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Allison Callow had insisted that George come in to her shop in order to look at some of her paperwork. “I really want to be sure that I’m keeping the right records,” she’d said as she fetched him a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. I know you’re terribly busy. It’s good of you to spare the time.”
George nodded. He actually felt a bit guilty. It wasn’t that he had really been avoiding her but he had been spending a lot of time thinking about Erica. “No, it’s quite all right,” he said. “And anyway I’m sure your records are fine. All the paperwork you’ve sent me so far is perfectly all right.”
“Oh. Good.” Allison smiled shyly. She was a quiet woman, in her late thirties, carrying a little more weight than she should and somehow looking as though the troubles of the entire town had piled up in her shop doorway. “Is your tea sweet enough? Can I get you another biscuit?”
“No. Thank you. It’s fine.” George looked at his watch. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t stop long,” he said, “I have to see another client. Perhaps I can just take these papers to look at later.” Nothing that was going on at Erica’s was making it any easier for George to pass the time of day casually with members of the opposite sex.
“Oh. Yes. Of course. Well, thank you for stopping by. I just needed reassuring, I suppose. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
George felt guilty for rushing away. “That’s all right it’s no bother really. It’s just that I’m….”
“That’s all right. Don’t worry. I understand.” Allison collected his empty tea cup as George got up. “Please give me a call if there’s anything you need.”
“Yes, of course,” said George picking up the papers. “Well good afternoon Ms Callow.”
“Oh, please,” she said looking disappointed by his formality, “Allison.”
“Ah. Umm,” George was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. “Well. Good afternoon, err, Allison.” She smiled, accepting the small triumph for as much as she was likely to gain, while George left.
Twenty minutes later he was at Erica’s. Erica Wilkie smiled at George Franks as he sat in the chair opposite the desk in her office. “It’s good of you to come over Mr Franks. Now what exactly was it you wanted to discuss. I’m afraid I really didn’t understand what it was that you were talking about when you called.”
George Franks smiled. “That’s quite all right, Ms Wilkie,” he said. “It can be a little complicated. It’s much the easiest if I can explain things face to face. I wanted to make sure that the business is able to claim the maximum possible tax relief and to take account of capital allowances, as well as assuring that you are treating your normal business expenses in the most tax efficient way.” If the truth was to be known he had simply wanted the chance to be in the same room as the woman that had come to dominate, in more than one way, his fantasies.
He took in the sight of the delectable Ms Wilkie, as she pushed back an errant strand that had escaped from the band that held her hair back from her face. He watched as she leant forward to pick up the file of papers that held the details of her accounts. As she did so, her jacket fell open, giving Franks a glimpse of the swell of her breasts in the fine white blouse she was wearing. George only just managed to stop himself from whimpering audibly. Erica got up from the desk and stepped around to George’s side. The skirt of her immaculately tailored suit was only inches from him. He glanced down, staring at Erica’s perfect legs, her sleek hose, her polished and spike heeled shoes.
“Mr Franks?” the sound of Erica’s voice brought his attention back to the matter in hand. She pushed the brown manila folder along the desk towards him.
I’m, sorry,” he coughed. “sorry. Err, yes, thank you Ms Wilkie.” He took the file from her. “Now there were a few points. Firstly, about the insulation that you had installed.”
“Ah, well, you’ll understand that some of the rooms need some sound deadening. My clients can be a little vocal in certain circumstance, you’ll understand.”
“Yes, of course. If the insulation also has heat insulation properties, we could claim for an energy efficiency grant that would refund the costs of the material and the installation costs.”
“Good heavens, I hadn’t realised that might be possible!”
George smiled, pleased to have been of use. “Well there are other possibilities too. Because we are in a regeneration area here, new business start-ups can be exempted from local business taxes for a period of up to two years. And if you were planning to take on any more consultants or other staff, you could be eligible for funding under the employment support programme. You see, your business would be categorised under service industries and the local council has put in place a number of incentives to help create jobs outside of the manufacturing sector.”
“George Franks,” Erica beamed. “You’re a marvel!”
“Thank you very much, Ms Wilkie,” George responded modestly.
“Please,” she said. “It’s Erica.”
“Oh, no I couldn’t,” George stammered. “I’d much rather call you Ms Wilkie. It’s more, err, more professional.”
