Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (5 page)

Struggling a little simply stoked his passion. Straps creaked and flexed. His punishment helmet was laced as tight as a duck's fundament, the gag made his jaw ache, his fingers were going tingly, his eyes stung with sweat and his middle bits were on the point of exploding.

It was a moment of sublime emotional contentment. He moaned very softly, unable to contain his arousal.

‘No noise, now,' she admonished softly, ‘or you'll not get your treat.' A hollow threat and they both knew it. This was about as likely an occurrence as a motorist cruising down the M4 in a pleasant and agreeable manner suddenly deciding to make his day complete by turning off to explore the delights of Reading.

However, the ritual had to be played out, and every time it was, their relationship gained strength. Mistress and slave, lovers, husband and wife, all the same. Celeste peered into the clear goggles sewn in his helmet and saw a deep respect tinged with eager anticipation lurking there. Good, he was already experiencing the desired psychological transformation. The speedy descent from highly respected maverick MP into complete sexual subservience was the foundation of their little games. Her predatory cast, the disdainful tilt of her chin and studied aloof indifference to his predicament elicited another deep moan. Breath hissed serpent-like through the eyelets punched in the hide covering his nostrils. She liked the sound very much and, cupping his chin, gazed indolently into his feverish, staring eyes.

James felt his heart lurch. He found that heavy-lidded expression of idle contempt exquisitely arousing. Celeste's eyes were the most piercing malachite green, the vibrant colour enhanced by her extensive use of heavy eyeshadow and naturally pale complexion. She wore her fiery hair loose, great waves of copper falling over her shoulders. Delicious blood red lips pouted succulently, just parting to show a flash of white teeth. She breathed through her mouth, each slow, deep, measured exhalation fanning James's leather-covered features. He smelt her breath, inhaled it, accepting her waste air as a gift. A surging wave of bone deep adoration washed through him. God, she was so good at this!

Celeste thrust him away and he sprawled at her feet, unable to maintain balance. Beneath the straitjacket, as if that wasn't restrictive enough, his entire body was enclosed inside a form-fitting body suit of gleaming black hide, banded and strapped at six-inch intervals from waist to ankle, the taut material flowing like liquid tar to consume every square inch of his body. Except his bottom. Here, twin circular apertures exposed a pair of very red, very striped middle-aged politician's cheeks. Celeste had concentrated on warming them earlier with a springy riding crop, whacking him on the caboose with accurate strokes and undisguised enthusiasm. His bum now looked like two halves of tomato sitting on a black granite work surface.

Vermicular and helpless, with arms bound tight and legs pinioned together, he could do little more than squirm on the floor, rubbing his erection over the carpet and straining against a ribbed collar to stare up at her untouchable imperiousness. Celeste smiled voraciously. He was so helpless, so entirely reliant on her for everything: for pleasure, for pain – and for release. As a natural dominant, she would not have it any other way. Neither would James. Leather suited him. Always had done. She adored its pliant touch, its ability to cling, its strength and its elusive, subtly arousing aroma. The material had become an essential ingredient in their little games of Mistress and slave.

Unlike James, who needed no encouragement at all to dive into full leather enclosure, Celeste had decided on a minimalist approach. She no longer had to cover herself from his gaze, although she still often did because he liked to see her suitably attired as his Fetish Goddess. On this occasion, however, she had chosen something a little different, something designed to show off her curvaceous silhouette.

The corset was both a beauty and a beast! Before dressing himself, James had poured her into its constrictive grip, tugging hard to reduce her waist to an insect minimum, chuckling at her grunts each time he yanked on the laces. The black leather was stretched taut, squeezing her ribs and making her pant slightly, and covered from below her naked breasts to the top of her pubic bone. Nipples coaxed into organ-stop stiffness by arousal – and probably by restricted circulation as well – nosed out in perky expectation. The corset was complemented by a pair of full-length leather opera gloves encasing both arms almost to the shoulder.

She wore nothing else. Her nakedness excited James. Long gone were the days when she remained fully clothed, when he was strictly forbidden to explore beyond the hem of her dress. It was now access all areas, a sexual Schengen Area, and those parts which once seemed so unreachable were now frequently exposed in all their delicious glory.

