The Binding Contract

One-1

One

2016

I WOULD’VE ARGUED IT WASN’T my choice but Cleo Patrick was the alias I ended up with. It was cheesy, I supposed. Cleo because of the way I looked, Patrick because of my Irish heritage. Somehow this false name had stuck because Sinclair had an insane predilection for mystery.

“Mistress Cleo, tell me what you’d have me do.”

“On your knees,” I responded, even though I wasn’t a true Mistress, any more than Sinclair was a true slave. In reality, I was trapped in a hateful predicament – and he knew it. He’d always known it but I’d only begun to realise how caged I was a couple of years after I signed my false name to our false arrangement.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Dressed in latex underwear, his arms tied behind his back in Shibari knots, his head was up but his eyes were down, no doubt trained on the heels of my thigh-high leather boots. From my standing position, I looked down at the gimp mask he wore and imagined how it might feel to smash a blunt object against his skull. The black leather would surely contain any blood or bruising or damage. It’d be easy, not brutal at all. No mess. I’d say it was a game gone wrong, or something. Maybe a robber came.

What had seemed like a cushy arrangement six years ago had turned into a full-blown nightmare. I was more than ready to get out, even though I knew that was impossible:

I’d already tried to escape – and I’d failed.

“Lick my shoe,” I demanded, and I watched with disgust the subtle shimmy of his shoulders as he got ready to take the treat he was so desperate to indulge himself on.

“Yes, that’s it,” I encouraged, “lick my boot. So nasty.”

I watched for a moment as his tongue, pink and tender, flicked at the pointed tip of my boot. When he started panting, I recoiled and looked away.

“That’s disgusting. More,” I asked, actual fury in my tone of voice.

From the corner of my eye, I saw his hands ball into fists behind his back, tension mounting as his arousal did.

“Am I doing it right?” he asked, submission and servile fortitude licking not just my boot, but the fiery flames of defiance inside me.

I wanted freedom.

“Other shoe. Clean the other shoe. Look how filthy it is.”

He eagerly lapped at my left shoe like a dog licking treacle from a bone. Grunts and moans erupted from him, breaking the silence, and perhaps if I were any other dominatrix I would have punished him for his indulgence but this wasn’t me. He’d trained me to be the Mistress he wanted me to be but… something was wrong here. I was meant to be in control – but I wasn’t. I was a pawn in his game, a prop for his self-indulgent fantasies. This was one-sided and when I signed on that dotted line, I’d not realised then how much servitude would be asked of me, nor how my soul would gradually deteriorate with every encounter like this. Encounters which were just me, playing a part. It turned out that acting full-time came with a hefty cost.

“That’s clean enough. Now, my pocket p***y needs stroking, what do you think?”

“Yes,” he whispered, shaking with anticipation.

I held the chain attached to his collar in my hand and tugged gently, watching as he slowly raised himself to standing on his feet.

Sinclair was handsome beneath his twisted fetishes. Yellow-blond hair slightly curly at the ends, brushed back behind his ears. Emerald-green eyes. Athletic. Debonair even, I supposed.

I hooked his chain up to a wall plug and gestured he stand right in front of the crudely lacquered table waiting nearby. The furniture in the playroom looked medieval, the floors even worse. I wondered how many other people in the world kept a secret room like this.

Standing behind him, I used my leather-gloved hands to slide his underwear down over his sharp, slim hips, just enough to hear a gasp from his mouth as his c**k was released.

“Two steps forward,” I guided him, and he followed my instructions. “p***y is waiting.”

I didn’t watch, but remained standing behind him.

I’d never seen his c**k and I never wanted to. He’d never seen me naked, either. He sometimes asked for peephole bras with sheer tops, so he’d seen my n*****s, but he’d never seen me.

He started thrusting inside the pocket p***y I’d arranged on the table edge, nailed down so it wouldn’t move; a crude vice for his vicious desires, desires I was in charge of but wanted nothing to do with. While he moaned and groaned, I struck him with a flogger with knotted ends. I held its braided handle steady, clinging to my fraying sanity by a thread as I watched his back vein red with my strikes. His body was so defined with muscle I knew he must be a boxer, or maybe a long-distance runner. Not a scrap of fat, just total definition. No inflated bulges, just hard edges, angular limbs. A cuddle from him would be hard and mean, I thought. There was nothing soft about this man. He was coarse all over.

What was he thinking as he f****d the plastic toy? Was it a device to fuel his train of thought or did he really like f*****g wet plastic? Was it really the delay of f*****g me that continued to get him off? If so, six years was a long time to delay getting something over and done with.

The grunting upped and I felt sick.

I struck harder, knowing he needed it.

The braided knots large and unyielding, it was a fierce and violent weapon with extra-long tails, but he always wanted more. He needed to feel.

“Ah god, Mistress,” he cried, pulling out of the p***y to come all over himself. He was at least gentleman enough never to make me clean that up.

His scent filled the otherwise dank air, as strong as those trees you sometimes pass which smell of semen – if not stronger. The musky tang, so human and unique, made me want to see what his c*m looked like, coating his body. Thick and creamy, or thin and stringy? Forever, my mind wandered; it was what happened when starved of pursuing pleasures of the flesh.