Erica gave him a careful look and raised one eyebrow. George looked back sheepishly. He didn’t dare say what he would rather be calling her or that he would rather be conducting the conversation naked and on his knees with head bowed before her. He didn’t need to say it, of course. Erica knew exactly what was going through his mind. In the course of her work she encountered many men that found it difficult to give voice to their inner desires and it seemed to her that George Franks fell exactly into that category. She wasn’t sure why but she felt she wanted to help George overcome his diffidence, and open himself up to the possibilities of new experiences. “Your profession, or mine, Franks?” she asked wryly.
George spluttered his protests. “Mine, Ms Wilkie, of course.”
Erica looked at the accountant. For some reason she felt sympathy for the rather quiet man who was peering at her with the air of a startled rabbit. “Please, do give me credit for understanding the motivations of those that come to use my services. I think, Franks, that you would like nothing better than to join the ranks of those allowed into my service. That far from calling me ‘Erica’ or even Ms Wilkie’, you would far rather be calling me, ‘Mistress’. Wouldn’t you?”
George looked uncomfortable.
Erica smiled reassuringly but pressed on nevertheless. She was confident that by taking a direct line she would allow George to admit his needs to himself. “Franks, there is absolutely no need to feel embarrassed about your desires. It is my firm belief that we should all admit to and explore our deepest drives, provided that they bring no harm to others. You have been very helpful to me and I would like to help you. For my part, I would be happy to offset your fees against mine if you wished to explore your interests in that way.” She paused, staring directly at Franks. “Unless of course,” she went on, “I’ve misunderstood. In which case, please accept my apologies and perhaps we can get on discussing whatever it was that you really came to see me about?”
George looked across at Erica, taking in her calm, confident manner. Somehow he managed to summon up his courage, first biting at his lip but then becoming confident. “No, Ms Wilkie, you have not misunderstood,” he admitted. “Ever since my first visit here, I’ve done nothing but think about serving you, about being your helpless and devoted slave.”
Returning to her seat behind her desk, Erica encouraged George to continue. “I see,” she said, picking up a paper knife and toying with it as George returned her look bashfully, “Well it is for the best to be honest about these matters.”
“I’m sorry,” said George, “it’s very unprofessional of me, I know.”
“That is true,” she said. “However, I intend to overlook that, if you, for your part, are indeed ready to explore you desires as I suggest.”
“I’ve,” George, hesitated, embarrassed. “I’ve fantasised about you and the others and the cellar. I’m afraid I found that very arousing.” George felt both reticence and excitement at the turn of the discussion.
Erica looked George straight in the face. Her expression was unsmiling, her lips drawn in a thin, determined line, her gaze drilling into him. He lowered his eyes. Satisfied that George was ready to take things further, she went on in a stern tone. “Well, if we are going to do something about that, I cannot imagine that you will be allowed to sit in my presence.”
“No, Ms Wilkie,” George responded, slowly getting to his feet. “I don’t suppose I will.”
“And it’s Ma’am or Mistress when you address me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” George replied with enthusiasm.
“And I think you’d better remember that a grin is not considered appropriate.”
“No, Ma’am,” George said, trying to restrain his pleasure.
“Good. Well, we’ll start in the same way in which I deal with all those that come here. You’ll complete an application form…” George nodded. He was quite used to filling in forms. “… and then we’ll have another discussion. I assume that you are able to take some time now?” George nodded. Erica didn’t wait for him to respond but pressed a button on her intercom. “Deanna,” she called into the box. “Could you bring an application form up, please. Thank you.”
Having clicked off the switch on the intercom, Erica returned to studying some papers on her desk. She ignored George completely. He waited quietly. It seemed to be what was expected. ‘Deanna’ turned out to be the blonde girl that had dragged him from the car when he had first come to meet Erica. She was carrying a few sheets of paper and seemed surprised to see him standing there.
“Thank you, Deanna. This one,” she gestured towards George, “will be joining our little stable. Take him downstairs and see that he completes a form.”
“Yes, Madam,” Deanna said.
“Don’t worry about the credit card details though, we’ll sort that out separately.”
“But Madam,” Deanna began to object.
“It’s all right, Deanna,” Erica said, insistently, “don’t worry about it”.
Deanna scowled at George with evident disapproval. “You’d better come with me,” she said and pointed to the door.
George stood up and was about to leave when he turned to Erica. “Thank you,” he said. She waved him away and he followed Deanna out of the room. She showed him into a small sparsely furnished room. There was just a table, and chair on the bare wooden polished floor. The walls were bare. The room was lit by a single, naked electric light bulb that hung from the centre of the ceiling. On one wall was a window, but wooden shutters were closed across it.
