Bertie and the Kinky Politician (11 page)

A line of fading stripes latticed his rump, purple and green on pale ivory. Each parallel line was deep and thin, barely a quarter of an inch from its neighbour. Sitting on a scalding hot Venetian blind would have created an almost identical pattern! She had been particularly fiendish during their last session and beaten him with more than her usual vigour. James had suffered his punishment with the stoicism of a true masochist, panting and puffing in the aromatic darkness of his smothering leather helmet.

His need for release was much greater now he had responsibility for the nation's defences, and Celeste had adjusted her chastisements accordingly. She noted with satisfaction the puncture in his thigh was properly dressed; however, the inadvertent injection of ink would certainly leave a permanent reminder of his encounter with the prime ministerial pen.

‘You may dress.'

‘Thank you, Mistress.' She noticed with satisfaction the angle of his erection had increased significantly.

James brought forward a heavy portmanteau from its place beside her bureau, unbuckled the lid and pulled out a great armful of black leather clothing. Items were laid out reverentially in a crescent at Celeste's feet like a ritual offering. She sat in silence, then pointed. ‘This, the open hood, and your full suit.' James set aside the selected ensemble, its straps writhing like a nest of snakes. More often than not she preferred the simpler items of restraint that took just a few moments to render him helpless, but it was a Friday evening and they had plenty of time.

James tugged, laced, and buckled himself into his leather body suit, always conscious of her critical gaze. He swept back his hair and slid the strange helmet over his head, drawing the rear laces closed with gloved fingers to complete his encapsulation. Eyes peered out owlishly from oval apertures above a similar opening for his mouth. Silver poppers surrounded these openings, allowing a gag and blindfold to be snapped on easily. After minor adjustments, he knelt before his mistress in humble prostration and laid his face on the floor.

Celeste watched the entire procedure with a regal expression. James was good at dressing himself – heaven knows, he'd had enough practice! She stood and walked around his silent form. Needle-tipped stiletto heels clattered delightfully on the parquet. His eyes, now encircled by leather, followed the progress of her gracefully arched feet, so perfectly presented in polished grey patent court shoes with slender ankle straps.

‘Trust me, I'm a doctor,' said Bertie, for no discernible reason. ‘Can I wax your legs?'

‘Hush, my love.' There was always a danger of the macaw interrupting the delicate atmosphere in the salon, but both Celeste and James would never dream of banishing him to another room. In an odd way, his occasional comments added a touch of normality to the proceedings. ‘Eat your nuts like a good boy.'

‘Yes, mummy.' Bertie lost interest in them and turned his attention elsewhere.

Celeste pointed at the floor. ‘Down!' she ordered. James lay on his belly spread-eagled, arms and legs pointing to the four corners of the room, his body held rigid. Celeste tapped a light dusting of talc over his fingers and toes. ‘I'm now going upstairs to dress. Don't move. Understood?'

‘Completely, Mistress. Please, feel free to take your time.'

‘Indeed I shall, and when I return we'll get those laces really tightened up!'

The door shut quietly leaving James on his own, his chin resting on the floor. It rarely took Celeste less than an hour to prepare for the evening. He held himself perfectly still since the slightest smudge in the talc would betray any movement to her eagle eye, and that would, perversely, result in her not punishing him – and he did so want to feel her whip. It was bondage without the bonds. He shut his eyes and dreamed of his beloved mistress, acutely aware of a stiffened erection jabbing against his belly.

Bored with eating, Bertie preened for a while, cleaning his cobalt wing feathers fastidiously, chattering and whistling to himself. Once satisfied with his appearance, he let his mind wander in an aimless fashion. The room was warm and quiet, so it was not surprising a light snooze took him unawares.

Some time later, he awoke with a start from a delicious dream in which he soared effortlessly over the green crowns of an endless forest. He picked at an apple in a half-hearted way then, refreshed from his slumber, suddenly felt in need of some mental stimulation. He cocked his head to one side. Now what was that? Surely it was a new carpet in front of the sofa. Bertie scrambled from his perch and hopped down off the sofa to take a closer look.

