The Iron Lady

Was it real? He lifted the towel and wiped his face and chest. He lay there in a daze. A long time passed without her return. He thought of looking at his watch, but he'd put it in his trousers and he lacked the will to get it. He tried to guess the time. How long had it been since he'd arrived? The silence in the room seemed heavy, broken only by an occasional muted sound of traffic somewhere outside. The world out there seemed distant, remote, irrelevant.

Finally Olga returned to him.

She was dressed as before, wearing her skirt again, her body covered. She sat on one of the chairs, gazing at him as he crouched on the vinyl mat. She had the riding crop in her hand again.

At last she spoke. "Do you want more?"

He nodded. "Yes, I think so."

"Be definite."

"Yes."

"Turn around and bend over. Put your hands on your knees."

He did that, and he heard her rise behind him. Then an instant later she whacked the riding crop against his buttocks.

He gasped with surprise. She whacked him again. The burning pain started after a few more strokes.

But she stopped. "Stand up," she said. When he straightened his back, she reached between his thighs, clutched his balls and said=: "The whipping excited you, didn't it?"

"Yes."

"Maybe you'll come back here sometime and I'll make you bleed. But for now it's enough."

She went to a drawer, pulled out a chain dog collar and a chain leash. He trembled now. She walked over to him and put the collar around his neck. She attached the leash and tugged it. "Come on," she said.

She led him out of the room to a small bathroom.

"Clean it," she said. "Do the floor, the sink, the toilet. Use that sponge under the sink."

After that she left him.

He looked at his face in the mirror over the sink. There was no change: the face was the same, the same face he looked at every morning when he shaved.

He started cleaning the bathroom, first the sink, then the toilet bowl, and finally the floor. He did his best, wiping the tile floor with the wet sponge, rinsing the sponge, wiping the floor again.

After twenty minutes or so, Olga returned and inspected the bathroom. "That's good," she said. "Now you'll get your reward." Holding the leash, she led him out of the bathroom to the living room, the room where everything had started. Now he was naked on a leash. He had a fierce erection, his penis rearing, his balls bloated.

Olga dropped the leash and sat down on one of the armchairs. She pulled her skirt back to uncover her thighs. She spread her legs and said, "All right, here's your reward. Come to it on your knees."

He crawled to her, crawled on the carpet to bury his face in her cunt.

Before long she patted his head and said: "That's good. That's quite good."

He sucked her cunt until she came twice. Then she pushed him away, pulled her skirt down and rose. "Up," she said. When he climbed to his feet, she took hold of the leash and led him out of the living room to the bathroom.

"Your time is up," she said. "Do it in the toilet. Use your hand and show me how you squirt when you come."

He thought of Mariko again, how she'd emptied him into her bathroom sink.

He started masturbating. Of course he reached a crisis in no time. Olga laughed and pinched his buttocks as his sperm jetted into the toilet bowl. "That's lovely," she said. "You'll do fine with your Japanese lady."

Three

He spent the evening drinking alone, thinking about what Olga had told him before he'd left her. She'd said she could be rougher with him, she could definitely hurt him. If he wanted that, he should return to her. But it wasn't her he wanted, it was Mariko he wanted. Did he want Mariko to hurt him? He wasn't sure. He drank himself into a stupor, fell asleep on the sofa with a newspaper covering his face to shut out the glare of the lamp.

* * *

The photographic assignment took about a week to complete. By then he was eager to see Mariko again. But at the same time he partially dreaded it as he recalled how cold she'd been the last time he'd seen her. Was she through with him? He couldn't bear the idea of that. Finally he telephoned her office to tell her the photos were ready. He'd bring them in. She agreed, and when he put the phone down he felt buoyant again, hopeful. Hopeful about what? He trembled with anticipation.

* * *

In her office, Mariko looked at the photos in silence. She seemed bored with them. "Yes," she said, "I think these will do." She handed him a check and then gathered the photos to put them in a folder.

Alec screwed up his nerve. "How about lunch? Do you have time?"

She looked at him, a long look, her eyes never wavering. Finally she nodded. "All right, Mr. Loomer, we'll have lunch at my apartment. Is that acceptable?"

He felt his heart pounding as he watched her gather her purse and attache case.

