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Christie looks up at the neon sign.  It flashes the word ‘Joy’ in alternative red and purple lights.  Pulling her full length leather coat round her on this wintry night she pushes open the door,   noticing the small CCTV camera positioned above it.

Christie has been around.  Late thirties but could camouflage the faint lines around her eyes and mouth with years of expertise.  Attractive in a gaudy way, the plastic surgery and Botox had softened her features and fought off the ravages of her nocturnal lifestyle.  Under her coat she wore her uniform; a black basque one size too small which pushed her surgically enhanced breasts up so that they spilled out over the top like two milky mounds.  Her slim, shapely legs were adorned in matching black hold up stockings.  Between these two garments were her black leather thongs.  To complete the appearance she wore black elbow length silk gloves and leather boots spiked at the toe and finished in chrome. Yes, she’d been around.

She enters the reception and sees the matron behind a bar counter and introduces herself. ‘Hi, I’m Christie.  It’s my first night here.’’

‘‘Yes I know,’’ the matron replies, shamelessly eyeing her up and down, greedily devouring her new employee with a lewd smile. ‘My husband interviewed you yesterday and told me all about you.’’ Another smile then, ‘He’s also my Master. I share him occasionally, with the right person...’’   Her voice rises, implicating a question, which Christie ignores.

‘‘Let’s see the room then,’’ she impassively replies.

As Matron leads her down a corridor dimly lit with low watt red lights and occasional thick wooden doors Christie was reminded of a passage in a medieval castle she once visited as a child.  She was innocent back then.  Small town suburban upbringing with typical trappings: two parents, detached house, two younger sisters and a dog.  It all seemed so long ago.

A gap year following University saw her go to Spain to travel and look for work.  She found it as a barmaid in the millionaire’s playground of Marbella. An older British woman frequented the bar and had befriended her.  Wendy was from a small town in England but seemed ‘international’ in her personality, clothes, style and demeanour.  She’d obviously shed her inhibitions in a foreign place.  She confided in Christie her secret.  She worked as a dominatrix, servicing the rich playboys and successful businessmen that craved the type of total domination that she offered.

‘‘That’s my alter ego, darling.  Whiplash Wendy, that’s me.  It’s my vocation.’’ She would regale Christie of her exploits in a dramatic way, gesticulating with her hands to emphasize a point.  Those hands.  A gin and tonic in one and about thirty grand’s worth of jewellery on the other.

That’s where it all started. Christie was attracted to the lifestyle and the wealth.  And she loved the power that her role permitted.  It was intoxicating.  As were the drugs that helped her to relax; marijuana to start with, then she was introduced to cocaine.  That first snort of coke had elevated her to a level of hedonism that made her feel absolutely, utterly wonderful.   Fifteen years later she was still chasing that first hit.  That had been her downfall and the slippery slope had brought her to this place; ‘Joy’ in grubby Putney.

Matron stops at a door and pushes it open to reveal its interior.  Next to the king size bed is a table furnished with all the appropriate ornaments; belts, canes, whips and restraining equipment.  Then she sees the cage with its thick, black vertical bars housing a huge, wooden cross with a strap and buckle at each apex.  Not a crucifix type, more like the St. Andrew’s version with its diagonal angles. ‘‘I know Master has gone through the pay, terms and conditions with you already, darling, so you’re good to go!  To receive your first customer just ring the bell next to the bed which sounds in our waiting area.’’

As she leaves the room she turns and says, ‘Some of our customers are quite extreme so administer whatever they ask for, okay, darling?  Let them taste the whip.  Strike, dear mistress and cure their hearts.’’ All said with a bright, cheerful smile like it was Christie’s first day on a Tesco cash till!  She waits until Matron’s receding footsteps fade away down the corridor.

‘‘Okay then.  Let’s have you,’’ she whispers to herself before ringing the bell.  She removes her coat and is ready for business.  Years ago she enjoyed this part of the proceedings.  The anticipation of meeting and greeting her customer.  To engage in the most extreme activities with a complete stranger enthralled her. And the power she felt dominating a male was intoxicating.

Five minutes later she hears a timid knock on the door.

‘‘Enter,’’ she commands loudly so as to assert her authority immediately.  An elderly man opens the door and steps inside, closing it behind him.

‘‘Hi, I’m Jerry,’’ he offers by way of introduction.

‘‘I’m Christie,’’ she responds, ‘‘but you can call me Madam.’’

‘Oh, yes Madam,’ replies Jerry, keen to enter into roleplay mode. He adds, you’re very attractive, Madam,’ with a salacious smile.

‘‘Thank you,’’ replies Christie, then thinks to herself, ‘‘Without make-up ma face is like a penis!’’ but says out loud, ‘please strip off and make yourself comfortable.’’

He does so, hanging his clothes on coat hooks next to the door.  Naked now he looks intently round the room, obviously finding the scenario appealing. ‘‘Eh, yeah….I’m… I’m a Chief Executive Officer of a large banking firm.  I wield enormous power. Yet I gain pleasure from being dominated, you see.  Recharges the old batteries,’’ Jerry explained, with a well-bred, plummy Home Counties accent.

He reminded Christie of her father.  Similar job, similar traits, and a dark side.  To the outside world her father was a friendly, successful stockbroker and family man.  Yet behind closed doors he was an ogre; tight lipped, uncompromising and cruel.  Very cruel. A sadist.

‘‘Okay Jerry, you’re obviously comfortable in the naked form.  I do erotica, not pornography, so this is as far as I undress. My house rules.’’

‘‘Shame,’’ replied Jerry, ‘‘I bet you look great with just your heels on!’’  Spoken in a cocky, sleazy way.

