Chapter 4

Cathérine.

Pressing your face into a soft, fat pillow is a wonderful way to avoid reality. Especially when the pillowcase has just been washed and smells of lovely lavender. A warning is in order, though. Overdoing this treat to a hurt ego may lead to addiction. It may contort the brain into believing it works.

Brigitte was close to this point. So close in fact, that failure smelled of lavender to her. If she would now take a flight to Provence and walk its endless fields of lavender, she might sink to her knees and cry her eyes out.

Ah well. C'est la vie would be a proper answer, wouldn't it? It always is. Life is what you get. And if you hate it, tant pis, ma belle. Nous sommes désolés.

It was the day after the incident at the restaurant. Brigitte decided to take her face out of the pillow just long enough to call in sick. Two hours later she decided to change the soaked pillow for a fresh one. Three hours after that she woke up with a start. She decided to feed the cat. Oh my, a day of decisions.

When evening fell, she got up. She ate a stale croissant and sipped tea. Why did she feel so hurt? What was so different this time from when she was with the pale girl and her dark companion? Wasn't she treated like dirt then as well? So why feel elated one time and feel like processed shit the other?

Her jaws moved slowly around the tasteless crumbs. She took a big gulp of the lukewarm tea to get rid of them. Une vie glorieuse, bien sûr. Little girl in big, exciting city, blablabla. Tears of self-pity filled her eyes again. She wiped them away with an angry hand. Enough of this. So she loved being commanded. She needed being said what to do. It gave her a soaked pussy. It gave her enough fantasies to keep her in a shower for hours. So what?

Fierce white teeth tore at the innocent croissant. She made the crumbs fly. At that instant her phone rang. Four, five times it rang. Then she found it hiding in the pocket of her coat. It was where she had left it on her bed last night. Before she sank into her loyal pillow.

"Allo?" she said. Her voice croaked with lack of use. It was a woman. The woman. She said her name was Cathérine. She would like to thank Brigitte for giving her such a wonderful orgasm, last night.

Brigitte didn't say a word. Neither did she follow up her first impulse. Which was to throw the cell phone at the nearest wall. She just froze.

The woman ignored the awkward silence. No doubt she assumed arrogantly, but correct, that the girl was still there. She said: "I need to see you again, Brigitte. Be at the Hilton in an hour. Forget your panties. My room is 1245. Take a cab." The click was followed by soft dotted beeps.

Brigitte stared at the shining metal instrument in her hand. Then she dropped it on the bed. She sank next to it herself. A long and desolate moan escaped her mouth. Then she fell back on the mattress. Her hand slid between her thighs.

It slowly started to rub her clit.

A déjà vu dawned on her as she rode the elevator to the 12^th floor. There was muzak, of course. But this time there were co-passengers. One was an elderly lady with a poodle in the exact colour of her hair. And there was a young couple of the backpacking persuasion. They kissed all the way up. The boy mauled the girl's lovely denim clad ass.

The room was halfway down the corridor. This time she did not hesitate before she knocked. A well known voice answered in an enthusiastic pitch. The door opened to reveal a woman in a black, formal suit. She wore a white starched shirt, dark sheer nylon stockings and patent leather pumps. Her hair was slicked back. She sported a man's tie of black shining silk.

"Ah, there you are, ma petite. Welcome to this rather unpersonal place, but well... We are pretty well used to public places, aren't we?" She laughed and ignored the blush on Brigitte's face. She turned around to walk in. "Get naked, darling!" she cried. Then she went to the bar to pour herself a glass of well-iced whisky.

Brigitte walked in. She undid the buttons of her coat. Then she slid out of her blouse and skirt. She revealed the lack of panties. But also showed the shining little droplets of moisture in her pubic hair. Taking off the bra made her titties jiggle. They were modest, but highly aroused. Then she stood naked and silent at the centre of the room.

The woman had introduced herself as Cathérine. She had by now turned her back on Brigitte. She was talking into the phone. It was a rather long-winded conversation in clipped business English. It lasted minutes. All that time Brigitte stood there in silence. She felt the sweat dry on her skin. She shivered and stared out of the large windows over the rooftops of her city.