James, too, had sunken into a meditative trance and was startled out of his own sublimely erotic fantasies by the sudden scratch of claws on wood. He peered out through the oval eye openings in the leather helmet. A pair of scaly feet appeared, advancing with the curious waddling gait characteristic of macaws. Sickled talons clacked on the polished floor. A long tapering tail swished along behind, sweeping from side to side like a bright blue besom.

‘Oh, no,' he sighed. The last thing he needed was the attention of a clever and mischievous macaw. The blue-trousered legs came closer. Those barbarous claws looked absolutely lethal. It would have been easy just to sit up and fuss Bertie, perhaps even persuade him back onto his perch, but doing so would irritate Celeste. She expected him to remain absolutely motionless. Besides, he knew from past experience his chances of controlling the macaw were practically zero – Bertie was a good boy and never listened to anyone except his mum.

‘Shoo!' prompted James hopefully. The exclamation made no impact at all. He watched with a sinking heart as the pacing legs appeared first on one side of his head and then the other. Bertie circled warily, then closed on his target. A brightly coloured face suddenly popped into James's view, curious and attentive, with large brown eyes encircled by sunshine yellow spectacles.

Dipping forward and with tail lifted high, Bertie dropped his head to the floor, twisted his neck and peered upside-down at the hooded features. An eye glared back at him surrounded by the strange black skin.

‘Scat! Scram! Skedaddle!' hissed James. Normally so polite to the bird, he felt that he could, under the circumstances, be excused for a temporary lapse in manners.

‘Hello,' said Bertie cheerfully. ‘Who are you?'

‘Pope Pius the Fourteenth,' replied James sarcastically.

‘Really? I'm a coastguard.'

‘Congratulations. Filey's nice at this time of year!'

Bertie didn't understand, so he reverted to a well-proven approach. ‘Nice hat.'

‘Thank you.'

‘I like hats,' the macaw announced firmly.

‘I do, too.'

‘I like pears. Do you have any pears?'

‘Not on me, oddly enough.'

‘Do you have any nuts?' This was one of his favourite phrases.

‘I have two and you're definitely not going anywhere near them!'

‘Nuts. I like nuts,' confirmed Bertie in the tone a small child would use when describing its favourite food.

‘I know. You keep telling me every time I come here. There are nuts in your tray, why don't you go and see,' added James hopefully.

Bertie straightened to peer up at his stand. He knew all about his tray. Tray was a simple word, often spoken, and he made the association between it and the food it so often contained. James held his breath and fervently hoped the macaw would return to his perch but after a few moments consideration the blue face reappeared once more, upside-down, feathered crown pressing on the parquet, neck twisted and eyes bright with impishness. He showed no inclination to comply with James's request. ‘Banana, perhaps?' he enquired politely.

‘Sorry, fresh out,' mumbled James. ‘Please, be a good boy and leave me alone.'

Bertie scampered around James's head to peer in at the other eye. James decided not to answer any more questions. It only encouraged further conversation. ‘Hello? Anyone home?' When this brought no response Bertie moved a step closer. James stiffened. God, the damned bird was huge. The two stared at each other in silence while ten seconds expended themselves in a leisurely way, then Bertie suddenly lunged.

‘Oi! Get lost, Bertie!' James protested angrily. The macaw grabbed at a popper, obviously attracted by the shining steel. He tugged hard as if pulling up a worm, but his feet skidded on the smooth floor and he lost his grip. Claws clicked like castanets swinging in a gale, scrabbling for a hold. James resisted stoutly, still determined not to disturb the delicacy of his talcum powder prison and cursing the playful bird silently. One had to be careful what one said to such a perfect mimic.

Suddenly tiring, Bertie released the popper and scuttled away out of view. Not seeing where he was going proved even more disconcerting for James. Vague noises betrayed the macaw's circumnavigation around his rigid form. Bertie hopped over one outstretched arm and decided to test the new rug for comfort. With a flash of blue he settled on James's arse.

Unsurprisingly, the rug flinched.

Equally unsurprisingly, Bertie consolidated his grip to ensure his balance.