As they were at this particular moment.

Shaven, naturally. Since her husband officially had connubial access to all regions, she ensured her tufty parts were shown no mercy. Celeste found it ironically amusing that having spent so much time in the country, she was now a firm advocate of the Brazilian approach to bodily hair!

She decided he'd now spent enough time trying to drill a hole through the carpet and, wrestling him back onto his haunches, leaned forward and removed the gag, pulling the huge plug out of his mouth. She settled back in the sofa and, crossing her legs, casually caressed his face with her foot. He held himself still, as was required, the movement of his head somewhat restricted by the ridiculously unforgiving collar. Slowly, her meanderings approached the mouth-hole in his helmet, toes wriggling eagerly inwards when they found the small oval entrance. With another uncontrolled groan of joy, he closed his lips around their contours and sucked gently. She had the most beautiful feet he had ever seen, shapely and smooth, arched at the top and with high curving insteps that allowed her to wear spectacular footwear in perfect comfort. Towering spike heels did not represent a challenge to Celeste, in fact her feet were so curved she now found it difficult to wear flat shoes and preferred four-inch stilettos for normal day-to-day wear. While in the privacy of their home and for bedroom play, as well as on special social occasions, she reverted to a full six inch heel, much to the admiration of the press – and her glassy-eyed husband.

James worshipped her feet in a dreamy haze of sublime euphoria, running his tongue all over and licking between her lovely toes, kissing their tips very gently. Her nails were beautifully proportioned despite being clipped short to protect the stockings she often wore. They were also unpainted so he could see each pale lunula, the delicate white half-moon visible even on the minuscule nails of her little toes. So absorbed was he with the task that it came as a shock when his head was jerked away and another plug stuffed in his mouth, but he knew this gag well and focused his eyes on the small nail brush now extending outwards a short distance from his hidden lips. Celeste held the bottle of nail varnish, presenting the open end to him.

‘You know what to do,' she said. ‘I'm expecting great things this time. I don't want any mistakes.'

Each previous attempt James had made to paint her nails in this manner had been doomed to failure. He'd succumbed to such trembling excitement he'd made a terrible mess, much to Celeste's annoyance, so he was determined to get it right this time. Still enclosed within the straitjacket, still collared, hooded and gagged, he bent forwards and dipped the end of the nail brush into the bottle. It was not an easy task but he was reasonably experienced now and after dabbing off the excess against the neck of the bottle, stroked the brush tip with precision to leave a smooth line of brilliant scarlet varnish deposited on the nail of her big toe. Back to the bottle again and the process was repeated. Slowly, he painted her nails one by one, concentrating intensely, gripping the gag brush tightly between his teeth. To manoeuvre its tip required considerable physical dexterity, the nature of his bondage requiring his whole body to be controlled rigorously.

Celeste liked that very much.

James almost went cross-eyed trying to focus. Her smallest toe was the most difficult. The nail was perfectly formed but tiny, needing no more than a fleeting touch of the brush. With one foot completed, Celeste recrossed her legs to present the other. Sweat now dripped down James's pinioned limbs but he never wavered in his task and presently all her toenails were painted a very shiny ruby red.

Celeste was pleased. ‘James, my darling, I think you've cracked it at long last. You've done a lovely job, well done! Much better than last time, in fact that's not short of perfect.'

‘Well done!' repeated Bertie idly. ‘Lovely job.'

‘See, even Bertie can appreciate your efforts. I think that deserves a little reward. Best leave my feet alone for a while to let the varnish dry, so I'll let you rest before we continue.' She removed the nail brush gag and cupping his hooded cheeks with both hands, kissed him very gently. Her lips were soft and warm. A mischievous tongue explored. James whimpered. He whimpered a lot in these situations. She smiled roguishly and drew his head in and downwards. Her knees fell apart. He shifted his weight and leaned against the chair. She laced her fingers together at the back of his neck to ensure he didn't pull away, not that he had any plans to do so. Now, that would be just plain rude, wouldn't it, especially to a lady.