* * *

Daylight in Mariko's living room. The blinds were open, the sun angling in from the west to burnish the edges of chrome and enamelled wood. Alec gazed at Mariko as she in turn gazed at the windows. His shoes were parked in the foyer, and he felt pleasantly relaxed. Mariko's Japanese maid, a woman of sixty, was in the kitchen preparing their lunch. The maid apparently spoke no English -- or at least Mariko and the maid spoke only Japanese to each other.

Finally the maid entered, said something to Mariko in Japanese. Mariko nodded and looked at Alec. "Lunch is ready."

They walked into the dining room and sat at the table. After the lunch was served, the maid put on her coat and left the apartment. Alec was pleased; he'd felt uncomfortable with the maid in the apartment. Now he and Mariko were alone. They ate their lunch and drank the white wine without much conversation.

Then Mariko said: "I think you expect something from me."

Alec looked at her. "I do?"

"I enjoy men, Loomer-san. And I find you interesting. But my pleasure is quite important to me."

He was unnerved. "If I haven't pleased you, I'm sorry."

"Are you really sorry?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do you want to please me now?"

He nodded and spoke in a quiet voice. "Yes."

"Under the table then. Get under the table."

He was stunned. For a long moment he just looked at her in silence. Then he slowly moved again, slid off the chair to his knees, shifted forward under the table. Her legs and feet were so close to him that if he leaned forward just a bit more he would touch them with his shoulder. When she moved her knees apart, it was obvious what she expected. Carefully, he crawled forward to get his face between her thighs, to rub his cheek against the nylon pantyhose covering her legs. Like the first time, the nylon that covered her crotch made it difficult to get at her cunt, but he did the best he could. He had her scent in his nose, an exotic smell of jasmine mixed with a more ordinary female smell. He pressed his mouth against the bulge of her sex and licked it through the nylon covering. He could feel her seeping wetness on his lips. He chewed and sucked a long time, frustrated because she gave no sign of pleasure, not a sound, not even a slight quiver. But it was better than the first time; he could sense it. He wondered if he ought to rip the nylon with his teeth. Would she disapprove? He tried to gather the nylon with his teeth. Suddenly, she pushed him away and kicked at him with her foot. Bending her body, she reached under the table and slapped his face. "You fool!" She pulled away and rose, leaving him there under the table. As she left the dining room, she said: "Come into the bedroom."

He heard her sandals slapping on the parquet floor in the hall. His face hot, he crawled out slowly from under the table. Gripping one of the chairs for support, he rose and stood there a moment slightly disoriented. What time was it? His heart pounded as he left the dining room to find the bedroom.

She was in the master bedroom. She was already on the bed and quite naked. He remained at the threshold of the room, staring at her, excited by her body. She was not beautiful, the proportions were far from classic, but her naked body excited him. Her small breasts were flattened by her position, and that emphasized the tuft of black pubic hair.

As if aware of the effect she had on him, she opened her legs slowly to reveal the dark sex between her thighs. "You're too slow," she said in a lazy voice.

What he wanted more than anything now was to give her pleasure. The need for that was sharp -- to give her pleasure, to secure her approval. He stepped forward and crawled onto the bed between her legs. She raised her knees, opened her thighs wider to make room for him.

"Yes," she said, her hands pulling at her knees to make herself more available.

With a shudder, he fell forward to bury his face in her sex, his nose and mouth in the dark thatch, his tongue pushing between her labia.

He had her scent again. He started licking her immediately, eager to please her, fearful he would fail again. For some reason, he was afraid to use his hands: he used only his tongue to force the dark lips apart. When he found her clitoris apparently stiff, he was gratified. He licked it slowly, kissed it, sucked at it briefly. After a while he became afraid his licking of her clitoris was too extended. Was the friction more than she could tolerate? He moved his tongue down to the opening of her vagina and licked that awhile. He caught the salty liquor at the opening on his tongue, licked and sucked at the wetness. There was still no sign of pleasure from her, nothing at all, not even a murmur. He licked further down, his tongue lapping below her vaginal opening, still further to the crinkled nut of her anus, over the dark ring, around it, his tongue wetting it. When she pulled her knees further back to her breasts as if to encourage him, he felt victorious. At last! He continued licking the dark anus, pushing at it with his tongue, not succeeding in penetrating at first, but finally she appeared to sigh and he felt the sphincter relax and he drove his tongue as deep inside her as he could manage.

