Latest bondage story release
CAPTIVE
Elizabeth Southwater
Copyright resides with author
Free Extract available from bdsmbooks.com
Diana Avery found the shop entirely by accident; on her first day in
an office high above the traces of what had once been Upper Thames
Street. She'd been sent out, as are very junior and new General-Office-
Assistants the world over, to buy sandwiches for someone's working-
lunch...
"There's that terrific little sandwich-bar place down by
the river, Diana - you can go down Canada Lane..." The medieval Canada
Lane is now in two parts, interrupted in the middle of its windings by
sixteen storeys of glass and concrete; Diana Avery circumnavigated the
vast new building, sought the re-beginning of Canada Lane on its other
side - turned instead into Muscovy Place - another even earlier lane -
and lost her way. The only sign that there was nothing but more glass
and concrete around and above her was the single small shop-window
beneath a sign reading 'Captive'. She was the 'new girl' in the office
on her first day and on her first day she was going to be late back
with a simple purchase because she'd lost her way: being shy and
nervous by nature, she was beginning to enlarge that fact out of all
proportion. The place called 'Captive' looked like a shop; perhaps
they could direct her back into Canada Lane and to Tickles' Sandwich
Bar?
Approaching the shop's door from the upper end of Muscovy Place she
had to pass the little window so she glanced in to see what sort of
shop it might be - and didn't pass the window; she stopped,
mesmerised.
Behind the glass in a dark space no bigger than an old-fashioned
double wardrobe was a naturalistic, tall, elegant display-model in a
red dress, softly spot-lit. Nothing else. The window was some two feet
above the worn stone paving of the lane so Diana found her eyes
travelling up from piled swathes of the scarlet-silk dress-train, up a
column of tightly-shaped scarlet-silk full-length hobble skirt to a
tiny waist. She looked further upwards more slowly, anticipating this
to be a sumptuous evening dress on an impossibly beautiful model. So
it proved to be - bare creamy shoulders, long elegant arms, scarlet
silk gloves from fingertips to upper arm... The model's slender neck was
encircled by a silver slave-collar with a silver D-ring to the front
beneath her chin and the bodice of the dress was little more than a
scarlet silk shelf on which lay two perfect, bare, prominently-nippled
breasts, ivory white, full, exposed...
At once there were two young women called Diana standing at the window
of the shop, although an onlooker would only see the one. Diana the
General-Office-Assistant, glancing quickly round to see if she was
observed, her pale face colouring-up with her habitual embarrassment
at being confronted with 'sex'; the scarlet dress was 'sex' in the
raw. The other, unseen Diana - the 'Other Diana' - looked at the dress
and saw herself in a bright and detailed mental image, wearing the
dress, feeling the dress, feeling the excitement it would provoke in
her whole body. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. To
stand somewhere, free, open, beautiful like that, throwing away all
convention and to be herself; her secret self, the Other Diana.
She had grown-up believing she was 'not right', even 'wicked' because
of her precocious - but rigidly suppressed - sexuality and was still,
at eighteen, laden with guilt, but the advent a year back of a present
- from an uncle - of a year's rent of a tiny flat in London, a laptop-
computer plus a year's subscription to an ISP had changed everything.
The flat was to enable her to seek work in London instead of in the
dull outer suburb where she had been brought-up; the laptop and
Internet connection were to aid in the search: the uncle in fact knew
nothing of such things but had heard that it was the way young people
looked for jobs these days. On the Internet Diana Avery found Sex. At
first she was desperately embarrassed at what she saw - not shocked
but embarrassed - embarrassed and miserably guilty at being unable to
stop 'surfing'.
'It's all right,' she persuaded herself, 'if I just select images of
beautiful women' - in sexually-provocative clothes nonetheless - 'so I
can, well, just imagine they are me. That there's this Other Me who's
really the most beautiful, most sexual person it is possible to be.
Just for myself, of course, just secretly. I'm like Superman, an
ordinary person, not very good at anything - but I have the Other Me
only I know about. Superman was a super-strong saviour of the poor,
fighter against injustice, everything like that, the perfect super-
hero though; the super-me, the Other Me is just - is just Sex. No, not
sex, Sexuality...'
Slowly, over time, with the guilt piling, she began to mentally place
herself in other clothing illustrated on the laptop's screen; in
leather, in latex, in plastic... Could she imagine wearing that? Would
she like to do that? How would it feel? With increasing frequency the
mental answer was 'exciting'. It became a challenge to consider every
genre of image in the 'sexual' areas of the Internet and to grade them
mentally as 'impossible' or 'possible' or 'yes', the latter meaning
that in her increasing, secret fantasies she saw herself wearing-that,
posing-like-that, doing-that. Experiencing-that. On every downloaded
and printed 'possible' and yes' image she began to create a little
yellow square, fantasising that one day she would be able to tick the
squares as 'done this' or 'been that'.