More minutes passed. Brigitte wondered if there was really someone at the other end of the phone. She shifted her weight. It made her firm right cheek stick out. One hand was on it, the other dangled at her side. A muted TV-set gave all kinds of information on the weather in far away places like Shanghai and Bangkok. Still the voice droned on. It almost hypnotised her into a state of emptiness.

Maybe that was the reason why she hadn't heard the command to kneel. When it came a second time, it was accompanied by a severe slap in her face with soft black leather gloves. She winced. Then she sank to her knees. She spread them slightly. She opened her thighs, where she rested her hands. Palms up, head down. Oh yes, she knew the routine.

She heard Cathérine walk around her. She noticed the rustling of her clothes. There was the swishing sound of stockings rubbing together. And the tinkle of the ice in her glass.

"You are an easy slut, aren't you, Brigitte?"

"If you say so, Madame", she answered. She kept her face down.

"You love being told, don't you?"

"Yes, I do, Madame", she agreed. "Please tell me what I should do."

A black shining shoe came into her narrow field of vision. The heel rested on the flesh of her thigh. She could almost see her face in the leather.

"It is rather dirty, love. Don't you agree?"

Brigitte kept silent. Then she took the foot with the shoe. She lifted it an inch to allow her to sit up from her heels. Then she brought her face to the shoe. The leather tasted chemical. It was a bitter sensation on the tip of her tongue. But she went on. She licked the shoe with unhurried strokes.

The woman over her head was quiet. The only thing she heard was a heavy breathing. It took on speed. With each lap the speed increased. It became a shallow, high-pitched panting.

Brigitte felt slightly disappointed. The woman had no discipline. How could she begin to control a girl? She lost it herself in minutes. Brigitte continued her lapping. She arrived at the curve of the heel. She lifted the foot higher to reach it. There were little flakes of dried dirt on the heel. She lapped them up. They grinded between her molars.

She continued as she did not get other commands.

Finally a prolonged moan and a stiffening of the leg told her Cathérine had a mild orgasm. She did not know if she should stop or go on. But she stopped. She looked up past the black skirt and the white shirt into a hot, red face.

Cathérine took her foot back. She straightened her clothes. Then she told Brigitte to crawl to the bathroom and draw a bath for her Mistress. She crawled on all fours. Her knees sank into on the rug. Then they slid over cool, white tiles.

The loud hissing of the water in the echoing room drowned out all sounds. It seemed to give her a sense of privacy. She sank down on her heels. She poured fragrant bath pearls into the swirling water. Then, suddenly and with a rush, her own feelings came back. They took command over the wordless chaos her mind became whenever she accepted control.

This, she said to herself, this is what you want, slut, isn't it? So why aren't you happy? You crave to be dirt. To be humiliated. And yet you aren't glad. You ungrateful bitch. You followed this Mistress to the toilets and to her hotel. You ate her cunt and licked her shoes. But it never took you closer to the core of your slut's existence, did it? What is wrong with you, Brigitte?

Is it the damn pale woman? Just to hear her voice made you drip, didn't it? Just to feel her whispers snake into your ear made your nipples rise like little erections, didn't it? You dream about her emerald eyes while your fingers caress the cover of the airline ticket. And it makes your clit burst into flame, doesn't it? Well then, slut... what are you doing here?!

She felt the water with her fingers. She dipped them into the white towers of glittering bubbles. Then she closed the faucet and sat back on her heels again. She waited for her Mistress to arrive.

She knew why she was here. The woman was her external backbone. Being without someone to control her made her lose structure. She'd collapse into a wailing puddle of soft pink goo. On her own she was a machine lacking batteries. She was a puppet without threads to make her move. On her own she was no one.

God, she hated herself. But how can one hate oneself? There is no escape of oneself, is there? Short of stopping to be oneself and become a nobody. Or even take the ultimate step and...

She pushed her face forward between her knees. Her hot brow kissed the cool floor. Her frame shook. At that moment Cathérine entered. She had wrapped her body in a robe. Her bare feet were in slippers. Her hair was done up in a towel. She stopped and stared at the sobbing woman at her feet.

"Est-ce que c'est, ma petite?" she asked. Her voice was a half whisper. Brigitte stopped crying. She rose to her knees, then to her feet. She took the woman's face between her hands and kissed her mouth. Then she left the bathroom. She gathered her clothes. She got into her coat and shoes and left the hotel room.

