Sweet Torments: The Best of Alex Jordaine (6 page)

That Eureka Moment

Ask any masochist or sadist about the first time they realised they got off big time on what they do – what they
are
 – and they’re likely to have an interesting tale to tell. Although what our masochist and what our sadist each have to say will be very different, their stories are liable to share in common a cathartic sense of everything suddenly falling into place as if by magic: that Eureka moment.

The Masochist’s Tale

When Julie looked back at the person she’d been only five short years ago it felt strange – almost like a false memory of someone else’s life. Had that really been her? Julie Ball was so damn pleased with herself for coming out as a lesbian you’d have thought she was the first person who’d ever done it. She was so sophisticated, wasn’t she? So uninhibited, so daring … So deluded, more like.

The truth was that in her own way she was as repressed as some frustrated Victorian spinster. There was a whole dark side to her sexuality she hadn’t even begun to come to terms with, let alone explore, for the simple reason that she’d yet to acknowledge it existed at all. Let’s face it, she’d said to herself afterwards wryly, you can’t come out of the closet unless you’ve ventured in there in the first place. Julie learnt that lesson eventually, though, and in a very literal sense. It was a woman called Bridget who made it happen.

Soon after Bridget had broken up with her previous lover, a young woman called Maria who happened to be Julie’s oldest friend, she started making a move on Julie. Maria clearly didn’t mind – her split with Bridget had been an amicable one, as Julie knew very well. The amorous interest Bridget was showing in Julie had been just fine as far as she was concerned as well. The truth was that she’d always fancied Bridget like crazy, thought the tall, charismatic blonde with the short hair, glittering blue eyes, and hourglass figure was absolutely gorgeous.

Things developed quickly from the time Julie moved in with her. Bridget informed her early on that she was into kinky sex – whips and chains and clamps and the like – but Julie told her she wasn’t interested. She really meant it too, or thought she did. Vanilla sex with Bridget was great, like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and that was surely more than enough, she rationalised.

Bridget’s bedroom wasn’t short of clothes space and could easily accommodate the clothing Julie had brought with her. But here was the thing: the biggest closet in that room was always kept locked. Julie asked Bridget about it once and she just said, with a sly grin, ‘Oh, that’s where I keep all the stuff you’re not interested in.’ That did spike Julie’s curiosity a little, she had to admit, but she didn’t give it much more thought. She just blanked it out. Until, that is, one fine day when Bridget was out doing some chores …

Julie had just had a shower and had wandered back into the bedroom in the nude, feeling decidedly horny. She lay back on the bed, her head propped up by a couple of pillows, and began to masturbate. She was just starting to really enjoy herself, her fingers working away at the wetness that had begun to ooze from within her, when she noticed that Bridget’s mysterious closet wasn’t actually locked for once. Julie could tell because its door was slightly ajar. Her curiosity getting the better of her this time, she reluctantly stopped masturbating, swung herself off the bed, and padded over to the closet.

Julie opened its door fully and her eyes widened like saucers at what met her gaze. She was shocked – not so much by what she saw inside, although that was pretty amazing, but by its sheer volume. Hanging from the walls of that spacious closet were handcuffs, harnesses, chains, whips, paddles, gags, hoods, bondage rope, you name it – all the paraphernalia of BDSM. Julie was also shocked by her own reaction to what she’d discovered in that closet because, despite herself, she was turned on by it – very turned on. The heady aroma of leather in there played its part as well, all but overwhelming her senses.

Julie shifted her gaze to the floor of the closet where she saw a pile of glossy black and white bondage magazines. There were some other items on the closet floor as well: a box full of different coloured pegs – black, red, purple, blue; a black leather slave’s collar and some wrist and ankle cuffs, also of black leather, which had metal trigger clip attachments; a red ball-gag, and what looked at first sight like a blank video.

Julie got onto her knees, crawled into the closet a short way, and started to leaf through the pages of the magazines, with their numerous monochrome images of beautiful naked women being tied up and disciplined. Again she surprised herself, because she found the photographs she was looking at powerfully erotic. As she gazed at those striking bondage photos she could feel the heat in her sex growing and growing until it seemed to permeate her whole body. Julie was soon playing with her pussy once more, imagining herself in the place of one after the other of the lovely women in those photos. She could feel her breath quicken and her nipples stiffen and her clit pulse as she wanked and wanked.

