Gerard Street, Soho, London on a warm summer evening, thronged with people of all
nationalities, taxis weaving though the pedestrians who’d been edged into the roadway by
the crush. Restaurants offering every sort of cuisine, bars with a choice of three hundred
different beverages, bars of a sort offering just one or two. A brightly lit delicatessen
every fifty yards, clubs every twenty, some expensive, exotic, some more expensive and
‘private’. Sex shops and shows to suit every taste and fantasy. Music spilling from
doorways and upstairs windows. ‘Model’ agencies, offices of fifty different media and
entertainment companies from the international to the purely local. Soho dies a little
between four and five am, but only a little – to all intents and purposes it lives its
frenetic, sometimes dangerous life for the full twenty-four hours.
Two people arrive close to the same point in the street, beside the brightly-lit
doorway of an Italian Delicatessen and an adjacent plain green wooden door, a door with a
spy-grille and a small, unobtrusive brass plate engraved ‘Challoners Club’; two people as
different in appearance as it is possible to be. Rhia Dowd is hurrying away from the
delicatessen where she’d been indulging in some of her more expensive tastes. She was
quite familiar with Soho and its reputation, but never failed to feel the air of
excitement and forbidden pleasures that wrapped the place, to feel that she was part of
the legend which all the tourists were savouring, but her own ‘professional’ activities
were hardly of a kind with which tourists were familiar. Rhia is a tallish, pretty, active
twenty-six year old, blonde, popular amongst her friends, and exhibiting to them a
carefully cultivated, curiously appealing lack of self confidence which most certainly
wasn’t evident when she was ‘working’. Her friends knew that she did some sort of ‘media’
work in London but not what it was:
“Oh I never talk about work; it’s so boring.”
Her clothes are almost the same as those of thousands of ‘office girls’ in London
that season, save that a very observant onlooker might notice a discreet Westwood or Riven
label somewhere: most people thought there was a certain flair about her, as if, given the
chance, the time, the place, money, her appearance might transform from neat and very
slightly idiosyncratic to wild, in-your-face, way out. But that even given the chance,
time, place, money, all thought that her ‘lack of self-confidence’ would be the bar –
suppressing any desire to display any different personality within her. She hurries from
the shop, looking down to settle more than a hundred pounds’ worth of charcuterie and
three different coffees into a plastic shopping bag and, looking down she collides gently
with Suzie Ballantine.
Suzie has just emerged from the neat, subdued doorway of Challoners Club, she too
not really looking where she is going but more intent on her anger of the moment, anger
provoked by being importuned for the fifth or sixth time by the now-angry male on the
other side of the closed door, the Club’s owner. Her collision with Rhia serves to
contrast the differences between the two women: Suzie is very short – ‘petite’ is the more
polite form - but slender to the point where she might pass as a girl in her early teens,
given the right clothing; graceful of movement, pale complexioned as are all genuine
redheads – and Suzie’s hair is of that particular deep copper-red colour that’s so rarely
natural. At thirty years of age she has all the self-confidence that Rhia apparently has
not; normally just very ‘positive’, Suzie ‘switched on’ is assertive to say the least; in
a temper as she is now, she can be unreasonable and just plain overwhelming. And there’s
nothing very slightly idiosyncratic about her appearance as she and Rhia mutter quick
apologies for their accidental contact; Suzie is dressed at the top but not the wilder end
of adventurous London haute-couture, of the ‘my-dear-it’s-just-you’ genre which, on her
figure, inspires all sorts of excitement in sexually active people, both male and female.
At the time of her collision with Rhia, all that could quickly be observed of Suzy’s
attire was that it’s viridian-green and white, very ‘fetching’ and very expensive.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed Rhia, clutching her plastic bag more tightly and
stepping to one side, out of the other woman’s way. “Wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“‘S okay, no problem, nor was I,” and Suzie stepped the same way so that both
ended-up doing a little jig on the pavement to avoid the other: Rhia’s resultant grin was
one of embarrassment, Suzie, looking hard at the other’s face for a moment merely said,
“You’re Rhia! Aren’t you? You are. Rhia Dowd. Don’t you remember me?”
Rhia had recognised her old friend in the same moment, but such was her caution
about adding to her small circle of friends, she’d hesitated: the caution she displayed
when there was a potential addition to her select list of professional clients was of a
different order altogether.
