This is the second chapter of the Peppermint story; however, it is set before the events described in the first chapter. I therefore suggest that it may be beneficial to read that chapter.
As I drive home in the hours that followed our session I had plenty of time to think. Firstly, of course, of my delight at having tested you so harshly and you demonstrating a tolerance for pain beyond anything I would have predicted. Secondly, I thought of how much I had revealed in the power I had over you and the delight with which you had accepted it. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I thought about the disconnect between the previous two points and the fact that in addition to your day job, you were a professional, in-demand and highly thought of dominatrix. I still found it hard to believe that not only had I whipped and twisted your nipples, but also left you with crop slashes across your thighs and buttocks, fucked your throat until raw and covered your hair, face andbreasts in sperm. I knew very little of dominatrites yet this didn’t seem to me to be something that one would find going on in the home of many of them.
The question also remained: how had we come to those circumstances? How did a young man like me, barely a quarter of a century old, come to be forcing his penis into the mouth of a woman like yourself, and how had she come to suggest it in the first place?
Stories Such as this are rarely simple, and I began to think about how we’d met. It seemed easy to start at the beginning. University had not been, for me, an enjoyable experience. Mostly I had hidden in my room, gone to my lessons and repeatedly avoided any normal university activities. Eventually the financial situation became dire, and I looked for a job, finding one in a musical instrument shop. It was here that I gradually found myself being drawn out of my shell by Pete and Mick, the owner and his guitar legend friend. One day, they introduced me to you. The story of this has been told elsewhere, of course, but the short version was that I was instantly attracted to you despite you being nearly twenty years my senior. When you came in the shop my faculties would desert me and I’d be powerless before your beauty, your confidence and your scent. Pete took goal on me, explaining that you made your living partly through your strength, beauty and iron will. Each time you appeared in the shop you would do so immaculately dressed, your dark red hair a waterfall of temptation. For some reason you choose to treat me gently and would request my assistance when making purchases. We became friends, over time. To cut a long story short, we had remained in contact after I finished university and I would drive down to see you when work and family circumstances permitted. This was not a relationship between equals, of course. I was the junior, the project, and you were the senior, the holder of the power. You made the decisions about where we went, what we did, and paid for everything. I’d questioned this, once; your star had been enough to quell my protests.
One night, over dinner in an expensive Gerrard Street restaurant, you broke the unspoken subject and asked me how I felt about your work. I’d replied that I was interested in what drove you, what you gained from the activities you undertook and how you treated the people who worked Your services. A slight smile played on your face as you asked: “And have you ever wanted to engage me, Jack?” I’d stuttered a reply about not wanting to spoil our friend, and that was the last time we’d mentioned the subject. We continued to meet, to talk and to give each other what we needed in terms of conversation and companionship, until a few months later.
I may have been young, but I had grown in confidence since my university days. A couple of years working as a roadie for Mick’s band had taught me how to deal with people (especially those who were drunk, over-assertive or outto take the band for a ride) and my gangly youthful physique had been honed into something much more solid. Although not violent, I found that a serious tone and a propensity to loom could work wonderers when people needed to beending to my will.
The telephone call had come one morning. I replayed it in my mind as the homeward miles unwound themselves. It had been short and to the point: “Jack,” you’d opened with, Your voice low, “he’s back, and I need him gone. Can you come tonight? No-one must know we’ve been in contact about this.” I replied that I could, and left work immediately, stating that some important family business had come up. “He” was your ex-husband, an unpleasant and vindictive man who had been known to periodically attempt to blackmail you into giving him money, usually threatening to tell a local newspaper about your parallel careers. I drove home, changed, and then walked to the station, catching the next train into London. I paid with cash, and also bought the nextticket, the one to the small town in which you lived, in this manner. I’d walked the mile or so to your house in the gathering dust and spent thirty minutes or so in the shadow of the trees in your garden, observing the un-curtained windows as your ex followed you around your house. When I was certain that I knew where he was, I walked quickly in through the front door, found him haranguing you in the sitting room, and lifted him body by the collar, forcing him against the wall. You watched, amused, as I ground my left forearm into his throat and held it there against his struggle. As his face began to purple I stared into his eyes, ignoring his weak attempts to free himself. He was unfit and unready for this conflict; I was young, sinewy and, as I saw it, looking out for a friend.
