There was once a dinner party with three women who didn’t desire me, and me. There was a professional dominatrix, who I’ll call Therese, and her slavegirl, who can be Emma. Therese and Emma were Londoners, on a winter’s holiday to look at frozen rivers and ski down hillsides. I didn’t know either of them. They were friends of a friend of mine. That friend had invited me along to make up the fourth at dinner.
My friend, who we’ll call Debs, was a submissive woman who’d somehow managed to start a friendship by turning me down when I made a pass at her. We’d been having a wine and music conversation on sofas in a fashionable bar, in which she’d got as far as agreeing that she’d quite like to crawl towards me with a paddle between her teeth. But somehow and suddenly the flirtation had stopped. I’d never really managed to re-kindle it, though there were occasional sparks.
Anyway, Debs invited me because Therese was bookish and Debs isn’t. If the conversation got onto the nineteenth century novel or some such thing, I’d be there to field it. I assumed I was also invited in case Therese started coming on to Debs. Debs didn’t fancy women at all. She only liked men. Apart from me.
We met Therese and Emma at their hotel suite, which had a kitchen and dining room. I thought Therese looked just right for her profession. She was tall, with a face that could let her play Sherlock Holmes if she cross-dressed, but she could also be Mary Poppins, say. Mary Poppins in one of her more imperious moods. So we settled down to dinner, which was Japanese and vegetarian. We talked about movies more than books, and moved on to topics like whether Dave Cameron was more loathsome than Tony Blair. We didn’t talk about bdsm at all.
Of course, only three of us talked.
Therese’s Emma was a pretty girl in her early thirties. She’d had her hair cropped as short as peach fuzz and dyed yellow, so she looked newly hatched. It made her eyes seem unnaturally large, as if she was a drawing. Emma wore only a little red skirt, a tight white top and heels. She would get up to bring in the courses, and to clear away the plates when we were finished. When she’d done that, she’d come back and sit in her seat, quiet, eyes down and elbows neatly tucked in at her sides. She was being a good girl, and all three of us were aware of how good she was being, and how much she was enjoying demonstrating such extreme goodness.
Emma had been ignored for a long time, except that, of course, she was a focus of attention. If she was still, it was an actor’s stillness, the kind that bit players use to upstage the star.
The conversation stopped at more or less the moment when we realised how much of our attention was going into ignoring Emma. Therese sighed and gave Emma a long-suffering smile that Emma recognised. So did I, because I used the same expression when I was about to make something happen. Therese said, “All right, Emma dear. Get up on the table.”
Emma bounced up, happy. She turned her back to the table, then perched up so her bottom was just on the table’s edge. Therese told her to get her lift her legs up and tuck her ankles under her bottom. Emma wasn’t required to acknowledge orders, vocally; just to obey them quickly. I was impressed, but Therese wasn’t. “Oh for goodness sake, girl. Thighs apart, you know that.”
I supposed that I was the reason for the closed thighs. But Emma obeyed instantly, her little red skirt now more of a belt than any more effective kind of clothing. Her cunt pointed at Debs and me. She was very pretty, pink and pale in the English way. Her pubic hair was dyed the same yellow as the hair on her delicate skull, but it had been allowed to grow quite a lot longer.
Therese told her to come for us. She’d get ten strokes of the whip for every minute it took her to come. Emma glanced at me, our eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before she began. I made it more difficult for her, but Therese knew that and enjoyed the fact. I was less happy with it. I was there to decrease Emma’s pleasure, and therefore to increase it. None of the women wanted me, particularly. But it was important, for ratcheting up the sexual tension, that there was a man present. I was privileged, in one sense. In another, I was a prop.
I’m not a very good voyeur, because watching pleasures in which I’m not taking part tends to make me feel a little lonely and sad. But Emma had pulled off her top so the three of us could admire more of her pale pinkness, and her sweet, small, conical breasts bobbing appealingly while she worked. She was blushing furiously and prettily. I could appreciate that she was beautiful, self-possessed in the same way as a woman painting her toe-nails. Once her pleasure took her out of her own control, she was intent only on that. It took her three minutes to come.
To be continued.