She relaxed, holding him there for a long time, occasionally raising one leg then the other to idly examine her freshly painted toenails. James's face stayed firmly where she'd put it. He seemed to be experiencing an as yet undiscovered law of attraction, one which compelled his features to stay firmly in position even when she released her grip. Frankly, wild horses wouldn't have been able to drag him away. He snuffled for breath like an asthmatic mole, not at all unhappy with his predicament, and offered enthusiastic husbandly service with tongue and lips. At this particular point in their game, that was his only function and even though at times he was in the last stages of imminent suffocation, he gave himself utterly and totally with no concern for his own comfort.

‘Enough,' she murmured eventually, ‘or we'll both be coming far too soon!' She let him collapse in a slithering heap of creaking leather and began to run her feet over his squirming body, kneading, stroking and massaging with heels and toes. She arranged him with deft touches until he lay supine and still only using her feet, opened the zipper over his impressively bulging middle bits, the tab fitted with a specifically designed loop through which she could hook her big toe. The hide peeled apart to reveal James's pale body beneath. Her dextrous toes went to work again and shortly emerged with their prize, hard and ready, his exposed stiffy, flopping on to his belly like a beached walrus.

But without the tusks. Or the fishy smell. Or the whiskers. Especially the whiskers. As she was now an advocate of the Brazilian, she made damned sure he was as well.

At no stage in this procedure had she moved from the sofa nor used her hands in any way. James felt the soft touch of her nimble toes on his Bishop Rock Lighthouse. His wonderful wife was skilled on so many levels. He was already hardened by a snazzy little leather cock and ball harness, embossed with the House of Commons portcullis, but the gentle pressure of her feet left him gasping. She was just so damned good at this! Cool air wafted over his gentleman's region. She scooped up his sausage and, holding it vertically between her soles, caressed slowly. He gazed up at her and saw that familiar whetted expression, that eager smouldering in her emerald eyes. Her colour was up now, her cheeks flushed, her red lips parted in anticipation. Her arousal was as obvious as his. This was going to be great.

Without warning, she dropped his wobbling todger and withdrew her feet. ‘I'm ready for the stockings now,' she said, somewhat unsteadily. Parts of her were very warm indeed, but she wasn't ready just yet. She wanted to tease him some more, to extend the evening for their mutual benefit.

The nylons were black and filmy, classically seamed and with Cuban heels. She pulled them on in easy stages, lingering unnecessarily to prolong the moment, checking to ensure the seams were arrow straight down the backs of her long legs, always working the thin material higher with languid strokes of her gloved hands. She coaxed the stockings ever upwards, stretching out all the ripples, and snapped each in place around her upper thighs. James could see the broad, black elasticated bands encircling the very tops of her legs and shivered pleasurably at the sight.

Her feet went back to work. James started violently at the first touch of sheer nylon on his John Thomas. This was due more to an unexpected jolt of static electricity than to her dreamy caress. Celeste giggled. ‘Poor James, these misfortunes do plague you, don't they?' She rubbed the stockings together to induce another charge and touched him again. James squealed at the shock on his cock. ‘Sorry,' she breathed in a manner that suggested she was not sorry at all, and using the sole of one foot, rolled his tingling winky back and forth over his belly as if making shortcrust pastry.

She eventually withdrew and, standing, looked down at him. He was a panting wreck, his static-induced erection now nicely hard, if a slightly alarming shade of purple from the tightly-buckled harness. ‘Enough of that, I think it's now time we moved on.' While a goggle-eyed James drooled avidly, she donned a pair of black leather knee boots with six-inch heels – the maximum height she could manage without platforms under the soles. The boots slid on with the aid of an ornate silver-chased shoe horn, a gift given gratefully by the American High Heel Appreciation Society. Sturdy silk lacing ensured they were drawn very tight to the contours of her legs and feet. She teetered slowly towards him, hips swinging seductively, her height boosted by the tremendous boots, and stood with one foot on either side of his head.

She was so close he could smell the warm leather. Silver eyelets twinkled, the laces creaking with strain. Her lovely feet were spectacularly arched by the curved vamps. The boots receded up her endless legs – from his lowly perspective they seemed to go on for ever. His mouth went dry. Lying on the floor looking up, she towered over him like an erotic goddess. The imagery was powerful and intensely arousing to them both.