“So you’re on a freebie are you? Well it’s all right for her, I suppose, but Darla and I have to earn a living,” Deanna snarled. “We don’t have time for free-loaders. There you are,” gesturing to the chair and tossing the papers down onto the desk. “Don’t take too long.” George found her off-hand manner disturbing. It didn’t seem so much dominant as irritated.
“Thank you,” he said, not anxious to get into an argument. He sat down as she left the room. He took a pen from the pocket of his jacket and looked at the forms. The first page seemed quite straightforward although he wasn’t too sure why they wanted to have the information. It wasn’t any real problem to fill in details like his height, weight, shoe and hat size, waist measurement, health and medication details and so on. Sexual orientation was no problem either. “Heterosexual”, he ticked.
The second page just asked him how he could be contacted, what his availability was for sessions, what his preferred times for appointments were.
The next page was more problematical. It listed a series of sexual practices and fetishes and asked which the applicant had experience of, which they were prepared to experience and which they wished to avoid. It wasn’t hard for Franks to fill in the “experience” column - in every case, except for “have you ever masturbated to the image or thought of a dominant woman” the answer was “no”. Even so it was an embarrassing process. He felt sure he would be being compared with other, far more experienced, applicants. It was much more difficult when it came to putting ticks in the column headed “prepared to experience”. There were some easy “no’s”: branding, piercing, whipping, hot wax, enemas, nipple torture. There were some equally easy “yes’s” – he had quite enjoyed being tied to the post by the girls so he felt he had to tick bondage. He could easily imagine himself crouched before Erica, worshiping her feet or boots so he ticked that and he supposed that some forms of humiliation would be a turn on too.
Some of the things though, he didn’t understand. When Deanna came back in to pick up the form, he took the opportunity to ask her.
“CBT?” she said with a mischievous look on her face. “Lets see, oh yes, that’s Complete Body Therapy. And what was the other one? TENS? Err, Tri-Ecstatic Nerve Stimulation.”
“Thank you,” said George, ticking the two boxes confidently, “they sound quite pleasant.”
“Well we’re not animals, you know,” she said, still smirking. “Have you finished?” George nodded. Deanna took the forms from him. “Very good. Well, you can go now. You’ll get a letter telling you when to turn up here next.”
When George got home, he found it almost impossible to think about anything else apart from his encounter with Erica and Deanna and the desires it had aroused in him. After years he now realised that he had deeper drives than he had ever suspected, darker needs than he had ever imagined.
Trying to recover his composure, he turned to the file of invoices and receipts that he had copied from those that Erica had provided. But, with his new found knowledge of Erica’s business, each document took on a highly charged meaning.
He took out one from Willis Equestrian Supplies. “Three pairs jodhpurs, three pairs riding boots, three pairs short spurs, three riding crops, one driving whip,” the invoice read. George needed little imagination to conjure an image of Erica, Deanna, and Darla striding across the yard of Erica’s house, wearing the jodhpurs, boots and spurs and brandishing the crops.
Equally arousing but more disturbing was an invoice from a supplier of fetish and bondage equipment. “Oh, please don’t Mistress,” George heard himself muttering quietly, “no, not the handcuffs. Oh, please, not so tight, no. And not the ball gag, please, please. Guummph!” The grunt of the imagined silencing effect of the gag coincided with a twitching of his cock as he came, unexpectedly. He slumped forward at his desk in embarrassment as he felt the coldness of cum, trickling down his leg and saw the tell-tale, damp, stain spreading across the crotch of his pale trousers. Disgusted with himself he staggered to his feet, heading for the bathroom. He needed to clean up and change. Another client was due at any moment.
The letter he was waiting for turned up three days later. He saw immediately from the post mark where it was from. He tore open the envelope, feeling a confused mixture of eagerness and trepidation. On headed note paper the letter said. “Please report for your initial evaluation and therapy orientation session at 10:00 on Thursday 9th. Please bring with you this letter and remember your reference number 06/302. Yours sincerely, Erica Wilkie, Principal Counsellor.” Clipped to the top of the letter was an EW Therapy Services compliments slip. On it, in Erica’s own handwriting, was the message, “I’ve done the various tax forms you wanted. We can discuss those separately another time.”