“You will leave. Immediately. You will not come back. If you try to contact Deborah again I will return, and this will be a walk in the park by comparison”. To reform my point, I used my rightHand to reach into the pocket of my jacket and withdraw an antique silver-handled straight razor, flicking it open and allowing the light to glint along the stropped edge. His eyes widened in fear and a dark patch stained the front of his suit trousers. “If I hear you have tried to contact or make life hard for her, I will carve my initials into your pallid little face. Go. Now”. I released him and he stumbled from the house Without a word, flopping into his car and anxious erratically away.
“Well, Jack, aren’t you the dark horse?” you asked, arching one eyebrow. “I’ll be in touch”. Recognising a dismissal when I heard one, I pocketed the razor and walked back to the station; I was home by midnight. You’d never mentioned your ex-husband again, so I assumed my ministers had achieved the desired effect upon him.
Since then we had become closer; never intimate, but closer. I found your directness appealing, to say nothing of the power of your personality. We saw each otherr reasonably often – you would squire me around London, taking me to the opera or an exquisite restaurant, refusing to entertain the concept of my paying the bill. Sometimes I flirted with the idea of enquiring about “engaging” you professionally but couldn’t bring myself to ask for fear of damaging our curious friend. One day though, six months or so after I’d ejected your ex-husband from your house, an envelope arrived at my house addressed to me. Upon opening it, I found a business card, ruby-red and framed in black, printed on expensive cotton paper. In white type, it said simply “Deborah”. On the reverse of the card, handwritten in black fountain pen, was a date some two weeks in the future, a time (2100), a postcode, and the instruction to ask for Mary.
The intervening period passed quickly, and Just before nine p.m. on the given Saturday night I arrived at the address suggested by the postcode on the card. This proved to be a block of very expensive-looking flats justoff Brewhouse Lane in Wapping, as I knew it would be, knowing you well enough to have done my research, as I didn’t feel that you would appreciate any tardiness. At the door to the block there were a dozen or so doorbells, the bottom-most one of which being labeled “M”. Grinning despite myself, I pushed the button and instantly a woman’s voice with an Irish accent spoke through the intercom. “State your business, please”.
“My name’s Jack”, I responded. “I’m looking for Mary”.
“Come in please, Jack. Take the stairs to the basement. I’ll meet you there”. Not waiting for any reply, she buzzed me in. I pushed the door open and stepped into a tastefully lit and decorated lobby. My army boots, hurt jeans and biker jacket seemed incongruous in these surroundings but I was obviously in the right place. I descended an iron fin-de-siece spiral staircase to the basement level lobby, where, true to her word, a woman was waiting for me. Although the lateness of the hour she was dressedimmaculately in a black pencil skirt, a cream blossom and a business jacket. Her hair was pale auburn and drawn up in a high bun. When she spoke I heard the softness of the Irish accent again.
“Good evening, Jack. Deborah is expecting you, so we’ll go straight in. Everything is ready”. I followed her as she stepped towards a black, gloss painted door set into the magnolia of the wall. She raised a key fob to the reader on the door, which clicked and illuminated a green LED. The woman pushed the door open and we stepped inside. The woman immediately stepped behind a desk and sat down at her computer, motioning me to hang my jacket on the ornate coat stand that stood in one corner of the small room I found myself in; I did so, and, nonplussed, remained standing for a few moments until another door opened and you stepped into the room.
Every time I saw you I would be taken aback by your presence, but on this occasion I found my breath catching in my throat. Your gorgeous darkflame hair was gathered into a long French plait and hung to the small of your back. A black corseted minidress left your arms and shoulders bare. Beneath this sheer nylon encased your legs, ending at your unshod feet. A strong yet subtle scent enveloped me as you stepped towards me, reaching behind my head and drawing me down to your height and kissing me briefly on the right cheese.
