The Business of Pleasure (23 page)

‘I should take out the plug,’ mused Collins. ‘I know you hate this bit … brace yourself …’

But she was too tired and she let him pull it out without her customary mild fuss and resistance, though she still yelped with the momentary pain.

‘You’re bad at that usually, but that was better. Was that obedience or sheer exhaustion?’

‘The latter,’ she murmured, happily bent over the stool, enjoying the residual throb of her caning – always a moment to treasure.

‘Charlotte … can you stand?’

‘Uh uh,’ was all she could manage. Collins tutted fondly, then picked up her naked, welted body and carried it out of the chamber.

She must have fallen asleep in the back of his car, because her next memory was of cold leather against her very sore, nude bottom, and a seatbelt crossing between her breasts and … Collins sitting beside her, one hand on a thigh while he frowned at a mobile phone screen.

‘Where we going?’ she mumbled. ‘Where’s this?’

‘You’ve never been to my home before, have you? We’re going there.’

‘You’re not …’

‘Not what?’

‘I asked Bryant once if you were married … he never did answer me … I just thought …’

‘The things Bryant leaves unsaid are usually the ones that reveal the most about him,’ frowned Collins. ‘I’m not married. Unattached. Never found a submissive who wasn’t needy or wildly attention-seeking or irritating in some other way. Until now.’

‘Until me?’

‘Until you, Charlotte. You know what you are, and you get on with being it. You make it all so simple and so pleasurable.’

‘I am more than a submissive, you know.’

‘I do know that. Of course I do. But you don’t bang on and on about it, unlike some. I know you have other ambitions and interests. I will respect that. Outside the bedroom … or should I say, the dungeon … you will be treated as my equal always.’

‘So we’re … establishing a partnership … are we?’

‘If you like.’

‘Will I get to know you? I don’t know you at all.’

‘I don’t let my guard down until I know I can, Charlotte. I think I might be able to … just slightly … perhaps, now. I used to be a punk, you know.’

Charlotte gasped then choked out a laugh. ‘What? What? You?’

‘Hmm. Tartan trousers with safety pins. Down the 100 Club every Friday and Saturday. Can you imagine it?’

‘No! Not at all!’

‘Well, if you’re a good girl, I’ll show you the photographs some time. Not the ones with the unfortunate lime spray-paint job on my hair though. They may be lost for all time.’

‘Were you in a band?’

‘No. I managed one though. Bryant was in it. He played bass. Or so he claimed. I don’t think he knew more than one chord.’

‘You met … through
punk rock
?’

‘Is it so strange? Lots of kinky sex in the punk iconography, you know.’

‘Well, yeah, I suppose that’s true. But wow all the same.’

‘Wow indeed.’

‘So you and Bryant go right back to the Seventies.’

‘Further than that. We were at school together. Hated each other, though. It was music that brought us together – I don’t think anything else would have worked.’

‘It seems a shame …’

‘A shame? What seems a shame?’

‘The agency. All your work. Your … you had such a dynamic together. You were like psychic twins. You always understood what the other was going to do. Is it really all over?’

Collins did not reply, because the car had descended into an underground car park, indicating that the destination had been reached.

‘Is this a public car park?’ asked Charlotte nervously, once the door had been opened by Saunders, the chauffeur.

‘Yes.’ Collins smiled charmingly. ‘Out you get then.’

Charlotte was allowed one consternated expression before having to step gingerly out of the car, wincing as her cane stripes peeled reluctantly from the leather. Collins came out behind her, pressing her bottom to his trousered thighs and urging her on, barefoot across the concrete, to the elevator shaft.

‘It’s cold,’ she muttered, teeth chattering, but Collins was busy thanking Saunders for his work tonight and promising that the cheque would be in the post tomorrow. The elevator, like the car park, was mercifully empty, though when it stopped at the lobby to let Saunders out, there were a couple of people standing across by the main door who could have caught a flash of Charlotte’s nude front view. The lift doors shut before anybody’s decency was outraged, though, and they continued up to the top floor and out into the landing of the penthouse suite.