‘‘As you seem comfortable then let proceedings commence.  To the cross where you’ll be restrained at wrists and ankles, before I whip your buttocks.’’

Jerry complies with pseudo-meekness and soon he is soundly shackled in a spread eagle position to the thick, timber struts.  The routine begins with stinging hand smacks then she progresses in severity through her itinerary of equipment; ruler, belt, and then the cane.  Jerry squeals with each stroke, a mixture of pain and pleasure.

When the whip is finally brandished he squirms on the cross.  He is powerless but knows what to do.  Raise the mental pain threshold and go with it.  Soon, as each whip stroke is administered he is yelling out in both extreme pain and sexual ecstasy.  They were both in the zone; suppressor and suppressed, offender and victim, master and slave. Perspiration appears on Jerry’s forehead, then a line of sweat begins to run down his back.

‘‘You want more?’’ implores Christie.

‘‘Oh yes, Madam.  Give me a good thrashing, please.’’ He was loving it.   Then he turned to face her, sneered and said, ‘‘And when I get off this cross I’m going to fuck you.  Do you hear me, Christie?’’

It was that sentence ‘‘Do you hear me Christie?’’

Just like her father used to say.  Before the shocking abuse began.  The abuse that she had to keep secret from her mother.  Or he’d kill her and her mother then kill himself.  That’s what he’d say each time…

‘‘Yes, I heard you Jerry,’’ she replies and moves round to stand in front of him.  She could see his ugly face smiling grotesquely. ‘‘I don’t usually go down this particular avenue but I’m going to make an exception with you darling, okay? Best I remove these thongs then, eh?’’

Jerry moans with the pleasure of anticipation.  He already knows the position he wants with this slut. Christie peels off the black thongs.  Then she rips off the duct tape which had held and concealed his penis and scrotum between and behind his legs.

‘‘Good stuff, duct tape.  Very functional.  Don’t you think so, Jerry? Christie/Christopher, what’s the difference?  Male or female.  Do you care if I’m male or female, Jerry? I do my best to look female, don’t you think?’’

Jerry begins to mouth an expletive but Christopher moves towards him, grabbing his hair and roughly pulling his head back. Then he applies the tape firmly across Jerry’s mouth.‘‘Yes, it’s good for removing warts. Duct tape.  Did you know that, Jerry?  Apparently it dries them up and they fall off.  When I pulled your head back just now I felt something like a wart on the back of your head.  Is that a wart Jerry?’’

Jerry is transfixed with terror.  The terror of the unknown.  Bound and gagged, he is completely vulnerable. His eyes are bulging with fear.

‘‘Shame I’ve used all the duct tape to shut your rancid mouth. But I have an idea.’’

He walks round behind his victim and removes his stiletto heeled shoes.  He takes one in his hand by the instep, raises it high above his head then brings it down full force onto Jerry’s skull.  The thin heel smashes through the bony exterior and dark blood begins to seep through his hair and down his neck.  He screams in a muffled tone but the tape is tight over his mouth. ‘‘Think I got it Jerry.  Now where were we?  Oh, yes the whip.  Have you ever been whipped across the back Jerry?”

Jerry is writhing on the cross now, he’s desperate to extricate himself but knows he’s firmly bound.  The first blow of the bull whip lands full force across his back.  It makes a loud ‘cracking’ sound and the tip of the lash wraps around the fleshy side of his back.  Another crack rings out as he is struck again.  And again, and again. Vivid weal marks appear as the bull whip does its work.  Blood appears and runs down his back.  The blood is now on the whip, now on Christopher’s gloved hand, now on his arm and chest.  He continues to flay his victim who jolts in agony as each stroke lands home.

‘‘Taste the whip, Jerry.  Feel its tongue on you.  Taste the whip and plead for me.’’

‘‘This is hard work, Jerry.  How are you? Oh look at that, my hair has frizzled. Good job I’ve got my straightening tongs with me.’’

He removes his wig and places it on the bed before plugging in the straighteners. Then he walks round and faces his victim.  He gets up close to Jerry’s face.

‘‘Ever been fucked, Jerry?’’

‘‘Are you deaf?  EVER BEEN FUCKED?’’

Jerry shakes his head violently.

‘‘Mmmh.  Wish I could say that.  Unfortunately I had a father that used me like a piece of meat.  Do you want to be abused like that? Would you like to be fucked, Jerry?’’

Tears begin to form in the corners of Jerry’s eyes then gravity drags them down his face before dropping onto the floor.

Christopher walks back to the bed where the phallic shaped straighteners have beeped, indicating that they are now glowing red hot.  He smears the ends in lubricating Vaseline. Jerry twists his head around and screams silently again.

‘‘Now you take this.’’

He pushes the straighteners slowly into his victim.  Another long silent scream, then Jerry slumps forward.

Christopher leaves the straighteners in place. The sickly smell of burning flesh begins to fill the room as he dresses again, pleased that his gloves mean no clues to his identity.  He walks out, shuts the door and makes his way to the fire exit and onto the cold, wet street.

# # #

I was born in Berwick Upon Tweed, a small town on the border between England and Scotland in 1960.  On leaving school I joined the Royal Navy as a Marine Engineering Mechanic.  I left in 1983 after serving five years and moved to London where I found work as a doorman, art gallery guide and construction worker.  In 1986 I became a firefighter and I  retired as a Fire Officer in Edinburgh, Scotland 2013.

I enjoy cycling, tennis, playing the guitar and foreign travel.   I am now 25,000 words into a murder mystery novel set in my home town.


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