An urgent need for complete immobility swept over James. He froze. Needle-tipped claws grazed his buttocks, tightening reflexively at his slightest movement. Bertie walked from cheek to cheek, testing each globe for resilience by bobbing up and down, but he seemed doubtful as to which of the two was most comfortable and so waddled up James's spine to perch on his head. The leather helmet, although substantial, offered very little protection. Sweat dripped from the end of James's nose and collected under the hood. He desperately hoped the macaw would tire and return to his perch, but Bertie seemed perfectly content and settled down to roost. Unfortunately, as with all birds, the tendons in his legs automatically tightened his grip when he sat.

James groaned softly, not daring to startle the macaw. His head felt like it was clamped in a vice. Deadly claws grazed his skin through the leather. There was no doubt the slightest movement would now draw blood, so he gritted his teeth and prayed for Celeste's speedy return. Apparently satisfied with his new nesting spot, Bertie began to purr, the vibrations rattling James's teeth.

Oblivious to the drama unfolding downstairs, Celeste was in no hurry to dress. Sebastian sidled in while she was applying make-up and rubbed against her legs before meandering away to some private corner for a preparatory snooze in advance of his main sleep of the evening. The Persian approached the door with increasing trepidation and peered timidly around the corner before hurrying on furtively. Celeste had never discovered what particular incident precipitated this cautious behaviour but she was sure Bertie was at the bottom of the cat's nervousness. The macaw, as one would expect, had been entirely uncommunicative on the subject.

‘Well, what shall it be?' she asked nobody in particular as she stood naked before the mirror. She tossed her luxuriant copper locks about her shoulders in the way shampoo advertisements intimated was irresistible to men and smiled coquettishly at herself. ‘Something stern, I think. I believe my poor slave downstairs has had a busy week ordering new missiles for the navy.' She smiled at the thought of James still lying on the floor trying to bore his wayward stiffy through her parquet.

The cream leather catsuit fitted perfectly, accentuating her silhouette, her waist narrowed by a wide corset belt. She eased on thigh-length boots, tied off the red silk laces in big bows, and paced back and forth, entirely comfortable in the towering heels. She then decided on a helmet. Normally content to tie her hair up, she knew James would respond more if she was hooded. The helmet was open-faced and framed her features in an oval border trimmed in black piping. She tugged her copper pony-tail out through a short vertical funnel at the crown and let it tumble freely.

Celeste nodded satisfaction at her dramatic reflection while slipping on a pair of thin kid gloves. She exuded that aura of authoritative competence and overt sensuality which James desired so much. She checked her appearance carefully, turning this way and that, her tumbling ponytail draped over one shoulder, then gathered up her crop, bullwhip, several pairs of handcuffs, and sauntered downstairs.

‘Oh, Bertie, you little scamp, what are you doing?'

She found him perched on James's head like a blue phoenix sitting on an ebony gargoyle, the span of his claws easily enough to embrace the entire crown. It was a comical sight. James opened his eyes at the sound of Celeste's chuckle, his concentration so great he had not heard her approach.

‘Help!' he squeaked. ‘Please!'

Claws still clasped his head, but the grip suddenly loosened as Bertie hopped down onto the floor and ran towards her like an eager pirate in baggy blue breeches. Still determined not to move, James could just see the macaw standing in front of a pair of cream stiletto boots. ‘Mummy,' the bird said, looking upwards. ‘I love you.'

‘I know, my precious, and I love you, too. Here, on your perch.' There was a flutter and Bertie swept upwards, disappearing from James's truncated view. ‘Now be a good boy and keep quiet,' she cooed.

‘Yes. Be quiet. Watch TV.'

‘Later.' Celeste fussed over her beloved pet until he settled, then returned to James's prostrate form. She examined the talcum powder for signs of disturbance. ‘Excellent,' she murmured. ‘Very impressive – under the circumstances.'

‘Thank you, Mistress. I had a powerful incentive to keep very still.'

‘So I saw. How is your head?'

‘I think the bleeding's stopped.'

‘Considering the damage those claws can do, you got off lightly. Why didn't you just put him back on his perch?'

‘And move? No – he wasn't too heavy. Besides, in a perverse way, I quite enjoyed the companionship. He's always such an amiable chap.' James still lay stretched out on the floor gazing in adoration at the slender heels of Celeste's boots not twelve inches from his face.