On a whim, she decided to try on the leather slave’s collar that was on the floor. She liked the feel of it immediately. While she was about it, she thought she’d give the red ball-gag a try too. As she buckled it into place the feeling of constriction it gave her sent a further rush of adrenaline to her brain and lust to her pulsating sex.

Julie played with herself even more energetically now, there on her knees inside the open closet. Her sexual imagination went into overdrive as in her mind’s eye she became an amalgam of all the beautiful women she’d seen between the covers of those glossy black and white magazines.

She saw herself not only gagged with a ball-gag, as she was now, but also bound, suspended from rafters, soft rope digging into her pussy and rubbing excitingly against her clitoris. And all the while a tall, naked, dominatrix with short, blonde hair – in Julie’s mind she was Bridget – whipped her over and over again until her body was covered in agonising welts.

Then Julie’s attention moved away from the highly charged images in her head as she looked down and caught sight again of the video. Why was it there? Just because it was untitled didn’t necessarily mean it was blank. In fact, Julie now had a strong hunch it wasn’t.

She picked up the tape, climbed to her feet, and took it over to the television in the corner of the bedroom. She fed the tape into the video player and pressed “play” on the remote control as she got onto her knees on the carpet. The TV flickered into life and what Julie saw next gave her such a surprise that she let out a gasp of amazement from beneath her gag. There on the screen was Bridget’s previous girlfriend, Maria – Julie’s oldest friend – lying face down and trussed up on the bed in that very room.

Maria’s arms were pinned together behind her and her legs were held apart and knees bent with her ankles attached to her wrists. Julie noticed that the metal trigger clip attachments to the wrist and ankle cuffs she was wearing had been used to secure her into this position, that she’d been gagged and that purple clothes pegs had been attached to her nipples and pussy lips.

Not that Julie had given it anything more than passing consideration up to that moment – that denial thing again, she was to realise in hindsight – but she’d supposed it more likely than not that, once they’d become an item, Bridget would have got Maria into kinky sex. Well, here was irrefutable proof that she’d done just that. And to see it on film in this way inflamed Julie’s overheated sexual imagination to fever pitch.

She went back to the closet, knelt down, and buckled on the leather wrist and ankle cuffs with the metal clip attachments, which had been left on the floor. She also thought she’d go for it with the box of pegs. I mean, what the fuck! In for a penny, in for a pound. She selected all the purple pegs she could find in there, ten in all, and attached one each to her erect nipples and the remaining eight to her labia. Sure, it was painful – very – but in a way that Julie found she liked, and in any event she was too far gone in lust by then to care.

Julie then returned to watching that homemade video of Maria in her bondage. And as she did so she got back onto her knees on the floor and pleasured herself once more, this time even more vigorously. Her busy fingers, now thoroughly coated with sticky love juice, were making a constant rhythmic, wet sound, which was counterpointed by the clicking and clacking of the exquisitely painful pegs attached to her labia.

The film had certainly had a very powerful effect on Julie but there wasn’t much happening in it. There was just a lot of Maria squirming in her bonds. And after a while Julie’s mind drifted off again to what she’d like to have done to her.

She saw herself hanging from her wrists, gagged, Bridget beating her backside furiously with a leather paddle with one hand while she urgently masturbated her clamped pussy with the other … And all the time there was her camera whirring away at the side of the room, filming every deliciously perverted minute of it, creating an obscenely graphic record for anyone to see of Julie’s depravity and degradation.

Julie was getting completely carried away by now, her fingers a wet click-clacking blur between the pegged lips of her sex, her thighs soaking with love juice. She was on the verge of a massive climax … when all of a sudden she was brought up short.

The door to the bedroom burst open and in strode Bridget, who was stark naked, her breasts jiggling, thighs quivering. Julie realised straight away what must have happened: Bridget had sneaked back from the chores she’d so conveniently had to go out to do and then stripped off elsewhere in the apartment, only to appear now in all her naked splendour.

‘Well, well, Julie,’ she said with a smirk. ‘And you told me you weren’t interested in this sort of thing.’