I untied his arms from the Shibari knots he’d taught me to tie and still standing behind him, I helped to lift his underwear back over his no doubt wilting c**k. I didn’t want to see his manhood, not like this. This was a business arrangement. It didn’t include real s*x or seeing each other like that.

He turned and knelt, kissing my boot once more. Along his arms I saw the indents my ropes had left behind, while down his back lay soft, puffy welts where I’d struck him with the tails. Vulnerable as he sat at my feet, my mind wandered again…

The pocket p***y couldn’t do any real damage, but I still couldn’t help thinking about using it to smack him round the head.

“You’re so kind to me, Mistress.”

“My kindness might not last. Go get washed.”

He nodded slowly and moved out of the room, head bowed in servitude.

Once he was gone, I took out some antibacterial wipes and wiped everything down, including all the lube I’d placed in the p***y for his delectation.

The man was all about keeping himself clean.

And disaffected.

Or should that have been disinfected?

I left the dungeon and locked up, carrying the key for the basement with me as I moved upstairs. I climbed two flights before reaching my own bedroom in the place I lived in. It was a beautiful Victorian townhouse with all the trimmings but it wasn’t a home. I slept there, ate there, m*********d myself endlessly there… but it wasn’t my home.

He kept a separate bedroom for himself, with just a simple wooden bed, a wardrobe and some drawers with a few spare pieces of clothing should he ever need them – plus a trunk containing all his play clothes. I heard him in his own en suite showering and thought about sticking him in the ribs with a knife, but perhaps nothing would push through that hard exterior. Besides he never stayed long enough after a session for me to catch him unawares. I think the bed was there just in case.

In my own room the first thing I did was get rid of my vile boots, which needed more care than an antibac wipe or two. I unhooked my latex corset and unzipped my leather hot pants, removed my gauntlets and false eyelashes, then stepped across the room towards the en suite. I wasn’t dirty but I felt it.

Switching the shower on, I tied my long hair back while waiting for the jets to warm through.

Once freshened up, I walked downstairs in a cashmere sweater and jeans. He waited for me in the kitchen.

“I poured you some wine.”

“Thanks.” I caught his eyes for a second but no more.

I hated this man with a passion.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine.” I shrugged, taking a seat at the kitchen island, the wine much needed.

He’d showered and smelt of ginger and lime; also wearing Tom Ford, no longer his real self.

He was a monster but the suit cloaked the wolf. The subservient pet was actually a domineering arsehole. He must have been all kinds of in denial.

“I don’t like it when I see the house in a mess when I visit… and when I see you like this, well I don’t like it. Not a bit.”

Fuck you, dickhead.

“Lot about life people don’t like, but they deal with it,” I replied in my obnoxious manner.

“With no make-up concealing you, I see no life in your eyes and I don’t like it. Where has your joy gone? What can I do to make it better?”

Let me go free…

If I thought I could say it and get away with it, I would have.

“I’m… maybe I just haven’t been f****d in a while.”

He shook his head. “I’m not stopping you.”

Not wanting this to turn into an argument, I batted him off. “I know. Look, I’ll try harder. Okay?”

He nodded. “Okay. Catch you later.”

He grabbed his briefcase from the counter and left the room without another word, or a kiss, or a hint of any sort of fondness whatsoever.

Like I said… monster.

I sank my glass of wine before refilling with the bottle he’d left out.

Sinclair was a man with everything at his fingertips, including me. He’d even had our agreement framed and mounted to the kitchen wall behind glass that was bullet proof and smash proof (I’d tested that one out with a hammer)… basically indestructible. I stared at the constant reminder of my imprisonment and knew anger, bitterness and regret were wasted emotions. I had to get clever. I had to get out.

***

I woke the next morning with my head resting on my arms at the kitchen island. Aching, I roused slowly and saw two empty wine bottles to my right side, a bunch of scrawling notes to my other.

“Not again.”

I couldn’t keep doing this to myself.

Sliding off my stool, I padded wearily to the living room next door and sank into the deep, soothing cushions of the sectional seating, angry with myself for not sleeping here instead. As the cushions hugged my aching body I looked around and wondered why the plush surroundings didn’t suffice anymore. A 50-inch TV affixed to the wall, stacks of DVDs and satellite channels galore. Shelves and shelves of books, all of which I’d read.

Then it hit me: I felt lonely.

So, so alone.

Why was he doing this to me?

Scanning the drunken notes I wrote down last night in a fit of rage and indecision, none of it made sense. I’d made diagrams detailing how I could build myself a lead casket, fake my death and have myself driven back to Ireland to be ‘buried’ there… but I knew I couldn’t escape. There was a reason he knew all my movements. It wasn’t just the tracker he had placed in my arm after my first attempt to escape, I felt sure he had people everywhere and that’s how he knew he could keep me right where he wanted me.

After destroying all my ill-made plans on the wood-burning stove in the living room, I headed upstairs.

Again, I wasn’t dirty, but I needed a shower to revive my senses if nothing else.

While waiting for the shower to warm, I caught my naked body in the mirror. I’d chosen to believe that he didn’t have hidden cameras in this house but sometimes, I wondered. I wouldn’t put anything past him. What if he had cameras hidden in the ceilings and every night, he sat at home watching and laughing as I scribbled down plans of escape – plans which I knew would never work.