Ridiculous, just fantasy. The weight of guilt arose with the steady
increase in the number of images she moved from ''possible' to 'yes';
even some 'impossibles' became possibles as the fantasy 'Other Diana'
challenged her objections. Could she be roped, naked, like that? Could
she be hung chained and naked like that? The corners of fetish yielded
such things as 'Could she pose like that, as an 'adult-schoolgirl' in
replica-school-uniform, touching her toes, exposing her 'school
knickers' for a hypothetical, ritualistic caning? The Internet CP
sites said that being caned - or more commonly, caning someone - was
sexual; she was scared at the thought of being caned, of course, but
even if it was a sexual act only for the caner, then her fantasy-other
'perfect sexual self' had to know about it and, in fantasy, 'do' it.
In private, total privacy of course, all to prove - to 'check out' -
the limits of the Other Diana's 'sexuality'.
She lingered, but only briefly, at the window displays of the more-
expensive sex-shops; she began to mentally criticise the designs and
styles of things-sexual; 'that skirt's not short enough - can't see
her crotch' - 'those pierced nipple-bars should be one, a straight bar
through both' - 'that gag leaves her teeth showing - that's not sex,
just crude'. Diana the office-girl became a secret expert on such
things and became also a nervous, shy, increasingly inward-looking
personality, totally immersed in guilt: only at her laptop did the
Other Diana emerge - confident, able and absolutely openly sexual. Not
with sexual-preferences of any kind; all things seemed to be sexual,
so all sexual-things were to be considered, evaluated, rejected - or
absorbed into the fantasy female that was the Other Diana.
Then the reaction would set in and she would often cry quietly because
all of it was fantasy, 'bad' fantasy; she was a shortish, brown-
haired, nobody office-girl, no real friends - because she couldn't
help probing any new friend to see if there was a similar mind there
and there never was. A total of three past 'boyfriends', a total of
five empty sexual experiences with them. She'd probed them as well;
two had walked out because her tentative outspokenness about sex had
undermined their so-called male superiority; Steve had gone in a
temper because sex to him was copulation with a female body and
anything else was 'weird and disgusting'. What had been 'weird and
disgusting' had been a cheap little thing the Other Diana had made her
buy in a wild, trembling, nervous moment in a cheap little sex-shop -
a 'crotch chain' that covered her there with a thin triangular plate
of chromed tinplate; it had a silly, cheap, oversized padlock, the key
of which she'd hung round her neck. 'You some sort of pervert or
something?' is what he'd said when she'd dangled the key, grinning...
Quite quickly, because the long hours in her tiny flat of indulging in
her fantasy were hours where the everyday worries of the real world
never intruded, she began to think of the Other Diana as her real self
and the 'Office Me' as an unavoidable, deceitful imposition. She
learned not to expose the Other Diana though; outwardly she continued
to be to be the shortish, brown-haired, nobody office-girl with a nice
figure and breasts that were not to be allowed to hint of their full,
firm, heavy existence. In the daytime at work, in the street and out
and about, flattening bras and dull clothes kept thoughts of the Other
Diana away but in private in her tiny flat, sitting surfing the Net
the fantasy, as will all long-term and unrestrained fantasies, began
to insidiously change her private behaviour. She began to take to her
bed earlier, naked and with her hand between her legs, eagerly to
explore the mental images; she began to sit at her desktop computer
naked, watching the images and watching too the reflected image of her
breasts in the screen. The reflection of the 'real' Diana, the Other
Diana.
So the fantasy grew and it began to utilise her Guilt to introduce
another angle to its script; the Other Diana was now 'compelled' -
'forced' - to mentally 'experience' every one of the collection of
images and to judge her own 'performance' . Only a 'Pass' noted on
every one of the hundred or so prints would mean that Diana Avery was,
secretly, 'Perfect'. Not for others, for herself, 'for 'me''. It began
to occupy every spare waking moment so that she would hurry home from
work, skimp a meal and fly to screen and mouse to argue with herself
that the image she'd rejected the previous evening was really a 'yes'
- that the Other Diana would think nothing of the chains and the metal-
frame and the chair on which lay a whip. There was never any third
party in the images which she selected; it was fantasy and for her
alone; no onlooker or participant was needed...
So when she saw the model in the window of the shop, the proud model
in the magnificent red silk dress; the model challenging with her bare
breasts and hard, locked, collar it was simply wonderfully, sexually,
right. But at that time and in that place reality and her errand and
'the office' prevailed; 'ask the shop for directions to the sandwich-
bar...'
She tried the door - it wouldn't open but someone inside called 'just
a minute..." At once she was embarrassed, pink-faced - she hated
'disturbing people' but now, if she fled, it would be rude...
As she waited nervously she read the printed square of pasteboard in
front of her at eye-level;
LADY SHOP ASSISTANT WANTED
Must be Eighteen-plus. Hrs 12 noon to 8 pm.