“Thank you, Mary. We will be about an hour, I should think.” The Irish woman, nodded briefly and returned to her work. “I see you’ve met Mary, Jack. She doesn’t say a lot, which makes her an ideal employee. In this line of work discretion is essential. Now, you’re probably wondering what you’re doing here”. I nodded, my confusion obvious. “Well, it’s simple; as a reward for removing that man from my house I felt that it was time for you to see me at work”.
“Uh, Deborah, I’m not sure if…”. You placed a finger to my lips to quieten me.
“Be quiet, Jack. This evening you will watchme at work with a client. I may even direct you to assist; if you make a decent job if it I will have another job for you to do”.
I began to protest, saying that seeing some guy being humiliated, even by you, wasn’t my scene but you cut me off, dead.
“Shut up. Follow me – you will enjoy this, I have no doubt”. Stifling my protests in bewilderment, I followed as you stepped through the door and shut it behind us. In the centre of the windowless room stood a woman, her arms raised aloft by a pair of leather wrist restraints that were hooked to a chain hanging from the ceiling. Her eyes were downcast, and a shapeless white shift covered her from neck to knees. A bit-gag had been strapped around her head, keeping her teeth apart.
Determined not to appear gauche, I looked around the room. It was sparsely furnished, with only a table, an old-fashioned and high-backed Windsor chair and a stainless steel trolley – this last bearing an association of sinister-looking items – being in evidence. Various forms of restraints were hung on the walls and a large internal storeroom was reached through a door on the other side of the woman. A discreet supervision bore testimony to the air conditioning system that keep the room at a cool fifteen or so Celsius.
“Jack”, you said, your voice sounding harsh in the muffled atmosphere of the room (which I now realized must be soundproofed) “take a good look at her. Go on. She won’t bite”. I did as I was bid and stepped carefully across the rubber-matted floor to inspect the woman. She was slightly above average height, perhaps 1.7 metres, although it was hard to say with her arms reaching high above her head, raising her shoulders. Her hair was a very dark brown, soft and shiny. She possessed a full figure, complete with narrow waist. I couldn’t see much of her face because her head was tipped forward and obscured by her arms and the fall of her hair. I guessed her age to be around thirty, so older than me but a decade or so younger than you. She stood stock still on a small white square that was pained on the flooring directly beneath the hook. Her only movement was the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.
“This, Jack”, you said, moving to the trolley and selecting an item from it, “is Aimee, and she is a slut. She comes from a wealthy background, works in the city where she undertakes forensic accountancy, so she is good with numbers. Aimee has rather unusual tastes for a young lady and comes to me every month or so and likes me to humiliate, degrade and administrator pain to her; she pays very well for this privilege. I have told her that you would be joining us this evening, although I have not asked her opinion on this”.
“Why not?” I asked, trying to keep my voice flat and expressionless.
“Because who cares for the opinions of sluts?” you replied, shrugging. “And now, Jack, this is your moment of choice. The blue pill or the red, if you like. You may leave now, having seen my place of business, and we will continue our… arrangement as before. Or, should you choose to show the qualities I feel you possess, you may stay. If you stay, you will watch Aimee’s session, you will carry out my instructions and if you do a good job of that I will give you the task that I speak about earlier. There’s no pressure, of course”.
The lightness with which you uttered this last sentence left me in no doubt what was expected of me. I walked slowly around Aimee, who still stared at the floor.
“May I ask Aimee a question, Deborah?”
“You may. One. However, Aimee may not speak without permission, and in any case is gagged at the moment. I suggest you ask her a question that she may answer by nodding or shaking her head”.
“Aimee, look at me”, I said, quietly. As the woman began to raise her head you stepped smartly forward, forcing her head back down and turning on me with surprise rancour.
“Jack, one does not speak to a slut like that.One commands respect through one’s voice as well as one’s actions. Do it again”.
I paused momentarily. In for a penny, I thought.. “Aimee, look me in the eye”, I grew, starting myself somewhat with the steel in my voice. Aimee’s head shot up and she turned slightly to face me. She was pretty, with dark eyes enlarged with mascara and eyeliner. Her expression was unreadable, but I noticed her breathing quicken slightly at the sound of my voice.