At last she fell into her overstuffed chair. She realised that she had walked from the hotel to her room without seeing or hearing a thing. At least not remembering a thing. But now her senses popped open like ears do after a dive.

She saw that she held the ticket in one hand. Her cell-phone was in the other. She even saw she had typed the number. Her thumb hovered over the green button that would establish the connection. She closed her eyes and pressed. Then she took the phone to her ear. Her jaws worked. She heard the beeps and tones inside the little metal box.

"Hello?"

It was she. It was the same low, misty voice. It had the same throaty quality; the same lilting accent.

Her heart leapt into her throat. It blocked the air to feed her voice, turning it into a groan. She coughed, then said: "Bonsoir (oh, my God! What time is it over there?), bonsoir madame, moi je suis Brigitte de Québec, la fille du restaurant. Vous me rapellez?"

There was silence. Then there was a repeated hello. Damn, a bad connection. When it rains, it pours.

She repeated her line. Now she spoke louder and more articulate.

"Ah, ma belle petite putain, c'est toi!" The voice was of the same light quicksilver quality she remembered. It sent shivers down her spine at once.

"Sorry, madame", she continued. "I did not think. It must be awfully late in Europe."

"Ah, c'est rien, ma petite. Je ne dors beaucoup. Comment vas-tu, ma belle?"

When you have ached for weeks to see a dream come true, reality has a hard time to deliver. Never in her sleepless nights had she for once expected to hear her fabled Mistress ask her how she would be doing. The banality of it; or was it lack of interest? It must be. Of course, what did she think?

"Allo?", she heard. Her silence must have taken too long. So she stuttered she was fine. Then she asked for the well being of Angique. She was appalled with the silliness of it all.

"This is not what we should be talking about, is it, ma belle putain?", the voice said. "This is not how you dreamt it." A small chuckle danced across the immense distance to pour into Brigitte's ear. It wiped away all her thoughts and reservations.

"Non, madame", she agreed.

"So tell me, pretty little animal. How is that sweet pink tongue behind your swollen lips? Mmmmm, how I loved to dance with it."

Without thinking Brigitte's tongue slid out. It travelled the length of her full, moist lips.

"And how are your gorgeous nipples doing right now?", the sweet voice continued. "They must feel so alone. I remember how lovely they swelled in the curl of my tongue... mmmm". Would you please roll them for me? Will you take them between your fingertips and squeeze them?"

A hot flash set her face on fire. Her fingers slid inside her coat to find the tiny nub of swelling flesh. She pinched and pulled. She breathed into the phone.

"Aaaaah, mais oui, ma belle... mmmmmmm, c'est formidable, non? Si dur, si sensitive."

Brigitte's hand left the hard nipple. It found its way down to her belly and into the trimmed bush over her cunt.

"Tu es si méchante, ma fille, oooooh!", the voice said with a tiny chuckle. "You must by now be very busy indeed. Did you find your sweet little clit yet? Please rub it for me. Rub it faster with the wet tips of your fingers. Now bring them to your lips and taste yourself. Mmmmm, si délicieux, non... ?"

Brigitte by now ran her fingers across her clit with crazed eagerness. She arched her back against the pillows and gasped into the phone.

"Oh my," said the voice from the other side of the world. "You are such a nice little hot number. Now come for me, darling. Be my slut and come for me. Slide your pretty little phone into your cunt. Fuck yourself with it. Feel how it fills you up. Please imagine that it is part of me inside you. Moi, ta maitresse. Mmmmmm, how I long to be inside yououououu..."

The long drawn word seemed to drown. Brigitte slipped the cool slick metal into her cunt. She started to fuck herself with it. Her head lolled on her neck. With eyes closed she bucked against the instrument. She felt her cunt contract around it. Her whole body tightened. It prepared her for the huge crash that would take her away.

Then it came. As did she.

Her body unrolled, relaxed. It felt as if all hinges came undone. She gasped and panted. The insides of her thighs shivered uncontrollably. Then she took the dripping phone out of her cunt. A tiny silver voice crooned from its metal hull. She listened.