Collins’s apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows on every side, and from them all of London could be seen. A galaxy of lights surrounded them, from the yellowish glow of the neighbouring apartment blocks to the circular fluorescence of the London Eye. The eternal wink of the Canary Wharf tower could be seen from the bathroom, while the bedroom looked out towards Heathrow, the undercarriages of aircraft flashing red and green as they took their diagonal upward path to the skies.

‘You live in the sky,’ said Charlotte wonderingly.

‘It’s the only way to escape the constant crowds in London,’ he replied, coming up behind her, pressing her to the window, which was as yet uncurtained. ‘They would love to see this.’ He dipped a hand down across her belly, placing his palm flat on her navel, and kissed her neck.

‘Perhaps they can,’ she said nervously. Some of those other apartment blocks were only a few yards away. Most of them were lower, but not all. It was conceivable that somebody could be looking out of their window, up to Collins’s eyrie.

‘I don’t care,’ said Collins darkly. ‘I don’t care what they see. I’ll display you any time I see fit. What do you think of that?’

‘Oh,’ was all Charlotte could say, the sound coming out as a moan. Collins’s fingers were sliding lower, positioning themselves at the juncture of thigh and crotch.

‘I am your master,’ he said into her ear. ‘Say it.’

‘You are my master.’ She let her feet slip further apart, let him push his fingers up inside.

‘Good. So let’s have you kneeling on the rug now, shall we?’

Charlotte, perfectly obedient, waited for him to withdraw his fingers before placing herself as ordered on the thick cream rug. She tucked her arms into the small of her back, the stance Collins always favoured for the way it made her spine arch and breasts jut.

‘Shut your eyes, Charlotte.’ Collins’s voice was seductive smoke, wafting over her sensitive skin. ‘Don’t open them unless you are told. Just allow yourself to be touched, felt, used.’

Charlotte shut her eyes, listening to the soft footfalls around her, then feeling a hand on her shoulder, then a cupping of a breast. Her nipples swelled, and a circling thumb sent messages lower down, resulting in an answering bloom in her clitoris. She waited patiently while the hands took their sweet time, examining every inch of her breasts before inspecting her marked bottom, cruelly pinching at the welts so that she jerked and cried out, but did not open her eyes. The hand smacked at her sore bottom until she was gasping and whimpering, but she never broke position and she kept the eyes tight. Then, ah yes, then it was where she wanted it, in the wanton wetness between her legs, giving her pleasure after the pain, giving her what she needed. She kept as still as she could, trusting her master’s hand to know how best to bring her to her crisis, letting it flick and rub and press. While one set of fingers kept up this work, another set speared her hot, tight cunt, penetrating it with wicked efficiency. Charlotte was going to come soon, she knew it, and she did not have to ask permission today, so she simply let her breathing pattern give Collins the clue he needed, coming closer and closer, panting for air, feeling the tiny ticklish curl of her incipient orgasm, building, building, building … There were hands on her breasts now, two hands, and yet there were still hands … on … everywhere … oh, oh, ohhhhhhhh.

She let the tornado blow through, and then she dared to open her eyes.

Bryant was smiling at her, while Collins lurked at her hind.

‘Hello, Charlotte. That looked nice. Would you like some more?’

L
ONDON LEGEND HAD IT
that the building had been, at various times, a church; a music hall; the headquarters of an occult secret society; a prison; an illegal drinking club. Now its upper floors functioned as a cutting edge arts space while the crypt – in which the ceremony was to take place – hosted a variety of events, including the monthly meetings of the city’s most exclusive sex club.

It was a beautiful, if rather chilly, almost intimidating place, Charlotte had thought when they had gone to inspect its suitability as a venue for the scene they had in mind. But then, given what was going to happen there, perhaps these were all good qualities.

Charlotte was so nervous her hands were shaking, so she was grateful for the help with her preparations.