Yeah, like she was surprised, Julie said to herself. God, she’d made it so easy for her crafty lover, fallen entirely for her devious ruse. She was already collared, cuffed, gagged, nipple and pussy pegged, and in an incredible state of sexual arousal –
this
close to the most colossal orgasm.

Bridget pulled Julie unceremoniously up off her knees and pushed her just as roughly onto her front on the bed. She used the metal clip attachments on her wrist and ankle cuffs to pin her arms behind her back and her legs together, and there Julie was – at her complete mercy.

She lay and waited for the inevitable, and waited … and waited. The only sound punctuating the silence was the tell-tale click-clacking of her pussy pegs as she shivered and trembled ever more uncontrollably with anguished anticipation of what she knew – just
knew
 – was going to happen. Her backside and thighs started to quiver convulsively as the piercing ache in her pegged pussy (c
lick-clack, click-clack
) became unbearable (c
lick-clack, click-clack,
click-clack, click-clack)

Bridget unbuckled Julie’s ball-gag. ‘Tell me what you want me to do,’ she ordered, knowing full well what she’d say. ‘Tell me right now and I’ll do it.’ She pulled the gag from Julie’s mouth.

‘B … b … beat me,’ Julie managed to stammer – and just getting those words out precipitated the first tremors of that too long delayed orgasm.

‘Speak more clearly, Julie,’ Bridget replied, her voice cold and harsh. ‘I couldn’t hear you over the sound of those pegs you’ve attached to your cunt lips, you
fucking pervert
.’

‘Beat me,’ Julie gasped indistinctly. She tried once more. ‘Beat me.’ Here it came, that first wave of hot, shameful delight.

‘Still not clear enough, pervert,’ Bridget taunted. ‘Say it again.’

‘Beat me!’ Julie cried out, the full force of her climax hitting her now like a tidal wave, her body shaking and shuddering in pure ecstasy as the sensations flooded through her entire being. ‘Beat me! Beat me! Beat me!’

The Sadist’s Tale

Lauren gazed out of the bedroom window of the tenth-storey West End apartment she’d shared with her girlfriend, Sam, ever since they’d fallen in love five years previously. It was getting dark and was raining slightly, specks pattering on the glass. Through the misty rain Lauren could see the thick clots of cars, their headlights on now, that filled the streets of central London. She looked over in the direction of the River Thames, its grey waters more than usually sombre in the darkening light. Lauren switched on the bedside lamp and shut the curtains. She thought about changing her clothes but decided she wouldn’t, not yet. She was wearing a dark blue denim minidress. It was cinched at the waist by a leather belt, which was black like her high-heeled shoes. Sam was having a shower, cleaning off the grime of London. Or so she said.

Lauren didn’t trust Sam any more, didn’t trust a thing she said. Her instincts told her she was up to no good. Things had started to happen that had made Lauren increasingly suspicious. Sam was out more and more for a start, apparently extremely busy at work. By rights, though, the takeover of her fashion design company ought to have led to the opposite happening. That had been the whole point of the merger, Sam had said. Her manner a lot of the time had also become oddly furtive, sullenly unforthcoming, which wasn’t like the old Sam at all. It was as if she’d become a completely different person from the one Lauren had known these past five years. Sometimes when they were having sex, Lauren was almost certain she could smell the scent of another woman on her. She caught a hint of something else as well, something slightly acrid. The acid aroma of guilt, that’s what she thought it was.

Lauren had got to the point where she didn’t just suspect Sam was cheating on her. She knew. She was almost certain who she was cheating on her with too.

When Lisa Graves had become Sam’s stylist six months ago, Sam hadn’t stopped extolling her virtues to Lauren, saying what a find she’d been, how great she was. She had an excellent eye, Sam said, had great taste, was proving hugely instrumental in shaping Sam’s latest collection. She was more than her key adviser; she was her creative muse, on and on.

Lauren found a lot of this sort of talk difficult to take seriously. She thought Sam was trying to elevate her trade to the level of high art. Lauren begged to differ. She’d got an insight into the fashion business as a result of her relationship with Sam and the people she’d met in that world and she found an awful lot of it – and them – facile beyond belief. The world of high fashion was full of parasites, as far as she was concerned. And she reckoned Lisa Graves was one of them.