"Tu es lá encore, ma petite? Are you alive, honey? It felt so sweet and hot where you took me... Now, please tell me what you wanted to ask."

Mon Dieu, she thought. Avé Marie, plein de grace. Her voice still shook from her emotions.

She said she phoned to know if the ticket still held.

There was a cruel silence. Then a little laugh.

"Have there been moments when you would have preferred it to have expired, darling?", Angique teased. Brigitte answered with a groan. Did this woman really know her every thought?

"Non, madame", she said. "Pas du tout! From the first moment I met you I would have LOVED to fly to you at once and be with you. I wanted to serve you, please you in every way you'd allow me to. Please! Please!!"

At least that was what she wanted to say. But her real words were: "Non, madame... eh, non, non, non..."

Whispering into her ear as if she stood next to her, the woman shoo-shooed her. She said: "Please don't be nervous, darling. I know your soul. I would so much love to meet you again. I want to teach you all you really want to know. Take the ticket. Be at Milan airport the day after tomorrow. My chauffeur will pick you up and bring you here. He'll know your name. Please don't bring too much luggage. All will be taken care of. Au revoir, ma belle. Je suis si heureuse."

A click sounded. The line went dead.

Brigitte stared at the small metal box in her hand. She started to shiver.

She was not able to stop for minutes.

Brynn.

Bondage is a word misused by many people. They look at it from the outside. They get tickled by the sexy looking chains and cuffs. They love the leather straps and yards of rope. They see ball-gags and padlocks. They watch latex suits wrapped around heads and bodies as a shining second skin. They see corsets laced up tight. They see sweet naked girls captured in iron cages.

But bondage is not about outsides. Bondage is about the inside. It is about darkness and silence. It is about waiting for hours in perfect immobility, listening to one's own racing breath. It is about utter control and utter vulnerability. There is fear involved. There is sweat and adrenaline.

Kristie stood stretched on the tips of her toes. She was wrapped in a world of darkness. There were no sounds at all. There were just the soft thuds of her aching heart. And the faint rustle of her breath. But after she stood for five minutes (an hour it seemed to her), she found that there were many sounds. And they were getting louder. Birds, she heard, and the breeze outside. Far away sounds of metal and glass. She heard the murmur of distant voices. At last she even heard the creaking of the beams. The tiny rustle of mice and insects in the bowels of the ancient building.

There were smells too. She smelled her own sweat. It was coated with sweet perfume. The faint scent of leather she smelt, and of greased iron. There was the pungent tang of an unused fireplace. And, much later, the moist breeze of the lake. The fragrant breath of a garden at night.

Standing still and stretched made her muscles ache at first. But after a while the ache slipped into numbness. It took over her entire body. She felt herself taken up into a dream. She floated over a dark, deep, silent ocean.

Then a door opened. To her the soft creaking was like a cannon's shot. She felt the change of air gush against her exposed nipples. Male voices started to fill the void. Leather soles crunched grains of sand on the marble floor. Acrid smoke of expensive cigars invaded her nostrils. It felt like rape after all the subtle scents and fragrances. A shiver touched her backbone.

Two voices conversed at less than an arm length's distance from her. She could almost feel their presence. It made the little hairs on her arms rise. She smelled the brandy on their breaths.

"She told us the bitch had great tits", she heard a voice say. She felt a tug on the chain that made her nipples stretch. Pain entered her body with a sting. A warm hand cupped her left breast. It seemed to weigh it.

"Well trained body too", the same voice said. Another hand kneaded her ass. A finger ran the length of her crack. It made her moan through the ball.

A source of intolerable heat centred on her shaven cunt. Two fat, blunt fingers started to violate her slit. It must be the burning tip of a cigar almost grazing her skin. White panic flashed before her blinded eyes. She cringed. She sucked in her belly and crotch to stay away from the glow.

Another voice chuckled. Then the heat vanished. But the fingers stayed. They rubbed deeper. Then they slipped into her.

"Oh boy! Is she wet, the slut. Here... sniff my fingers, Carl."

The rude conversation went on. A female voice mixed in. She spoke English with a heavy Italian accent. Kristie felt the soft hand of a woman caress her throat. Well-manicured nails scratched the sides of her breasts.

The woman said: "Mmmmm, watch the little slut shiver."