The Voyeur

THE VOYEUR

An erotic novel by Kay Jaybee

Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2012
ISBN 9781908917867

Copyright © Kay Jaybee 2012

The right of Kay Jaybee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

Also by Kay Jaybee

Chapter One

His evening meal complete, Mark sat back, contentedly sipping his cup of strong black coffee. Pulling a small, battered notebook from his pocket, he read thoughtfully for a moment. His self-restraint, although immense, was beginning to run out. It was time for them to progress to the end of the list. Pressing the intercom button, Mark summoned his personal assistant, Anya, and his housekeeper, Clara, to the dining room.

The women arrived swiftly, both aware of the importance of not keeping Mark waiting. Standing on the opposite side of the highly polished dining room table, his employees braced themselves for the coming instructions.

‘I have decided that we will take a trip to Discreet this evening. We will turn our attention to the next fantasy on my list. Fantasy 12.’ Mark’s cool blue eyes deliberately weighed up the reaction of his staff as he delivered his news.

Discreet was the reason that Mark spent such a large proportion of his time in his London flat, rather than in his mini-mansion in Oxfordshire, where his software business was based. It was only at Discreet, the most exclusive of the city’s BDSM clubs, that his increasingly imaginative fantasies could be publically appreciated; most of which involved the observation of other people’s erotic aspirations. Mark Parker was the ultimate voyeur.

Trying hard not to exchange glances with her colleague, Anya could sense the stiffening of Clara’s body as they listened to their boss. She knew that Clara’s mind, like her own, would already be racing; madly trying to guess what Mark’s latest erotic scenario would involve. Having survived fantasies one to eleven, they already understood the nature of the challenges they were likely to experience during the evening that loomed ominously ahead.

‘Anya, you will be less delighted than Clara, perhaps, when I tell you that this trip is intended as a lesson for you; possibly a punishment.’

Forgetting herself for a second, the PA lifted her head and stared Mark squarely in the face.

His lips smiled; his eyes, however, did not. ‘You wonder why? Why, when you are forever questioning my instructions?’

‘But Mark, I …’ Anya stopped talking, aware that by asking why she was simply proving his point. She could feel her nipples hardening beneath her white shirt, as her employer continued to stare at her.

‘Oh my dear Anya, you may never question me out loud.’ Mark’s voice was velvety soft, yet the potential danger of disagreeing with him shone in his eyes. ‘But I know that you constantly query my actions by your reaction to them. Subconscious or not, it has to stop.’

Anya couldn’t believe it; she had always been so dutiful. The perfect assistant. The willing slave. How could Mark know she privately questioned her existence; her choice at being here with him and Clara, living this less than “ordinary” existence?

Clara was hovering uncomfortably next to Anya as Mark came closer. ‘Tonight,’ he said, pulling off Anya’s shirt and bra, exposing her luscious chest to the cool of the room, ‘you will both face a combination of experiences that together make up Fantasy 12. Won’t it be lovely to be able to tick another task from our list, girls?’

They didn’t answer; experience had taught them that nine times out of ten his questions were rhetorical.

Mark twisted the women round; removing Clara’s top as he did so, so he could see both his employees’ bare backs. There, in neat script, a permanent pen had been used to write “Fantasy 1”, “Fantasy 2” and so on, all the way down – the numbers following the length of their spines, finishing with the words “Fantasy 13”. The first 11 rows of black lettering had bright red ticks next to them.

‘Only two more tasks to go.’

This time the girls risked a fleeting glance at each other, exchanging a look of mutual blood-hammering exhilaration twinned with an erotic anticipation it would have been hypocritical to deny.

Mark, during his brief periods of leisure, had painstakingly detailed many lust-driven scenarios he wished to both direct and bring to life. He often wrote notes, accompanied by intricate diagrams of erotic, slightly disturbing, but ultimately satisfying fantasies, in a leather-bound journal that only he was allowed to read.

Anya and Clara knew that the final fantasy, when it came, would be both more difficult and different to anything they’d ever previous experienced. They feared it. They also longed for it. Mark was a clever man, for as each new task unfolded he pushed his faithful staff along with him, darkening their desires and needs closer and closer to his own. Making them as keen as he was to see how far they could go. To see how much they could physically take as they accompanied Mark on his journey of extreme sexual sightseeing.

