His Mistress’s Voice (25 page)

Tom didn’t know any transvestites personally. Like most of his contemporaries, he had tended to snigger at the idea of wearing the clothing of the opposite sex. If he had thought of the men who did so regularly, and he knew from the adverts in the daily papers that there were many, it had always been with some small doubts about their masculinity. He had always professed tolerance for them, but had never been able to eradicate the doubts. Now he was wearing the maid’s outfit with something like equanimity, Tom realised that merely wearing women’s clothing had not changed his sexual orientation. Until now he had thought that transvestites were the same as gays. Now he knew that these beliefs were simplistic, if not down-right erroneous. He still desired Katrina and looked forward to the next encounter. Moreover, Harriet was still the long-term object of his sexual designs too. But at the same time he was excited by the feel of the tight corselet on his body, and the smooth feel of the tights on his legs. He told himself that part of the excitement was due to the anticipation of yet another sexual game of Harriet’s devising, with unknown but almost certainly pleasurable results. Yet that was only part of the excitement: another part of it was the discovery of yet another facet of his sexual nature – amazing how a little personal experience changed one’s viewpoint.

The fact that the family jewels were safely tucked away inside the tight undergarments presented a problem so far as sex was concerned. He imagined that Harriet had another evening of what she earlier called blue balls in mind. She would dress provocatively in something tight and revealing. Then she would sit and watch TV, ignoring the effect that she and her own garb were having on him. Afterwards there would be another night in the closet or in the cell. If she put him downstairs, there would be the added excitement of Katrina’s proximity, locked away from him as well.

Harriet was piling frustration on frustration. He knew she was trying to discover his tolerance level, but he didn’t know what she’d do when she discovered it. Probably just go on and exceed it. Or try to increase it by the addition of other mild torments. In any case he could only go along with the game. Tom was reminded again that he had submitted himself to her will completely. Curious how long it had taken for him to understand the nature of their relationship. She called him her assistant and he was happy at the promotion, thinking himself on a firmer footing with Harriet. And so he was, but that was definitely a subordinate position. Tom couldn’t imagine Harriet ever letting him take the lead. So long as he stayed with her, and he was already finding the opposite idea painful to contemplate, she would lead and he would follow. There would be rewards, of course. He considered Helen and Katrina, not to mention the ultimate prize, Harriet herself. No relationship, however servile, could exist without them. But they would be chosen and doled out by Harriet.

Tom was aware of a paradoxical freedom he had not felt with Beth. In the relationship between mistress and slave the latter had no freedom save what she allowed. On the other hand he had no responsibility, and with the absence of responsibility came a certain peace: no need to make difficult choices. Perhaps that was what Beth had felt during the long weekend he had left her bound and gagged. She had certainly reacted more explosively to the sexual interludes during that weekend. It may well have been the immobility and the helplessness, the utter dependence on him, that had caused this reaction. She must have known that already, but he had only just made the same discovery for himself. Beth had been the necessary prelude to Harriet.

The sound of high heels on the staircase alerted him to Harriet’s imminent arrival. She came from behind him as he sat waiting, so he was unable to see immediately what she was wearing. Harriet paused to inspect the handcuffs, and to double-lock them as she always did. This small act probably meant he would be wearing them for some time. When she moved into his range of vision, he was pleased to see that she was wearing her leather dominatrix costume with the dark tights – his favourite outfit. But it looked like another evening of passive watching. He was safely tucked away inside his corselet, and she in hers. All the interesting bits were out of reach. But she did look stunning. Tom was once more aware of an erection inside the tight confining garments he wore as she sat down opposite him.

Harriet used the remote control to turn on the TV, while the other TV on the settee was being turned on by her remoteness. She was indeed remote, yet tantalisingly close. And disturbingly desirable, the more so because of her inaccessibility and his helplessness.

But this time Harriet seemed unable to settle. She shifted her position several times, crossing and uncrossing her legs with an exciting whisper of nylon on nylon. She showed little interest in the programmes, flipping from one channel to the other, channel surfing, as it was called. Tom thought she looked abstracted. Even disturbed, if such a self-contained and self-sufficient a woman as Harriet could fall prey to such feelings. He wondered if she would talk to him, or if her agitation had anything to do with him. In the past she had kept her own counsel – part of her remoteness and authority.