‘You look stunning,’ Lady Markham assured her, retracting the mascara wand after the final waterproof layer. ‘You know they will think so too. Now, stand up, dear, and I’ll see to the finishing touches.’

The finishing touches involved rouge on the nipples and the labia, so it was a good thing Charlotte and the peeress had built up such a cordial relationship over the course of the last few months at the agency.

‘Why are you so nervous?’ scolded Lady Markham, smoothing gold-sheened oil all over Charlotte’s belly and breasts.

‘How many people are out there?’ she wondered.

‘Oh, scores, darling. I had the invitations printed by my stationer. I’m sure we ordered a hundred.’

‘
A hundred?
’

‘Those boys have never done things by halves. This will be no exception. Goodness, dear, you’ve been their partner in crime all this time. Surely you know that!’

Charlotte wanted desperately to peek through the keyhole of this small anteroom off the main crypt and see if she could identify any of the guests, but that would probably ruin her eye make-up, and Lady Markham might reprove her poor etiquette.

‘How long have you known them?’ she asked, raising her arms obediently to facilitate Lady Markham’s full access to her body.

‘Most of my life, dear. Jeremy was my first lover.’

‘Bryant! No! Really?’

‘Yes! We do have rather a lot in common, Charlotte. At least one element of which must be obvious to you.’

‘Well. Yes. Did you … was it love? At the time?’

‘It was infatuation. More on my side than his.’ She sighed, and her hand slowed a little in its oiling. ‘Twenty years ago, darling. You were still at prep school.’

‘I didn’t go to prep school.’

‘You didn’t miss much. Anyway.’ She put her hands in a basin of water, ostensibly washing them, but also appearing to wash away the intrusive memory. ‘Jeremy and I have both moved on, as it were. I have a wonderful new mistress, and he … well, he has you. Could you spread your legs a little wider, dear? I can’t leave your thighs untouched, now, can I?’

‘I’m so glad it’s all worked out between you and Krysztyna,’ said Charlotte, smiling, a little ruefully. ‘It sounds like the perfect arrangement.’

‘Oh, it is, my dear. I think I might prevail upon her to move in permanently soon.’ Her long fingers with their oval polished nails massaged the oil into every crevice and cranny of Charlotte’s legs and thighs, until she shone golden from the noblewoman’s attentions. ‘I think you’ll do now. Hand me the corset.’

The corset was an underbust model, constructed of whaleboned satin with ribbon laces. Charlotte loved it and had chosen it herself, but she still could not help thinking that such a restrictive, ferocious item had no business being so delicately beautiful. She held her breath and kept her shoulders well back while Lady Markham pulled at the laces with such force it seemed for a moment like revenge.
You’ve taken Bryant, you’ve taken Collins, now you can take this!
But that was just paranoia, of course. ‘You’ll have to hang on to the door knob for all you’re worth,’ said Lady Markham through gritted teeth, and she pulled and tugged as if trying to rein in a runaway horse, finally succeeding in getting Charlotte’s waist to little more than the span of a large man’s hands.

‘I must admit,’ Lady Markham continued, picking up the gossamer silk stockings, ‘I’ve been to a few of these collaring ceremonies in my time, but never one like this. Never one submissive and two Dominants. It will be quite unusual. Lift up your right leg, dear, and I’ll put this stocking on you.’

Charlotte let her roll the tissue-thin silk up her calf toward her thigh, clipping it to the snaps that hung down from the corset.

‘Jago obviously loves you to death.’

Charlotte fought the urge to giggle, as she always did whenever she heard someone use Collins’s given name. She would never be able to call him it, she realised. Never. Ever. Disloyal and cruel though it made her feel, she found the name too absurd. He would be Collins, forever and always, to her.

‘Do you think so?’ she asked, trying to mute the sudden uprising of hysteria. She couldn’t laugh. It was just too uncomfortable in this corset.