A cold, clammy sheen of perspiration broke out on Anya’s face, arms, and breasts as Mark danced a finger across her skin. ‘You will both go to your room and change into the clothes I’ve placed upon your beds. You will remain there until I call you.’ Mark pointed to the door, and his employees headed to their small, twin-bedded room without a sound.

As she considered some of the things she and Clara had been required to do over the last six months, Anya privately reassured herself that the trepidation shooting down her spine was understandable and acceptable. It was also irrational, for she knew that Fantasy 12 might not only be tolerable, but enjoyable; and that just because the end of the list was in sight, it didn’t mean the night ahead would involve anything worse than she’d survived before. She could handle this. They both could – no problem.

Then Anya saw her outfit.

Her bed supported nothing but a leather dog collar.

Staring at the total lack of clothing, Anya almost conveyed her horror to Clara, but her lover stopped her with an urgent shake of the head. There was no privacy here, and they never knew if the webcams positioned in every room were switched on or not.

Clara, forcing herself to focus on her bed alone, removed her working clothes, and pulled on the stockings, suspenders, supple black leather bra, and matching high-heeled boots which had been placed ready for her, along with the riding whip which she habitually kept inside the left boot. In other words, her normal Discreet attire.

Unable to secure the collar’s small buckle around her own neck, Anya passed it, her hands unsteady, to Clara. With an expression of concern and sympathy, her partner tightened it around Anya’s slender neck.

Bare-footed and naked, her pulse beating an ever-increasing percussion of fearful expectancy, Anya waited at the end of her bed with the suggestively clad Clara.

Eventually, fully dressed in an attractively crumpled linen suit, Mark came to collect them. Nodding in approval, he slipped a chain lead on to Anya’s collar, before pulling her from the house, with Clara following obediently.

Normally when travelling to Discreet, the three of them would sit in the back of Mark’s chauffeur-driven limo. Today things were different. Pulling Anya toward her little silver Fiesta, he gestured for her to sit in the front passenger seat. Apprehension and humiliation crept over her. He really is going to drive me across London both naked and enslaved. What have I done to deserve this?

Sitting directly behind Anya, Clara listened carefully as Mark whispered instructions to her before getting into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. They had only gone a short distance through the evening streets when Clara’s fingers reached around the back of Anya’s seat and began to fondle her nipples.

Instantly Anya’s tits responded to Clara’s familiar touch, yet every inch of Anya was aware of the possibility of being spotted whenever they stopped in traffic, or passed the light of a lamp post, and she couldn’t help but become increasingly tense, rather than relax into the sensual massaging.

At last they pulled up outside the club. Anya’s face coloured crimson as the valet came to take the car, but having worked at Discreet for years, his face gave nothing away. Mark opened the doors, and gave his girls permission to get out. Rising a little shakily, Anya was aware she was already wet between her legs.

‘Slut.’ Mark gave her an evil smile as he pushed a hand against his PA’s damp pussy. ‘I have obviously left it too long before disciplining you. Your pleasure seems to come all too quickly these days.’

Anya said nothing, but concentrated on speculating how long it would be before the next tick would be added to her flesh; picturing the almost complete list on her back.

Leaving his PA for a moment, Mark passed Anya’s lead to Clara so he could fetch something from the boot of the car. His attractively rugged face glowed with triumph as he bought out a slim, rectangular wooden box. Carrying his prize, he retook the lead, and ordered Anya to her knees. She lifted her eyes to his for a split second in surprise, before becoming sensible of herself and obeying. The cobbled path was hard, uncomfortable, and damp from recent rain. As she was ushered along, Anya’s knees scraped on the concrete, grazing away layers of skin as she struggled to keep up with her master without choking on the collar.

Discreet was a BDSM club exclusively for those with money. The lighting was suitably subdued and the music, which was the quiet side of deafening, bounced off the walls upon which were painted murals of the Greek and Roman gods of decadence, picked out with splashes of silver and gold. A vast hall with numerous tables, chairs, and sofas dotted about, along with a large, square dance floor in the centre, formed the main section of the club. Along the entire length of one side of the room, the wall was studded with metal hoops, big enough to fasten someone to, via a selection of restraints thoughtfully provided by the management, and at intervals, doors led off to a series of private rooms and offices.

