ says my detective in a tone that shows he realises all is not well with me. It feels like all this inside me might burst out simply from the comfort of being near him. I imagine all his suspects feel similar just prior to confessing all.

‘I’ve had another text!’ I exclaim, as if that is the reason behind my woes.

‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ he quietly assures me, ‘I will make them stop.’

If I could cry now, surely this hold of ours would be converted to an embrace? He would take me into his comforting arms and hold me tight. But I cannot. My eyes can well up but the dam won’t burst. That part of me is broken. Instead I am being led towards my front door and instructed to search my bag for the keys. He hasn’t asked me why I am dressed in a skin-tight catsuit and wobbling on the highest of high heels. It’s like he knows this should be normal for me. Then I have been sat upon a chair in my drawing room and handed a whisky so large it might constitute an eighth of a whole bottle.

He sits opposite me, suited and booted and handsome as always, that face showing the warmth of concern. He could take me either of two ways at this very moment. He could use dominant action to take advantage of my befuddlement, seizing the initiative and issuing commands I have no ability to refuse. It would have me bending to his will before I had a chance to clear my head. Or he could ease me into him, soothing me, making my guard slip, making him my saviour. Either way would see me under his rule, unable to regain the higher ground. I must hold out, hold out. As much as my dreams of him increasingly have me as his slave, I cannot see how this can tie him down. I cannot see how it would stop him from walking away.

But I can’t stop myself from wanting it. He sits there leaning forward towards me, as if ready to gather me in if I start to crumble, and all I want him to do is take out his stiff cock and order me to guzzle upon it. I want him to put me on all fours and spit me upon it, in whichever hole he chooses.

‘Can you tell me about this last message?’ he says, still quietly.

‘No, no - it is too rude!’ says me in my catsuit.

‘I can find who is doing it but I need your help.’

I know who is doing it. That horrible handyman/gardener/henchman who spies on me at night whilst I have my fantasies is doing it. I could tell all if not for the fact that the accused could simply point at the trench he is digging outside and tell them to have a proper look in it.

‘I can’t help,’ I say, truthfully.

Forget the texts. Think of now, think of what we could be doing. Think what I could mean to you.

‘You can help. The phones used are different and essentially untraceable but that doesn’t mean you don’t know who is sending these foul messages. We know they have your number. It is too specific to be someone who doesn’t know you well enough to at least talk to you from time to time. Plus it started recently. That means it was either spurred on by your husband’s death or, more likely, because you only gave out your number at that time. So think. Think who you have given out your number to recently.’

‘I can’t think of anything like that at the moment.’

No, all I can think about is you taking me, doing whatever you want with me. Why can’t you see this?

‘Look, Mrs Van Peer,’ I am sorry to leave you like this but I have to go. Other duty calls. Please try to think. It is vitally important.’

Don’t leave me. Stay and fuck me. Forget that calling of other duty; never put anything above me, ever. We have had our first almost-embrace so it has started. I am too mixed up at the moment to make it happen so I give you your chance. Don’t lose this moment, make it go on. I have no defences to stop you. I am in fetish-wear that can unzip to expose me in a second and my pussy is wetter than you can imagine. Take me and do with me whatever you will, just don’t leave me.

So he does. I want to leap up and grab him but my legs won’t work. I am still shell-shocked and trembling inside, all this frustration and aimless desire, this injustice.

‘Anything you can remember will help,’ he says, although I am barely listening. ‘Concentrate and cast your mind back. Think of who has had your number since your husband died.’

Then he has gone and I am rooted to my seat, unable to follow because of weak legs and the part of me that resists capitulating to him. I try to think of any way I could have used this brief time to bring him under my control, but it is always him forcing the thoughts. Even now I am still pondering his last instruction although I already have an answer for him: Bertrand. Well, that’s not exactly true. I had my horrible handyman’s number stored in my phone but I’d never used it. My husband did all that. I couldn’t bring myself to get involved in a chat with him, even in text format. My husband died so I had to. That first text would have given him my number. He has been snidely responding since, helping make my nights feverish. I rarely give my number out to anyone except close friends, not even those add-ons to our social circle, so I know the truth. Since my husband died I have not given my number to anyone except Bertrand.

Hold on. Yes I have. No, wait - that is also not entirely true. I didn’t give it out but somehow had it anyway. The memory is suddenly clear, dug out by Stark’s prompting. I recall trying to work out how my number had been found. I needed to think very clearly at the time as all details were vital. There were few people who knew of what had happened, so few people my number could have been gleaned from. My conclusion was that my newly dead husband’s phone had been looked at, and my number found stored there. I remember wondering if it was just for this reason the snooper had looked, or whether it was just a by-product of a search for evidence. I didn’t give the person my number but he obtained it anyway, through crafty means. And that person, who is now seemingly intent on having me remember this, was none other than Detective Inspector Stark.