‘I know so. To want someone so much he would actually
share
her … well. Even if it is with Jeremy, who is like his blood brother.’

‘Were you a punk too?’

‘Me? God, no. I did get into the New Romantic thing a bit though. There.’

The stockings were on, the hair sleeked back and held in a tight plait, both sets of lips crimson and hairless. ‘Sit down. I’ll do the shoes.’

Charlotte held out her feet, watching Lady Markham wrap the slender ankle straps round and round before buckling them firmly, imprisoning her feet in the criss-cross leather.

‘He really does love me? They both do?’ Charlotte’s words came out in an anxious tumble, a plea for reassurance.

‘Charlotte, who could not love you? Yes.’ She sat back on her heels and smiled, genuinely. ‘You’re a lucky girl. They will treat you like a goddess. A goddess who likes to be whipped, that is.’

Charlotte rose to four-inch-heeled feet, holding her arms out to the sides for a moment until she had found her centre of equilibrium and was able to remain still atop her towering footwear.

‘And you look like one too,’ said Lady Markham, stepping back with her hands clasped in appraisal. ‘A goddess.’

She was not looking so undeific herself, swathed in a white silk toga with gold adornments, including a wide band around her waist and a torque at her throat. Her sand-blonde hair was piled up and pinned in place by a plain gold tiara. She looked rather like a Roman version of Wonderwoman, Charlotte thought, and her legs, emerging from the abbreviated hem of the toga, were every bit as good.

‘Just the cloak then, and we’re set.’

Charlotte felt a dry fear grip her, and she cast about for something to delay the inevitable moment – an extra spritz of hairspray, a slick of lip-gloss, more oil for her calves. It was strange that she should feel this stage fright when she had been on display many times before, often in front of a crowd. This was different though. This meant something and, though there was no legal basis to it and it could be taken back any time, the weight of commitment hung about the ceremony.

A cloak of heavy satin, clasped at the collarbone, was placed about Charlotte’s shoulders. The fabric was cold and slick against her naked areas, pressing down on her shoulders. It slid deliciously over her uncovered buttocks and breasts, prompting the first prickly heat of arousal just as Lady Markham unlocked the chamber door and stood one step outside, indicating to the crowd that Charlotte was ready and the service could begin.

Hundreds of candles cast flickering shadows on the flagstone walls of the crypt, and the crowds of people who stood in knots around the vaulted room looked golden and glamorous, like dream representations of their real selves. Charlotte remembered to cross her arms across her chest and approach the far wall of the building with her eyes downcast. She was not meant to see her ‘grooms’ until their hands were upon her, so Lady Markham acted as her eyes, leading her along the aisle created by the dividing crowds.

Charlotte’s ears tried to pick out phrases from the murmuring that accompanied her slow path forward, but it all merged into a buzz, adding itself to the jangling of her nerves and the heady tingling of erotic anticipation that underlaid everything.

When Lady Markham drew to a halt in front of her, she felt a hand on each shoulder, urging her down, to kneel. Charlotte was heartened to find a velvet hassock placed on the cold flags, sparing her delicately-stockinged knees, and she risked a sneaky glance upward, where Collins and Bryant stood, seeming endlessly tall and dark-suited, their heads somewhere far above her.

Lady Markham, now established at the front of the hall, held up a hand for silence. It seemed that she was to conduct whatever proceedings were to follow, and indeed, London’s most famous submissive certainly seemed to command respect, for not a sound could be heard. Charlotte glanced sideways, and caught sight of a cushion, piled up with all kinds of remarkable things. She swallowed, clenched her thighs together, and found them wet. This was going to be a night to remember.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, masters, mistresses and slaves, tonight is a momentous night,’ intoned Lady Markham. ‘It has been my privilege to know Mr Collins and Mr Bryant for a number of years, and nobody could be more delighted than me to know that they have reached the end of their search for the perfect submissive. I hope you will join me in celebrating the Collaring of Charlotte. Today she enters into a covenant with her two masters, signalling the beginning of a wonderful journey into committed submission and all that it brings. She will be loved, cherished and mastered by two absolutely superior men, and they in turn will enjoy the devoted obedience of their bond servant. Charlotte, you may kiss the feet of each of your new owners.’