Glancing around, trying to appear as if this situation was normal, telling herself that her lack of clothing wasn’t going to turn a hair, Anya raised her head with a fake confidence she hoped Mark would be proud of. Yet inside she knew that she was fooling no one.

Mark marched Clara and Anya past several girls who’d already been attached to the walls. Some had been tied and abandoned, wishing desperately for attention; others were already feeling the crack of a whip or a probing tongue. An aroma of sex and sweat hung in the air. As they progressed further into the room Anya could see where Mark was heading; straight to the club’s proprietor, Claude. Taking the large, balding man to one side, Mark began a hastily whispered conversation. Anya’s heart seemed to be drumming faster by the minute, and when the owner turned to her with an unpleasant half-smile playing around his lips, she felt sick with nerves. Why me? Why not Clara?

The manager signalled to the DJ and the music stopped. All Anya could hear was the chatter, groans, and steadily rhythmical smacks from those too occupied within their own personal heavens and hells to notice that the room was very much quieter than it had been a few seconds ago. Those less involved in what they were doing swivelled toward Claude with a questioning look; and consequently toward Mark, Clara, and Anya.

Taking a step forward, Mark pulled hard on the lead so that Anya’s neck jerked toward his legs. ‘My bitch here is guilty of questioning my requests.’ Abruptly the room fell completely silent, and everyone turned to see what was happening as Mark’s voice boomed out. Keeping her gaze lowered, Anya stared at the dusty floor.

Opening the lid of his box, Mark pulled out a large piece of folded white card. As he unfolded it, he dragged Anya to one of the unoccupied rings on the wall before securing the lead to it, ensuring she couldn’t stray. Then he stuck the rectangle of card upon the wall next to her tethered body.

In bold black type it said “Do what you want to me, but I must not be satisfied. I have been very bad and I do not deserve it.”

Anya had barely taken in the words, and was trying to ignore the mocking laughter and jeering from the gathering crowd when she realised Mark had taken something else from the box. Unable to see whatever it was he held up to the growing audience, Anya’s blood stilled in her veins as her imagination worked overtime. Knowing Mark’s inventiveness, and his no-expense-spared attitude to his fantasies, it could literally be anything. A fresh spike of alarm coursed through her, and Anya searched through the growing crowd that circled her, hoping to see the reassuring face of Clara, only to be disappointed.

Kneeling in front of his slave, Mark grabbed a handful of her glossy red hair, hoisted up her face, and showed her his new toy. ‘See, Anya, isn’t it pretty? I’ve had it especially made for you; aren’t you lucky?’

The captive woman didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She was too busy taking in what she was looking at, which was a ball-gag with a thick, black dildo sticking out of it. Sweat trickled along her breasts as they swung free, and an involuntary quivering started in her shoulders.

With a contented, expectant grin on his voyeuristic face, Mark pushed the gag between her drying lips, and secured it behind Anya’s neck so it squashed her sun-tanned cheeks. Heavy, hard and unwieldy, the fake dick stuck out of her mouth like a reverse blowjob, making Anya’s jaw ache, and forcing her to concentrate hard on breathing properly. She didn’t even want to think about what she must look like; no doubt she’d find out, for she could see Mark was already ensuring that the show would be filmed, so he could get his private kicks later.

Crouched, shaking, and unsteady on her hands and knees, waiting with a contrary excitement for Fantasy 12 to start, Anya again searched the room for Clara, but couldn’t see her at all.

Placing a bowl of pick ‘n’ mix condoms on the floor next to her, Mark yelled, ‘Begin,’ his shining eyes glued onto Anya’s shackled body.

Stealing herself for an instant orgy, the PA was surprised when no one moved. Perhaps it was the presence of the camera. Discreet was a place for anonymity; somewhere you could avoid being who you were from nine to five.

Just as she had begun to think this was all a big bluff just to frighten her, and that nothing was going to happen, Anya jumped. A pair of smooth hands was sedately crossing her backside.

Clumsily tilting her face a fraction to the side, Anya saw a gorgeously curvy woman dressed in a stunning burgundy basque and panties giving her an intimately assessing visual examination. The unknown woman addressed Mark. ‘I think a blindfold might make this even more interesting. What do you think?’