Catherine The Matriarch

Chapter Six-1

Chapter Six

Golden Handcuffs

When I started coming to, my arms were pinned inside a makeshift latex straitjacket—the only article of clothing on me. My ankles were secured by gold handcuffs to two ornamental knobs on a small footboard to a narrow bed. Sitting upright required as much effort as the exercise by that name: sit-ups. My skin stuck to the black vinyl mattress because there was no sheet. Still groggy, I glanced around a dimly-lit basement before my eyes could focus on Honey.

“Enjoy your beauty sleep?” She smiled at me. Perhaps she was gloating, but she also mingled a little warmth and a lot of flirtation in her expression. She wore a gold lamé dress with matching gloves and was smoking a cigarette.

“Honey Bates,” I said aloud. “Right?”

“Yes.” She slid her gloved hands down her hips and thighs, holding her cigarette between her lips. Her decadent aura made me want to bang her hard and deep.

“You introduced yourself before I passed out,” I said. “Least I can do is get your name right. Is it still Saturday?”

“No, Sleeping Beauty. It’s Sunday, almost noon.”

A groan escaped from me. “Martin mentioned you. And, by the way, your dress is hot.”

“Thank you.” She slinked over and sat on the edge of the bed. When her hip nudged mine, my c**k stirred. “Did Martin speak kindly of me?”

“You scare the hell out of him. He said you killed a man.”

“Such a coward. He cleared out of Catherine’s mansion when he knew I was coming. Suki would sell him down the river, too. But I got you. You’ll last longer than he would have.”

“Last longer? What did you have in mind? Did you kill Rennfield Clark?”

She put her hands on her hips and planted her feet apart in a bitchy pose. “Don’t be a nervous Nellie like Martin.” She managed to hold the cigarette in her mouth while speaking. “I didn’t kill Rennfield—or anyone else for that matter. I was out cold when he died.”

“Oh, yeah. You told Suki someone slipped you a roofie. Who was it?”

“That’s none of your business.” She stroked my face lightly with one gloved hand, leaving the other free to hold her cigarette. Her touch lingered somewhere between condescension and foreplay—a potent arousal either way. “You don’t have to be afraid, Frank. Just obedient.”

“And a little horny, Ms. Bates.”

“Call me Honey. And I’ll knock the starch right out of you. For a price. Let me go over some ground rules.” She twirled her shiny gloved finger around my c**k, and it sprang to attention. “I have fifteen thousand dollars invested in you.”

“Ten thousand.”

“I have a credit card statement for fifteen.” When I started to speak, she glowered, “Don’t argue! Theoretically,” she continued on a softer note, “you can recoup that money by performing a wide variety of services for women to whom I introduce you.”

“You avoided ending your sentence with a preposition. I’m impressed. What services?”

“I read a lot. Services—whatever they want.” Her eyes bored into mine. “Sessions range from three hundred to a thousand or so, depending on how outrageous their demands are. Even after I take my cut, you could earn your freedom quickly.” She blew smoke in my face. “Theoretically.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘theoretically’?”

“Because I’ll keep you financially dependent on me with miscellaneous expenses. My golden handcuffs—that’s from Emerson—to keep you bound to me.”

“What expenses?”

“To start, six hundred a month for rent. Dirt cheap, I know, but it’s money you owe me.”

“For the use of a bed?? Get real!”

She giggled. “Oh, you’ll have complete run of my little romper room,” she smiled.

Noticing that all of the basement windows were painted black and covered with bars, I gave her a wooden smile and commented, “Gee, thanks!”

“Don’t mention it. Twenty-five dollars per meal.”

“Fifteen.”

“Thirty. Keep talking and I’ll keep raising the price.” She stretched luxuriously, drew a leisurely drag from her cigarette, and exhaled contentedly. She faced me squarely and leaned close. Her eyes were not blue, as I had stereotyped them because of her blonde hair. Her irises were the color of her name: honey. “Since you think with your d**k,” she broke the silence, “here’s what will interest you the most. Each time I lure you into a s****l act, I’ll charge you a geometrically higher price. The first time will be fifty dollars. The second time, one hundred, and so on. Golden handcuffs, again.”

“What if I’m not interested?”

“All the better. If you can resist me, my terms don’t matter.”

“What if I say no to the geometric progression?”

“I’ll figure out some other way to screw you—figuratively.”

“OK, I’ll play your silly game.”