“Mmm. I mean yes. Suzie, Suzie, how terrific. Gosh, terrific. Thought you’d gone to
Germany or somewhere – must be - I don’t know how long.” A smiling Suzie took her arm, her
anger gone, to be replaced by an untypical eagerness;
“It’s almost ten years. Ten years! What’re you doing – I mean now, this moment.
Come and have a drink, several – no, I’m in London now, live here. Munich was a drag.
C’mon,” and she took the younger woman’s arm more positively, already moving diagonally
across the street. The Rhia of the moment, the unassertive Rhia waited hesitantly for
traffic, for other pedestrians; Suzie very obviously expected both to wait for Suzie and
they did, walkers pausing to admire and a grinning cab-driver giving her a long low
wolf-whistle and braking to let her cross.
“Rhia. Wonderful. In here.” And she ushered or rather, brought her find into the
Romilly. “Sit, what’ll you have? Francis, two very big Rossis, darling. Please.”
Rhia sat, or was propelled into a seat, protesting that she ‘shouldn’t’ and then
that she should at least do the buying.
“Just be quiet and sit. Francis! This is urgent, sweetie.”
“Coming, Sue, coming.” Two glasses and the bottle appeared on the table, the
glasses were filled and Suzie sat down with a little-girl flounce, demonstrating just how
to sit down and make heads turn. It was completely automatic, the result of long practice
at ensuring she had the full attention of anybody near her; her mind was in a complete
whirl, feverishly making plans, both impossible and, well, perhaps possible. Rhia Dowd.
Here in front of her was Rhia, real, older but better, so much better. For so very long
Suzie’s dreams, fantasies had been preoccupied with the woman who’d been a young girl when
Suzie had wanted that body, wanted to seduce the mind into willing subjection. Even now,
while she was trying to think ahead, trying to grip the practicalities of Rhia Dowd being
actually close, images intruded, images of slender wrists in broad black bondage cuffs,
images of a blonde-haired head rolling from side to side, of a fat rubber gag parting
those soft red lips. Tonight, tonight, it had to be tonight, it had to be now.
“Drink first, chatter after. Hope you like it.”
Rhia politely sipped, carefully showing surprise at the first taste.
“Rossi Aperitif. This is about the only bar. Flavour’s quinine. Okay?”
In truth Rhia already knew and liked the slightly bitter Rossi Aperitif but sipped
again, diffidently.
An hour later, after exchanging increasingly wild reminiscences of the times when they
were ‘girls’ of seventeen and twenty, the bottle was near empty, Rhia was having
difficulty in speaking distinctly and Suzie? Suzie was eyeing her friend closely, not
entirely with the proper concern over a friend’s over-indulgence.
“Rhia. Let’s go back to my place. Three minutes from here – make an evening of
it.”
“Oh can’t. Have to, have to take this,” and Rhia nudged the plastic bag beneath the
table with one foot – and missed. “Take this home. Goes off pretty quick. I’d love to
but.” In reality Rhia was anxious to avoid any more alcohol – someone had once said ‘just
takes two beers to get Rhia pissed’ and she knew it was true; since her teens, Rhia had
always passed from stone-cold-sober to helplessly tight in the space of about fifteen
minutes.
Suzie looked quickly at her watch. “Shove it in my fridge then. C’mon Rhia, my
place. Up you get, Poppy.” ‘Poppy’ was a nickname from their earlier years.