“Are you the slut that Deborah says you are?”, I asked. Immediately Aimee nodded, showing a degree of enthusiasm I had hitherto not expected.
“Deborah, I’m staying”. There was no hesitation in my voice now. I was intrigued and I decided that I would swallow your red pill. I wanted to see not only what you could inflict on Aimee, but how she would respond, what she got out of that infliction. If I’m honest, a part of my psyche was excited by the prospect of assisting you, of meting out pain on the body of this gorgeous, helpless stranger.
You didn’t reply, but nodded in a businesslike fashion, metaphorically rolling up your sleeps. I watched as you pulled the trolley behind you and stepped in front of Aimee, who immediately dropped her head again. Your palm opened, and I saw a glint of steel as you grasped the vintage tailor’s shears you’d removed from the trolley. Grasping the lower hem of the shift you cut Decisively, once, replaced the shears and pulled hard at either side of the cut. The shift ripped neighborly up the front, the tearing sound loud in the quiet room. You continued to pull until the shift was in rags at Aimee’s feet, and she stood clad only in an expensive-looking black silk bra and knickers combination, a necklace and a silver belly chain. I watched you heft the flesh of her left breast in your right hand Almost contemplatively before dropping it again, admiring her curves as you did so.
“Look at her, Jack. Look at the slut. She wants you to see her vulnerable and hungry. Payparticular attention to her smooth, undamaged skin – it will not stay like that for long. Aimee, nod your head if you want me to use you as I see fit”. Immediately Aimee did so, looking at you with longing in her eyes. “Nod again if you are a worthless slut who just craves humiliation.” Again, Aimee nodded.
“See, Jack, I’m doing the slut a favour. Here, look at this.” You pulled the necklace slowly away from the paleness of her decolletage. I looked closely and see that from the loop of the chain dangled a small silver heart, the words ‘Hurt Me’ inscribed carefully on it. “All in good time, Aimee, but rest assured, tonight I will hurt you in ways you could never have imagined in that empty slutty head of yours”. Unbelievably, a quiet moan made its way past the bit-gag; Aimee was evinedly already becoming aroused.
“Of course, Jack, I am not a savage. I will only inflict upon the slut that which the slut wants, needs and can take. My rules are that I will not leave visible marks on the hands, feet or face. This room is equipped with emergency medical equipment and Mary is an ex-paramedic. Should the slut decision that she has had enough, she has the option to use her safe word. If you hear Aimee use the word “peppermint” whilst you are following my instructions you will immediately cease whatever you are doing, release Aimee from any restraints and help her to the chair. I will ask Mary to immediately bring a blanket and a drink. At that point the session will be over, and the focus will shift to Aimee’s after-care. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course”, I replied. “Does Aimee often use the safe word?”
“If she uses it tonight, that will be the first time I’ve heard her say it. She may be a slut who exists only for pain and humiliation, but she is a strong slut.” You speak the words as if Aimee were merely an object, a curio to be discussed at leisure.
“It is time to begin. Jack, reach up and unhook the slut from my ceiling. She’s doing nothing more than hanging there like a side of lamb and it’s time she did something more amusing”. I did as I was bid, stepping close to Amiee and reaching above her head to where the menacles’ chain was looped over the hook. As I did so Aimee moved forward, as if to press close to me, but a snapped instruction from you was enough to ensure she stayed still. I hefted the chain in my fist and freed it, watching as Aimee brought her arms down in front of herself, still fettered by the manacles. A gasp left through her nose as the circuit was restored. “Remove the chain. The slut will then remove her bra and I will hurt her nipples, assuming that’s what she wants”. You raised an eyebrow and Aimee eagerly nodded, so I unclipped the sprung catch on the end of the chain that was attached to her left wrist, then followed with the right.
Aimee reached behind herself, still standing on the mark beneath the hook, and began to unclasp her bra. When it was free, she slide her arms through thestrraps and held the garment deeply in front of herself, her arms framing her breasts. You instructed me to take the bra, which I did.
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