Walking to a large, freestanding ashtray on a stand to extinguish her cigarette, she treated me to the spectacle of her buttocks dueling under shiny lamé. She turned to face me and removed her gloves slowly, sensually, elevating the heat that flushed my face. Returning, she held her purse and gloves in one hand. “For the record,” she said, taking a hand-held tape recorder from her purse. She turned it on and spoke: “This is Honey Bates. I propose to charge Frank Prince a geometrically-increasing rate for each time I lure him into a s****l act, beginning at fifty dollars, going to one hundred, and so on. Frank, do you agree to these terms?”

She stuck the tape recorder in front of my mouth, like a microphone. “This is Frank Prince,” I said, “and I agree to these terms. But I plan to limit my s****l activity,” I added with a laugh.

Honey turned off the tape recorder, returned it to her purse, and took out a condom. With practiced speed, she wrapped my c**k in the condom before I could comment.

“I’m really looking forward to this!” I exclaimed.

“I’ll give you the best hand job you’ve ever had.”

“Hand job?! What gives?”

“We’ll have s*x whenever I want to, on my terms, and you’ll learn to crave it. I’ll drive you so far into debt you’ll never earn your freedom. You like that idea, don’t you, Frank?”

“No!”

“Yes you do,” she teased in a sing-songy voice. “See?” She pointed to my rigid c**k. Her arrogant boasts had aroused me. She put her purse down and began slithering her hands and forearms into her gloves. My c**k throbbed for her attention.

Her voice sounded strange when she spoke. “Francis—they called you that in high school, didn’t they?—you always made good grades, obeyed the rules, but never had fun. And I’m the nasty kind of girl you would never invite to the prom.” She paused to pull her gloves on tighter, visually seducing me with her glittering hands. “A nice boy like you wouldn’t go with a b***h like me, would you?” She caressed herself. “Of course not. Still, you wondered what you were missing, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered. We both knew she had me.

“Still the polite choirboy.” She cupped my chin in her gloved hand, turning me into putty—except for one key part of my anatomy. “Today, Francis, I’m gonna show you what you missed. I’m nastier than you could have dreamed. And after I do a number on you, you’ll enjoy getting down and dirty even more than I do. So, sit back and enjoy it. You’ve got nothing to lose. You’re f****d. Put your heart and soul in my hands.”

Her gloved hand descended gracefully and touched me as sensitively as Catherine the Great’s hand. She coaxed me to the brink and back several times to extend my ecstasy. Watching the gentle shifts in her facial expressions, I felt her throttle my destiny without a word, with only her golden-gloved hand subduing me more powerfully than her golden handcuffs.

But my thoughts strayed to Mrs. Roman, almost interrupting the momentum of my mounting arousal. Mrs. Roman always filled me with intense fear that I would displease her so much that she would banish me. But when Mrs. Roman brought me to climax, her conquest of my fear distilled my gratification into pure bliss.

Honey intuitively detected my mental infidelity but manipulated my desires delicately, instead of spitefully whacking me off. She drew me under her spell again, into the snare of her elegantly tawdry face, which stoked my lust. When I gazed into Honey’s face, I knew that as long as I paid her price, she would please me—no strings attached, and no emotional risks. When she tightened her strokes and expertly squeezed me into delirium, my climax missed the piquancy I felt when I overcame my fear of Mrs. Roman, felt the exhilarating release of tension and s****l energy, and basked in the warmth of her tolerance. Still, Honey’s measured performance charmed me in its own way, filling me with the pleasure that comes from reaching a predictable happy ending—the same satisfaction I get from watching a favorite movie or video.

During that moment when she transformed me into a spasmodic, ecstatic animal completely at her mercy, I realized that without divine intervention, I would succumb to Honey’s smothering comfort. She would lull me into submission and exhaust me of all of my physical and financial resources. Then what? When I recalled Rennfield Clark, I shuddered.

“Cold?” she asked.

“Not with you around.”

She pulled off my condom and threw it in my face. “You’re so full of crap,” she laughed. “Well, firing you up will make you forget how much I’m swindling you. Fifteen thousand and fifty dollars. Golden handcuffs. I painted the real ones. Two coats of paint. Got them from an ex-husband who used to be a cop. Let’s add thirty dollars more for breakfast. Want some oatmeal?”

“That’s what Mrs.—That’s what I had yesterday. Doesn’t anyone eat eggs anymore?”

“Bad for your heart.” She displayed her spectacular posterior while walking away. Stopping abruptly, she glanced fetchingly over her shoulder. “Despite what you’ve heard, I care about men’s health, especially their hearts.” She winked at me and continued her wiggle-ass walk.