George approached the house slowly. He felt a strange combination of fear and anticipation as he pressed the door bell. There was a buzz and a clunk as the door unlocked. He pushed it open slowly. There was no one in the hall but he stepped inside anyway. As he did so, Erica emerged from her office. George was instantly struck by her appearance. Immaculately dressed in a neatly tailored dress and a tight, knee length, pencil slim, skirt, she presented an air of cool efficiency. It was exactly as he’d dreamed she would be.
“Ah, good,” she said. “I’m glad you are on time. This way please.” She gestured to the stairs that George knew led downstairs to the cellar rooms. “We’ll start in the White Room.” Erica opened to the door to a room fitted out like a doctor’s surgery.
Inside stood Deanna, dressed as a nurse, the lower half of her face covered by a surgical mask. She pointed to a screen at the far end of the room. “Behind there, please, and undress.”
“Is that absolutely necessary?” said George.
“Of course,” said Erica, briskly. “But don’t worry. This session is almost entirely about evaluating your responses to possible variations in our therapy programme. We won’t start any actual treatment during this session.”
Reassured, George did as he was told, stripping off and piling his clothes on the chair he found behind the screen. He shuffled out, clutching his hands over his crotch, only to see that Erica had gone. Deanna was standing beside a chrome and glass trolley. She pointed to the examination couch that stood in the centre of the room. “On there,” she said, briskly. George sat on the cold leather covered couch. “Lay back please,” Deanna directed, snapping on a pair of latex gloves as he did so. “Now, what we will be doing is measuring your response to a number of images so that we can assess the accuracy of your application form. It’s standard procedure. We want to measure your blood pressure, heart beat and respiration, so you will be wired up to this pen recorder.” She gestured to a small box on the trolley. “You have to relax and lay still, so I’ll need to strap you down. Is that all right?”
George blinked at the masked nurse. Being asked was the last thing he had expected. “Err, yes. I suppose so, yes.”
“Good, good,” said Deanna. Reaching for a broad strap under the couch, she pulled it across George’s flabby belly. Without asking him further she took other straps and fastened down his wrists and ankles. She fastened blood pressure and heart beat sensors to his chest. She pulled the trolley closer and pushed a rubber mouth piece between his lips. She put a clip over his nose and, as he breathed through his mouth, a rubber bladder attached to the mouthpiece filled and sank back.
So far, George had been relatively happy with the proceedings. He had even, if he was honest, found time to admire the way in which Deanna’s uniform stretched so agreeably across her backside and how the ruler straight seams of her stockings ran up under the skirt in a way that drew an admirer’s gaze to her neat, uniform clad, buttocks. She turned around clutching a roll of adhesive strapping and advanced towards him. He grunted into the rubber mouth piece, disturbed by her approach. Her expressionless eyes stared down at him from over her mask. “To make sure the mouth piece isn’t dislodged,” she said.
George grunted his assent and Deanna applied the strapping around his mouth ensuring that, what ever else happened he could neither expel the mouthpiece nor speak.
It was only now, with George silenced and helpless, that Deanna opened another box on the trolley. From this she took a slim rubber strap with two more electrical contacts. To George’s consternation she fastened this strap around the base of his cock. Ignoring George’s squeaking protests she fastened two more wires from the strap to the pen recorder.
To George’s relief nothing happened. Deanna came and stood beside him, peering down at him, only her eyes visible over her mask. George looked up at her. Her face was so close to his that he could see the flecks of mascara on her eyelashes but he could still sense little of what she was thinking. “Watch the screen,” she said pointing to a computer monitor above his head. “You’ll see some pictures. The equipment will measure your response.”
George grunted in response, grateful that nothing more disturbing seemed to be planned.
“We just need to calibrate the equipment,” she said and without warning reached out with a latex-gloved hand and pinched his left nipple. George squealed. Deanna’s eyes appeared to light up with satisfaction. She looked down at the pen recorder. “That’s fine,” she said and pressed a button on the equipment. “You will be all right for a while.” She left closing the door to the room behind her.
“Evaluation Sequence #1” the first slide on the monitor said before the caption dissolved into the first of a series of photographs of women in dominant poses clad variously in leather, rubber, uniforms, corsetry and everyday clothing. George could feel his own pulse rising and his cock stiffening as the sequence progressed. He could hear the pen scratching its trace on the recorder, detailing each aspect of his reactions.
Sequence #2 began. This time it was of pictures of various BDSM practices. Slaves were bound and gagged, forced to kneel at the feet of their mistress, beaten with whips and canes, made to act as seats, as tables, as ashtrays, treated like animals and so on.