Good salary plus generous discounts on shop-items.
Phone for interview
Positively no applicants without prior appointment
The card gave a mobile-number. The door opened and an impressively-
big, bear-like, pleasant-looking, non-threatening man appeared.
"Hullo." An even, cultivated voice. "Just upstairs trying
to fix a jammed window. Oh. Now I shouldn't think you're a customer -
perhaps you're interested in the job? You have to phone me first you
know..."
"I - I wondered if you mi-might tell me how to g-get to
Tickles Sand-sandwich bar?"
He was more than a foot taller than her and was looking down, seeming
to study her curiously...
Richard Cope is forty-nine, long-ago-divorced, big, naturally friendly
and the owner of 'Captive'; a shop, a 'sex shop' which he had slowly
and successfully developed away from the usual establishment of that
nature into a highly-profitable, even 'exclusive' supplier of bespoke
fetish-wear for those - male or female - who needed such items and who
were sufficiently wealthy to have their exact requirements made
specially.
Sixty-percent of his business and ninety-percent of his profits came
from his limited list of 'special' customers, the remainder from sales
of the things found in ordinary high-street sex-shops; two hundred or
so customers a week explored his ground-floor shop with its crowded
shelves, a good week would produce perhaps five 'specials', strictly
by appointment, in the quiet, luxurious consulting-room atmosphere of
the first-floor special-customer area; maybe three on Monday when the
shop was officially closed, others outside normal hours. The special-
customer area provided a comfortable settee, easy chairs, a large,
low, glass-topped table, a video-screen, an Internet connection,
leather-bound folders of photographs of 'specials' made for previous
customers, coffee always to hand; sketch-pads on which to suggest
ideas, swatches of materials - fabrics, leathers, latex, plastics...
Measuring tapes and glittering callipers - for it was not uncommon
that a customer brought to Richard's shop the subject, the woman or
the man, young or old, for whom the purchase was being made. At one
end of the room were always displayed one or two of the latest
'specials' awaiting collection. Behind these was a door to a narrow
stone stair leading to the genuinely Roman-period cellar, a long,
dark, cobwebby place but now, just recently, Richard's 'Dungeon' where
were displayed a few large items of 'heavy' apparatus - a suspension
device, an X-Frame, fetters bolted to the wall, birching-stools, a
rack. Made to his designs, made in sophisticated materials; twenty-
first century versions of the originals. Nothing displayed in the
Dungeon sold for less than a thousand pounds and a powered X-Frame or
a powered rack could set back the buyer several thousands. Above,
leading upwards from the 'consulting-room' there is a modern stair to
a stock room, above which is Richard's spacious apartment...
"The sandwich-bar? Yes of course," then, "I saw you
looking at the red dress. Did you like it? It's called 'Property'..."
"No - er - yes, yes. I was just looking..."
"Sure you're not interested in the job? Some people are
shy about a job in a sex-shop and don't like asking..."
"No - I was j-just looking at the dress... I mean, I have to
get s-some sandwiches."
"Pity. I get all sorts but mostly sex-starved or
professional long-blondes. I really want a quiet, sensible, ordinary
young woman just like you - oh, not that you're in the least ordinary.
Sorry, probably I meant an uncomplicated employee or something. Sure
you're not interested?"
'Pretty little thing,' he thought, 'an ordinary, sensible girl. In the
shop in a really good little black dress; exactly right for the hoi-
polloi'; the hoi-polloi was what he called the everyday casuals, to
differentiate them from the specials. 'Don't see many like her in this
business. Pity...' and then he thought, looking at her with more
interest 'and sexy as hell - now there's a surprise...'
"I have a job; I work for Summerhaye - the Summerhaye
Corporation, back there," and she made a quick gesture over her
shoulder.
"I'm sure they're marvellous, whoever they are. Perhaps
you wouldn't pass my 'must be eighteen-plus'- for the job I mean?"
"I haven't come for your job - and yes I would," she said,
feeling a blush starting as it always did when someone asked her -
however indirectly - about herself. A blush because she was naturally
shy and a blush because of fright that the Other Diana might leak out.
She had to go, if only to hide the hot tide spreading from her
hairline to her neck... Anyway, she wasn't sure she wanted to be
standing outside what was probably a sex-shop talking to the shop-
owner. A shop with the red-dress in the window, the dress without -
with - with bare breasts.
"Look, I have to go. I liked the red dress but it was a bit..."
"What?"
"Er - well, daring. I mean..."
"'Daring'. Freshest thing I've heard for a long time -
'daring'. Of course it was; meant to make people look - and envy in
some cases. Meant to make the wearer feel instantly sexual. Would you
wear it if it were yours? Live near here?"
"I really must go... No of course I wouldn't wear... It was...Not unless... Of
course I wouldn't, nobody would, would they. Not really. I live in
Plaistow."
date: Tue, 28 Aug 2007 03:05:20 -0700
author: Dave
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