What did she mean by that wink? Reassurance? Or was her wink like crossing her fingers to cancel what she was saying? If so, she really didn’t care about her men’s health. I needed to find out what happened to Rennfield Clark. Then I’d probably discover my own fate.

Honey soon returned with a bowl of oatmeal. “Good!” I exclaimed. “Now I can get a bite to eat and stretch my arms and legs.”

She smirked and shook her head. “No, I want to baby you,” she said, sitting beside me on the bed. “Open your mouth.”

When I obeyed, she spooned oatmeal into my mouth, careful to smear bits of it on my cheeks and chin. “I don’t do the adult baby routine,” I objected.

“You’ll do what I tell you.” Her voice was quiet, but the glare in her eyes told me she was determined to dominate me completely. Moistening a napkin with her tongue, Honey began rubbing away the errant spots of oatmeal on my face.

The sight of her gloved hands underscored her authority. She aroused me against my will, again. With my eyes locked on her gloves, my head followed the sleek, glittering motions of her golden hands and forearms.

“Hold still!” she snapped.

“I barely moved.”

She took my chin in her left gloved hand. “Naughty child.” Her malevolent leer telegraphed and intensified the ringing slap she gave me with her right-gloved hand. Sensing the power of her gloves, Honey alternately caressed and slapped me, keeping her hands in my sight as much as possible. Glancing down at my trembling c**k, she cooed, “Baby’s excited!”

Sensing what was coming next, I protested, “At least let me finish my oatmeal!”

“f**k the oatmeal.” She dumped the bowl of mush on my crotch. The oatmeal was warm, not hot. I thought for a split-second that she meant for me to screw the oatmeal, somehow. Tossing the bowl aside, she began to toss me off.

“What the—?!”

“No time for a rubber,” she explained. “But this goo lubricates you enough.”

She was right! The sight and feel of her slippery, gloved hand stroking my c**k goaded me into a s****l rush. Her nasty mess annihilated my last qualm about order. Honey mated sloppiness with ecstasy and crowned debauchery with chaos. Continuing her stroke, Honey leaned close to my right side. When she swung her chest toward me, slapping my face with her breasts, I convulsed into my freakiest climax ever. As a confirmed ass-man, I felt cheated by losing it at the touch of her magnificent breasts.

She jerked the last possible shot of c*m from me with obsessive thoroughness. When she finished, she asked amid hard breathing, “Like that?”

“Unbelievable! I loved it!”

Hiking the skirt of her dress up above her waist, she shimmied her panties down and stepped out of them. “Show me how much you loved it.” Pushing my chest down gently until my back rested on the bed, Honey gracefully straddled me and thrust her v****a in my face. She held her labia apart to help me tongue her.

Eating Honey was a soggy humiliation, totally unlike the sacred sacrifice of tonguing Mrs. Roman. Despite the physical sameness of c*********s, Mrs. Roman’s personality made eating her much more enjoyable than eating Honey. I yearned for conventional s*x from Honey—the one treat she seemed determined to deny me. All I wanted from Mrs. Roman was the honor of pleasing her—in any way she demanded.

Because my tongue was the only body part I could move freely, I felt limited in servicing Honey. I could barely tell when she got her jollies or whether I had performed well, but she seemed satisfied when she dismounted. Regarding her in all of her sleazy glory, I genuinely hoped that in some small measure she considered my face a pleasant ride.

“Although you just ate,” she grinned wickedly, “bet you’d like a turkey sandwich.”

“Great!”

“I’ll even throw in some chips and a pickle. That’s the least I can do for thirty dollars.”

“Now, wait a minute!”

“If you don’t want to eat, that’s your choice.”

“Why are you being such a b***h?”

“I am a b***h. You’re my slave. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“I appreciate what you’re doing,” I said. “And you’re not a b***h. Just aggressive. I like that in a woman. I simply thought thirty dollars might be excessive for a sandwich and chips.”

“Geez!” She smiled in spite of herself. “You’re so full of s**t. You should work in PR!”

“Are you trying to get revenge for something some guy did to you in high school?”

Her eyes flashed, and her lips turned down at the corners. “Don’t play psychologist! Hell, the way I’ve leveraged your ass into total submission, you’re not even a good banker. Now, if you’ll drop the subject, I’ll go fix your sandwich.”

“Agreed.”

She walked away a few steps, turned, and caught me staring at her ass again. “Like that, don’t you?” But then she frowned. “Just remember, the last man who crossed me is dead. I didn’t kill him. But you don’t know if I ordered him killed. Or if I’m just a jinx to be around.”

The wiggle of her rump, if possible, became more pronounced.