The third sequence focused in on the slaves themselves, shots of men’s cocks locked in metal or plastic chastity devices, men dressed in women’s underwear or as maid servants, pictures of wheal striped buttocks and backs, more of hooded males forced to lick the toes and heels of their mistress’s shoes and last of all a series of gruesome pictures showing cocks punished with needles, hung with clothes pegs or forced into weighted metal rings. Even strapped down as he was, George shivered in response to these last pictures.
“Evaluation Sequence Complete” the last slide showed. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
George supposed that he would be released from the couch immediately but no one returned to free him for almost half an hour. He tried to struggle free of the straps that held him but without effect. He tried to call out but the breathing tube taped into his mouth prevented him making any significant sound. In the end he decided to lie back and wait.
Eventually Deanna returned. Without apologising, she looked at the pen trace and collected up the paper that held the record of the evaluation. She released the straps that held George to the couch. “Get yourself dressed,” she ordered waving to the screens and not even bothering to remove the various sensor leads.
George was aware that she was watching him closely from behind her mask as he unfastened the various wires and then pulled away the tape that held his mouthpiece in place. “Hurry up,” she barked. Mistress Erica is waiting for you.”
George needed no further urging. He had found the whole experience intensely exciting so far. The combination of disdainful treatment, tight bondage and the threat of worse had aroused him in exactly the way he had dreamt. He pulled on his clothes quickly, anxious to see what would happen next. Deanna barely waited until he was finished before ordering, “Follow Me!”
He did so, almost hopping as he tried to pull on one of his shoes. He followed Deanna along the corridor and into another room where Erica was sitting behind a desk. Deanna pushed the mask down from her face and passed the file and papers to Erica.
“The evaluation is complete,” she said.
“Thank you, nurse,” Erica responded. “You can leave us now.” Deanna left the two of them. Erica didn’t ask George to sit down. He didn’t think it appropriate. He stood silently while Erica flicked through the various papers, making the occasional note in the margins, muttering approval or tutting as she did so. George looked at her. Erica seemed to sense his gaze. “Don’t stare at me Franks,” she snapped without looking up. “Put your hands behind your back and look at the floor.”
George could no more disobey her than deny the arousal her commands invoked. “Sorry, Ma’am,” he said, doing as he was told.
“Well,” said Erica, “this all seems to be much as I expected. You will require a complete initial training. There are one or two things I am puzzled by. The lack of response to CBT and TENS images for example, given you expressed interest on your forms. Still I am sure we can sort that out.” George was a little puzzled. There hadn’t been any pictures that he remembered which would correspond to Complete Body Therapy or Tri-Ecstatic Nerve Stimulation but he assumed that Erica knew what she was talking about. “Now before you go,” George looked up, disappointed that things were ending so soon, “I have some tasks for you before our next meeting. Firstly some reading. Deanna will give you a copy of the little guide we have prepared for all our clients. I suggest that you study it closely.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said George respectfully.
“And then I have a little project for you. I want you to buy a scrapbook and some women’s magazines. Five should do it. They are all to be purchased together; you will bring me the receipt. I want you to choose some pictures from each magazine, fantasy dominas if you like. Cut out the pictures, stick them in the scrap book and write underneath the name of each Mistress and how you would serve her. A short sentence for each will do. Do you understand?”
George nodded. It was a strange request but one that he felt he could fulfil.
“Good. It’s just a simple exercise to give you time to focus on the idea of being a slave. That’s all for now. Get out. See Deanna as you leave.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” George responded a little hurt by her curt dismissal of him.
“Oh, and George,” all of a sudden her tone was lighter, less aggressive, “thank you for those tax details. That all looks very thorough.”
George muttered something about being happy to have helped and went in search of Erica’s assistant. Deanna was in the White Room, still in her nurse’s uniform, sitting on a high stool, one leg crossed over the other revealing a glimpse of stocking welt at the hem of her skirt. She was smoking. As George came in she looked up with an air of contempt.
“Err, Erica said you would have a copy of a guide for me,” he said.
She eased herself off the stool, staring back at George. “That’s ‘Mistress Erica’ to you,” she sneered, reaching up to a wall cupboard and picking a small pamphlet from a pile. She tossed it to George, laughing as he lost his footing in his attempt to catch it. “You’d better get the hang of this or you’re going to find things unpleasant,” she said. “Freebies or not freebies.”
George said nothing as he took the pamphlet but nodded his thanks and left.
© Freddie Clegg 2010
Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission. All characters and events fictitious.
Email: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com
Web group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
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