Charlotte turned instinctively to the right, placing her lips first on Collins’s highly polished brogue, then she repeated the process with Bryant.

‘Now I would like to hear Mr Collins and Mr Bryant repeat after me the vows they have personally created to best reflect their hopes and plans for Charlotte.’

Collins and Bryant spoke in perfect unison, echoing the words Lady Markham spoke next. They promised that they would give Charlotte everything she needed. They would demand her submission without ever hindering her growth. They would love and cherish her. They would devise strict rules and would strictly enforce discipline for any breach of them. They would be consistent, firm and fair. Well, not always fair. But consistent and firm. They would endeavour to provide an atmosphere of stability, harmony and peace where Charlotte could continue to flourish and enjoy her life. If they ever failed her, they would not prevent her from ending the contract.

And now it was Charlotte’s turn to speak. She lifted her face to Lady Markham’s and repeated the phrases in a clear, distinct voice. She owed it to her audience that they should be able to hear the terms of her surrender.

‘I, Charlotte Steele, promise my full and complete submission to Mr Collins and Mr Bryant. I will be honest about my needs, desires and ambitions. I will respect my masters, in thought, word and deed. I will be obedient in the bedroom, and tolerant outside of it. I will not refuse an order without a valid reason. I will give to them every part of myself, whenever and wherever it is required of me. If these vows ever become untenable, I will give fair warning of my intention to leave. I will wear my collar with pride and will work tirelessly at being the best submissive I can be.’

Of course, these were just the broad brush strokes of the contract. There were details, and devils in those details – many, many clauses and sub-clauses lurked on the parchment, in the copperplate hands of Mr Collins and Mr Bryant. Charlotte would be fenced in with duties and requirements, just as she had always dreamed of being. Her mode of dress, her daily timetable, even her personal grooming, would all be strictly controlled and subject to regular examination. They had sat up, night after night, thrashing out the new world order – sometimes literally thrashing it out – until the perfect compromise of submission and humanity had been established.

The vows exchanged, the ceremony moved on to what Lady Markham called ‘The Demonstration of Commitment’.

‘Mr Collins, would you place the collar on Charlotte.’

She had not known what the collar would look like, or be made of, so she was mildly surprised to feel the familiar rough underside of a common leather dog collar placed around her neck. A metal tag flapped its chill rim against the hollow of her throat; Charlotte could not see it, but she guessed there must be an inscription of some kind. She held her chin up while Mr Collins, behind her, fastened the buckle with care, making sure it was tight enough without being too tight. The leather was stiff and Charlotte was sorely tempted to put a hand up to it, to try and soften its hard edges. She had been half-expecting something fashioned from a precious metal, or something so subtle as to almost not be recognisable as a collar, but she realised that it was important to her masters that her position of subjection be blatant and clear to the world at large. She would not be allowed to conceal her submission, even on the bus or in the supermarket. It was a fact of her life. There was no lock, no key, just a buckle that she could undo at will, and this also struck her as symbolic. She had the freedom to uncollar herself. She was not a slave; the buckle was the mark of a woman who gave herself willingly, and could take herself away as soon as that will deviated from its current course. Collins and Bryant had no interest in being seen as throwbacks to the recent age of patriarchy – that would have offended them. She congratulated herself on having found such a pair of enlightened, intelligent sadists.

But now it was Bryant’s turn to place the ring on her finger and all pondering ceased under the weight of the heavy metal circle.

‘Remove her cloak, gentlemen, and commence the Endurance Ceremony.’

The satin poured off Charlotte’s shoulders, leaving them bare. Now the congregation would be able to see her pale flanks and bottom, her breasts spilling over the cage of the corset, nipples erect in the stone-walled cold.