With characteristic suddenness Harriet seemed to reach a decision. She turned the set off and looked directly at Tom. Luckily she caught him in a moment when he was admiring her appearance. He had been looking at the TV in a desultory manner, as people do when the set is turned on, but he had been alternating between the TV and her. He didn’t like to think what she would have thought if she had caught him absorbed in the programme at just that moment. Always afterwards he thought of that as one of the crucial moments in their relationship.

Without preamble she asked, ‘Do you like what you see?’ As she spoke she sat up straighter in the chair and thrust out her breasts. The leather corselet creaked disturbingly as she shifted her weight. Harriet parted her legs slightly and Tom could see how the crotch of her outfit outlined her sex while denying access to it. ‘I mean,’ she continued with a slight flush and an air of specious casualness, ‘does the old bod make you go as hard as it did before?’

Tom’s attention woke up with a jerk. The words ‘old’ and ‘before’ set alarm bells ringing. This was a serious question beneath its air of apparent offhandedness. How he answered might well have the profoundest effect on their relationship. Fortunately he didn’t have to invent an answer, he
had
been absorbed in watching her as she sat across the room. He had been, as she said, admiring the ‘old bod’.

‘It’s not old,’ he replied, the correct answer in several senses. It appeared that even Harriet had her moments of uncertainty, few though they might be.

Harriet permitted herself the ghost of a smile. Was there the faintest touch of relief in it?

Heartened by the initial success, Tom hurried on to answer the rest of the question. ‘If you mean before Helen and Katrina, remember Shakespeare’s remark about Cleopatra: “Where others satiate she but makes more hungry.”’ As he said this, Tom recalled saying much the same thing to Beth. Shakespeare could always be mined for useful nuggets. ‘If you’d care to come over here you could feel the hard evidence yourself.’

That brought a full smile to Harriet’s face. But she said, ‘I’ll bet you say that to all the girls. The conventional disclaimer of flattery however sincerely it may be meant.’

‘No,’ Tom denied, ‘just to those who handcuff me and make me wear outfits like this. And who wear outfits like yours. There aren’t too many of those about. But if you’d care to allow nearer access to the “old bod”, as you put it, I could be a bit more convincing.

‘You just want to get into my pants,’ Harriet said. ‘But it won’t be that easy.’ She was smiling more openly now and seemed reassured by the declaration. She got up and crossed over to the settee. ‘You’ll have to earn the “access”, as
you
put it, by more hard work.’

The moment of tension had passed. Tom could see the change in her mood, and he relaxed with her. Harriet sat beside him on the sofa and ran her hand up under the skirt of his maid’s outfit. She caressed his thighs through the tights, much as he would have liked to caress hers. She moved her hand up to his crotch until she could feel the stiffness in his cock. Tom clamped down just in time to avoid a gasp as she continued to rub it through the tight elastic material that covered it.

Harriet was observing him closely. She grinned. ‘Yes, I’d say you’ve got the hard evidence you claimed. And that’s the best testimonial a man could give a girl. Keep it up and you’ll get your access card.’

As she continued to rub and fondle, Tom found that not all responsibility had been taken from him. He had to make a hard decision just then. ‘Harriet,’ he began, but hastily corrected himslf when he caught her warning look, ‘Mistress, if you keep that up I’m going to have an accident in the nice new outfit you bought me. You warned me to be careful about that.’

The reminder didn’t sit too well with Harriet. ‘I make the rules around here,’ she told him with a touch of asperity. ‘And I decide when to break them. I do what I like. You do as you’re told.’ With a sudden mischievous smile she continued, ‘I thought I’d give you something to remind you what us older women can do, and it just might lessen your ardour for our guest during the night.’

Tom closed his eyes and surrendered to her decision. Not that surrender came all that hard, though he came rather hard not so long afterward. Harriet removed her hand when he stopped shuddering and made a show of wiping it on her handkerchief. She made a
moue
of distaste and moved away. She gave no sign of letting him undress and clean himself. Tom lay back and closed his eyes.