Now came the first sound of pleasure from her, a low moan, then another sound that was almost a grunt. Her response thrilled him. He strained to extend his tongue even further, moving it inside her, sliding it back and forth through the ring of her anus as his nose became half buried in her wet vaginal opening. Before long he felt her fingers under his forehead and he realized she was now manipulating her clitoris as he tongued her. She masturbated as he continued to work his tongue deep in her back passage. He felt her shaking, her knees vibrating as the sounds from her throat became louder. Her fingers worked more rapidly on her clitoris. A long violent shudder passed through her body, and the next instant she jerked her loins upward and then down again.

When the orgasm was finished, she used her hands to push his head away. "My breasts," she said. "Quick!" What did she want? When he scrambled upward, she grasped at his head to bring his face to her breasts. He found one of the dark berry-like nipples and closed his lips over it, sucked at it and engulfed part of the small breast in his mouth. As he did this, she slid a hand between her legs and started masturbating again. He watched it, her breast in his mouth, his head turned so he could look down at her belly and open thighs at the hand vibrating the wet sex.

She had another orgasm, her body shaking as it had before. "Suck me again," she groaned.

He slid downward to find her cunt with his mouth. Her sex was now soft and drenched against his lips. She seemed relaxed after the two orgasms. Would she become aroused again? He continued licking her clitoris until she finally pushed him away with her foot. "Enough," she said, and pulled away from him. She slid off the bed, walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

Was she angry?

He lay there immobilized, still dressed, a huge erection throbbing under the cloth of his trousers.

The bathroom door opened and she entered the bedroom wearing a robe.

He said: "Mariko--"

"I want you to call me Kitazawa-san."

"Kitazawa-san."

"Yes, what is it?"

"Let me make love to you."

"No, not now. I must return to the office. But use your hand, if you want. I'll bring a towel for you." Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact.

Not knowing what else to do, he waited. In a moment she returned with a towel. She told him to stand, and when he did that she spread the towel near the edge of the bed. "Do it on that," she said.

"You won't do it for me?"

"No, do it yourself. I enjoy watching you."

In a daze, he stood at the edge of the bed, took his penis in his hand and started masturbating.

She watched him and said nothing, and of course after the excitement of the past hour he reached a climax without delay, the sperm jetting out with more force than usual to splatter across the towel on the bed.

"Now you can leave," she said. "Telephone me tomorrow at the office."

"Kitazawa-san...?"

"What is it?"

"Will you whip me sometime?"

She stared at him a long moment, silent. And then she said: "Yes, of course. But only when I want it."

* * *

He thought about that all evening. She would whip him, but only when she wanted it. He tried to imagine how she would do it, what he would feel. Would he be naked? Would she whip him hard? One thing was certain: he'd been clever to try it with Olga first, because now he understood how much he wanted it. Where did the desire come from, where in his history? As much as he tried, he had no idea why he wanted to be whipped by Mariko.

* * *

When he telephoned her the next morning, he was afraid her secretary would not put him through. But Mariko came on the line immediately.

"I'm busy today."

"What about the evening?"

"I don't know."

"Please, Kitazawa-san."

"All right, wait for me in a taxi at five o'clock."

He passed the day in an erotic stupor, anticipating the evening with her, and then shortly before five o'clock he climbed into a taxi and ordered the driver to her office building. He cursed himself for a fool because it was too close to the appointed time and a traffic snarl might make him late, but the taxi fortunately arrived in front of the building precisely at five o'clock.

At twenty minutes past five, Mrs. Kitazawa came out of the building and climbed into the back of the taxi beside him.

Without speaking to him, she ordered the driver to go to her home address. Then she looked at Alec without expression.

"Do you still want to be whipped?"

Uneasy, Alec glanced at the driver. But the man seemed not to have heard her.

"Yes," Alec said.

"Good."

* * *

When they arrived at Mrs. Kitazawa's apartment, Alec automatically removed his shoes. The maid was already gone.