“Can’t.” The strong slurring of ‘can’t’ was genuine –
“No such word. Up. Francis! On the bill, darling.” Suzie picked up the near empty
Rossi bottle seemingly clumsily and Francis, quick and efficient as he was, coming across
the crowded floor for the dead glasses, chose to fail absolutely to come to the younger
woman’s assistance when the remains of the bottle were accurately and deftly spilled over
her jacket and skirt. Francis merely averted his eyes and thought: ‘enjoy’. He knew a
‘pick-up’ when he saw one and knew Suzie as a regular customer working in ‘FemDom’ –
offering fairly unimaginative ‘CP’ and ‘Bondage’ mostly to foreign businessmen but some
women ‘customers’ too. He often thought she’d make more money if she reversed her roles
and offered to Submit. Of Suzie’s rather pissed friend he new nothing. He had a vague
feeling that he’d seen her somewhere and a much stronger impression that she wasn’t at all
what she seemed to be but, despite his profound knowledge of the activities in Soho and
despite his very strong desire to complete any gaps in that knowledge, he couldn’t place
her. It wasn’t very surprising: Rhia wasn’t part of any Soho set, Rhia was unique in that
particular quarter-square mile and had equivalents only in Marseilles, Long Island and
Singapore. Her ‘professional’ activities were only very distantly related to those of
Suzie; related only in that she provided a ‘fem-dom’ service both to male and female
clients, but to those few vetted and carefully selected – and necessarily wealthy -
clients, Rhia was absolutely the top-of-the-tree. A session with Suzie cost perhaps a two
hundred pounds an hour, cash: a session at Rhia’s place seldom had a time limit but was
usually paid for by credit card and it was unlikely that common ‘gold’ or ‘platinum’
credit cards would have sufficiently large credit-limits to be acceptable. Both Suzie and
Rhia knew each other from long past – neither knew each other’s current ‘work’: Suzie, in
the Romilly bar, had designs on her friend’s body, Rhia was merely and tipsily slightly
interested in how her friend’s life had developed.
“Hell!” from Suzie, “got to be my place now, quick” she said loudly, eyeing Rhia’s
attempts to limit the spread of drink-stains on her dress. “Stuff stains like anything.
Rhia I’m sorry, stupid clumsy bitch that’s me.” She smiled widely, but in truth mainly at
having carried off the spill so neatly. “Drink’s all gone too – have to be the old
faithful instead.”
The bright daylight and fresh air outside proved too much of a change for Rhia
after the subdued lighting and fug of the Romilly; the effect on her of a transition to
outdoors and fresh air increased her intoxication as if she’d been drinking rough cider.
She was completely drunk by the time she was inside Suzie’s rather nice flat. Much
stumbling about ensued as Suzie persuaded her friend to divest herself of the stained
clothes, including underwear which was admittedly faintly marked in a couple of places: a
short, red silk dressing-gown was draped round her and she sat on the big settee swaying,
trying not to close her eyes for that made her feel far, far worse. Suzie, almost unable
to drag her eyes away from the exciting nipples poking at the red silk and at the
tantalising view of strong young thighs, hovered about fighting off sexual imagery.
Rhia’s fading awareness plucked at the thought that she might just end up in bed with Suz’
– and thought it might be more comfortable than sitting feeling so drunk. Hot coffee was
administered by a sympathetic Suzie, arm round her friend’s shoulder;
“I know you’ve had more than enough and it’s all my fault but this stuff really
does work. Cures anything.” ‘This stuff’ was black coffee laced with Marc. An hour later
Suzie had real difficulty in hauling an almost completely collapsed Rhia to the big bed in
the end bedroom where everything which might be needed would be on hand. She was in a
fever of fright that one wrong word, one wrong action would destroy her forming plans;
plans which included all of her most complete fantasies. Her most complete private
fantasies in which, for as long as she could remember, a teenage Rhia had occupied the
central role. The precisely central image was one of a grim Suzie beating an incredibly
round bottom – Rhia’s bottom. Suzie had carried that fantasy image since her teens. Every
second with Rhia she desperately tried to plan ahead, the next five seconds, the next
reply, the night’s promise, the next morning. The urgency of every moment prevented Suzie
from thinking about, even recognising the pit into which she would fall if she had her way
with the beautiful body – and then had to stop.
“Never mind a nightie you idiot. Oh, poor Rhia.”
“Can’t go bed. Gotta go to – to work. Jus’ lie down minnit.”
“That’s right, just you lie here until you feel better.” Suzie judged it better to
leave the girl for half an hour before she slid carefully into the same bed; there was no
problem with pyjamas or night-dress for Suzie – she always slept naked. They were both in
the warmth of the big bed by half-past seven; at nine Suzie ventured an arm round the
sleeping girl, at five past nine her hand brushed an upstanding nipple; at nine-twenty she
was holding and enjoying warm breasts, at nine forty she was only a little startled when
Rhia muttered
“Wha’ doing. Pack it in, I’m sleepy.”
“Just a kiss for a sleepy-head. Lovely tits and I need a kiss.” Rhia’s mouth smelt
of alcohol but Rhia’s mouth was also soft and warm; although her tongue was unresponsive
to Suzie’s.