He did not, however, think of England. Nor did he think immediately of Harriet, though she was sitting most provocatively just across the room from him. His thoughts were on cleaning his outfit. Harriet’s training was beginning to sink in. She, however, didn’t seem too worried about his needs, and he didn’t want to say anything about them himself. He remembered her sharp retort when he had ventured to remind her earlier. He resigned himself to the inevitable, and there was something obscurely exciting about being unable to clean himself or prevent her from doing whatever she wanted with him. He was back in the realm of the irresponsible.

Tom heard her stand up. He opened his eyes as Harriet motioned for him to get onto his feet as well. He struggled to stand and she helped him up. Then she led the way to the cellar door. For the first time since she had gone to work on him he thought of Katrina locked in her cell. Was Harriet taking him to join her?

No. She led Tom to the other oell, obviously intending to keep them apart for a time at least. Maybe she wasn’t wholly reassured by his earlier declaration. But Harriet said nothing beyond a terse order to sit down on the bed. She left him there and headed toward the back part of the cellar where she kept the bondage gear. Tom admired the receding rear view as she moved. Presently she came back with several tie wraps, longer and stronger than the one she had used on his balls before Helen’s visit.

Wordlessly Harriet knelt and unlocked his leg-irons. Putting them to one side, she drew Tom’s legs together and secured them with a tie wrap around the ankles. She drew it tight and clipped off the end. Next she secured his knees in the same way, grunting slightly as she drew the plastic band tight.

‘Lie face down on the bed,’ she commanded.

It was more of a struggle than Tom thought it would be. With his legs bound tightly together, he couldn’t get much leverage. Harriet once again helped him, this time by lifting his feet and tipping him over backwards. She rolled him over onto his stomach, and as she did Tom felt the wetness from his earlier orgasm. The tight corselet pressed it against him. Only now it was clammy rather than warm.

Harriet removed the handcuffs, crossed his wrists behind his back and secured them with yet another tie wrap. There was no slack in it when he tested it. Next she fitted a tie wrap around each arm above the elbow. She fitted a long wrap between these, drawing his elbows closer together behind his back. Always thorough, Harriet paused to clip the ends of the plastic straps and to test each one for tension. ‘I do so like a neat package,’ she commented half to herself. ‘Now a gag, I think. I wouldn’t like the love birds calling to one another while I’m away.’ Harriet produced a rubber pear-shaped object which she inserted in Tom’s mouth. She secured it with a strap that buckled behind his neck, pulling it tightly into the long brown wig he wore.

‘I’m off now,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘I’ve got another appointment but I won’t be long. And,’ she continued as an afterthought, ‘I’ll be wearing my leather costume as underwear in case the thought excites you. Don’t want to make things unnecessarily dull for you.’

With that she was gone. Tom heard the key turn in the lock and her footsteps receding up the stairs. There was the sound of another door closing, and then the lights went out. It was pitch dark in the cellar. Since there was no sound from Katrina’s cell, he guessed that she was likewise still gagged. The thought of her lying so close to him, helpless like himself, made Tom go hard inside the damp corselet. Part of his excitment came from his own predicament. As he shifted in the bed he felt his cock slide against the elastic that imprisoned it. The friction on his legs where the tights rubbed together sent electric shivers through him, and at that moment Harriet’s parting words came back to him. He imagined her going about her business – the mysterious appointment she had mentioned – in her tight leather corselet and black tights. She would have put a dress on over it, but he imagined her body moving against the leather as she walked the streets.

He pulled against the tie wraps, but there was no give in them. Harriet had left him lying face down on the bed when she had finished tying him. That position became uncomfortable, and he tried to turn onto his side. It was a struggle without the use of his arms and legs, as doubtless Harriet had foreseen. She appeared to know everything there was to know about bondage. In his efforts to turn over he could feel the silky slip sliding against his skirt, and the tight corse-let against his body. Experimentally he moved his hips and felt his cock push against the tight material. That felt promising. He kept moving, and soon realised he was going to come if he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop. There was no reason to. The damage (if that was the right word) was already done, and after the first orgasm upstairs Harriet would never know if he induced another. In for a penny, in for a pound, he reasoned.