"I'll show you how to prepare the tea," Mrs. Kitazawa said. She took him to the kitchen, and cautioned him to follow her directions exactly. She told him that while the water was boiling he could remove his clothes. He was not to wear a robe this evening. She wanted to look at him. She then left him in the kitchen.

He made the tea according to her instructions, and then he removed his clothes and left them on one of the kitchen chairs. Naked, he carried the tea on a tray to the living room, two cups and the teapot.

Mrs. Kitazawa came into the living room dressed in a yellow kimono.

"No, no," she said. "Return one of the cups to the kitchen. I'm having my tea alone."

He removed one of the teacups from the tray and returned to the kitchen with it. When he entered the living room again, she said: "Use the shower in the guest bathroom. Get yourself clean. Americans don't bathe enough."

Yes of course, he thought. He remembered the Japanese were extremely finicky about cleanliness. He was sweating, and the shower refreshed him. Under the spray, he fondled his erection, but he did not masturbate. He felt intensely excited as he wondered what she would be like this evening. She was so unpredictable. That business with the extra teacup. She might have allowed him to have some tea with her. Well, he was not a prisoner, was he? Not yet, he thought. Not yet a prisoner, at any rate.

When he returned from the shower to the living room, he found her waiting for him, seated on the sofa, with a narrow leather belt on her lap.

She avoided looking at him. "I'm in the mood to whip you now," she said. "Get a towel from the bathroom."

When he returned with a towel, she told him to place it on the carpet and lie down on his belly with his genitals on the carpet. "I don't want you to soil the rug."

"I could stand and bend over."

"No, I want you on the rug."

As soon as he was in position, she knelt beside him and she started whipping him with the belt. She did it silently, the only sound in the room the whack of the leather belt against his buttocks and his occasional groaning response.

After the first dozen strokes, the pain became sharper as the belt struck against already injured flesh. He found himself with an erection, and he began squirming against the towel. When she saw this, she stopped the whipping and she tossed the belt away.

"That's enough. I want to have my bath now. Come along and help me."

He rolled over, hoping she would decide to do something with his erection. But instead she ignored him, and with his buttocks still smarting from the whipping, he followed her to the master bedroom.

She lifted a hand mirror from the nightstand beside the bed and studied her face a moment.

She did not look at him as she removed her kimono, not even a glance at his erection, which had now dwindled.

"Draw my bath," she said. "The water should be very hot. There's a bottle of rose oil on a shelf. You can pour some of that into the bath. Not too much. Two capfuls is enough. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes, Kitazawa-san."

"Yes, Kitazawa-san."

"Go on. Go draw my bath."

She walked into the bathroom after him, and she stood at the mirror looking at herself as he prepared her bath. As they waited for the tub to fill, she sat down on the toilet and started urinating. He was shocked, and violently excited as he heard the sound of it. She said nothing, treating him as if he was of no consequence, her eyes glancing only briefly, and with nothing more than clinical detachment, at his now reawakened penis. After she finished pissing, she rose, flushed the toilet and put the cover down. Then she placed one foot on the closed commode. "Your tongue," she said.

His limbs trembling, he knelt on the cool tile floor to lick her. He tasted the drops of urine as he cleaned her slit. His servitude seemed almost natural to him now. He adored her more than ever. He wanted to suck her more thoroughly, but she pulled away and moved to the bathtub.

After she entered her bath, she told him to turn around and show the effects of the whipping.

When he turned his back to her, she was silent a few moments. And then she said: "Does it hurt?"

"No, not now. As long as I don't rub against anything."

"Come closer."

He shifted backward toward the bathtub, and then he felt her wet hand on his buttocks. She stroked his bruised flesh with her fingertips. "Have you ever been used by a man?"

"No."

"But you've been whipped before?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

"By whom? Tell me."

He told her about the dominatrix Olga, and she seemed amused. "Did she wear boots?"

"No, nothing like that."

"And who else? Who else whipped you?"

"No one else. She was the first."

"Do you really want to belong to me?"

"Yes."

* * *

Later, after she left the bath, his task was to dry her carefully and thoroughly. She stood on the bath rug as he rubbed her body with a large towel. Then she told him to wait for her in the living room. "I want to whip you again."