“Su-suz’,” was all the mouth said in mild protest. Patience won, for the next time
the girl spoke it was past midnight. “Suzie, oh Suzie,” was still slurred, whispered but
she didn’t close her legs on the intruding fingers, even spread them fractionally wider.
“Mustn’t do that. ‘snaughty.”
“Wanted to do this when we were – just lie still – much younger. Now I want more
and better things, Rhia.”
At first, in her semi-stupor, Rhia was unable to connect the pleasant feelings in her
body with someone actually provoking them, least of all with the soft, confident caresses
of her long-missed friend Suzie; whatever was going on was clearly part of a fantasy dream
of some sort. Unusual for her to dream of ‘work’ but it certainly felt like some fuzzy
intrusion into her mind by her own long-held, long-developed fantasies. Nice. Slowly she
became aware that hands – Suzie’s hands? – were making the strong arousal within her; that
was what was wrong somehow. The roles were wrong: it should be Suzie lying there,
unresisting, even unable to resist. When strong fingers strapped her hands wide apart to
the head of the bed, they should have been her fingers at the buckles, Suzie’s wrists
obediently still under the wide black rubber cuffs; Rhia could feel every tug she herself
would have made to tighten the bonds, Rhia could feel the rising anticipation as she
catalogued in her mind the things she would next do – to Suzie. If there was any one thing
that made the real Rhia vulnerable it was drink, but she was long past the stage when the
‘real’ Rhia could take control.
“I think you’re feeling better, my sweet,” whispered a voice in her ear.
“I’ll do your legs next,” thought Rhia in the confused fantasy that it was Suzie’s
legs which were being spread, Suzie’s ankles being buckled into cuffs. ‘Strap-on next’
she thought, imagining the thing in her hand, imagining the feeling of its cold, smooth
rubber straps round her own waist. Then a body-weight was on her and she was unable to
sort out if it was Suzie, deliciously entering her or, as it should be, herself nudging
the strap-on’s dildo into Suzie. The eventual orgasms merely confused her senses more as
she couldn’t sort out who was bucking and shuddering in strapped wrists and ankles,
herself or – or Suzie.
“Bad girls, and I mean bad girls like you,” said Suzie, sitting up but somehow
still deep inside, “bad girls have to be spanked.” Rhia thought idly ‘of course you do’
and an image of Suzie, fulfilling Rhia’s core fantasy, touching her toes for six – no
twenty-six of the best with a gymshoe - passed through her mind. She even knew how the
red-rubber penis-gag felt inside Suzie’s mouth, fat and smooth – she could feel it in her
own. Sitting over her captive, Suzie didn’t really mind how the gag felt to the
pale-skinned girl lying between her knees, only this time, this time when it was Rhia Dowd
at last, the gag would work because it was real. In Rhia Dowd’s soft mouth. There was no
thought in Suzie’s mind of a bared bottom and spanking sounds; Suzie took the nine inch
strap from beside the bed and, at first gently, experimentally, began methodically to
smack the round white breasts with it, concentrating on regular, slow timing and on the
slowly escalating strength of successive smacks until the widespread body beneath her
struggled and snatched at the rubber straps and the face with its masking red-rubber pad
and straps began to roll from side to side with gag-strangled screams - in seconds the
nice round breasts were flushed a mottled scarlet and Rhia began to utter urgent
animal-like noises, through the gag, her body jerking violently in her bonds..
“Nice is it? Nice feeling? Oh it hurts, I know, but you like it, don’t you?
You see,” and Suzie shifted her position so that the strap-on was nudging labia again,
“you see, you’re going to have to learn to like it.” In the past, with more willing
subjects, clients, sometimes with eager ones, she’d sat like this and gently beaten small
breasts, big breasts, pink breasts and brown, once black, but every time she’d been
wondering how she could find Rhia Dowd again and do this exciting thing to the woman she
was always so obsessed about. And the other things. All the other things. Thack! Thack!
Thack! Went the strap each time its rubber length made a whhh! sound as it parted the air
and struck; Rhia’s rolling head was distributing wet tears from her wide eyes and strings
of saliva from the gag all over the pillows – and still she uttered the desperate, wild
sounds which would have been full-fledged screams had they been able to escape the hot,
wet, mouth-filling rubber shaft in her mouth.
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